Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile

by Jackson, Nate

  After a short chat about who watched what movie the night before, I leave and drive back to my house, shower, and change into my game-day clothes. My mother and father and Aunt Marsha and Uncle Bruce are in town for the game. The previous night, before I left for the team hotel, which even for home games we’re remanded to, I showed my dad some plays in the playbook. I emphasized a specific goal-line play where I’m the only option to get the ball. Me or no one. In three years at Menlo College, I had 43 touchdowns. The plan was to keep right on catching touchdowns in the NFL, into the sunset. But it is my fifth year in the NFL and I have zero. Shanahan, God bless him, is trying to get me one.

  We’re playing the Jaguars in the third game of the season. I get home and say hello to my parents, who had the house to themselves last night. I take a shower and we board my Denali and embark downtown to [Insert Corporate Logo Here] Field.

  —So it’s a goal-line play you said to watch for?

  —Yeah. I’ll be on the wing on the left side of the formation. I go in double motion—actually it’s like a triple-motion thing—and run a little flat route. The ball should be coming to me.

  —All right, son. We’ll be watching for it.

  The play is designed to lull my man-to-man defender to sleep with a lazy double motion, then explode back down the line, behind the ass of the quarterback. He’ll snap it just as I pass him, take three quick steps, and fire it to me at the front pylon for six points.

  Driving up Interstate 25 from Greenwood Village to downtown Denver on game day is a meditative trip. The Rocky Mountains to the left, snowcapped with high-definition clarity, sparkle in the late-morning sun. I-25 is the main artery that connects Denver to its many southern suburbs. Among them, Dove Valley, which houses the Broncos headquarters; Greenwood Village, where I live; Cherry Hills, home of the rich and influential Denverites, including Coach Shanahan; and Highlands Ranch, the swingers capital of America (and where Charlie lives).

  As we clear the suburbs and the city skyline comes into view, I-25 bends west for several miles and we pass Colorado Boulevard and University Avenue. The golden tower of Denver University’s cathedral rolls by on the left, and somewhere out of sight on my right, Washington Park, the quintessential Denver patch: all sunshine and grass and dogs and volleyball and slip-’n’-slides and beer. Past the Whole Foods that sits perched above the freeway like a taunt. Past Broadway, Denver’s oldest road (that’s what my Denali salesman told me), which brings the swingers straight to downtown. Past the industrial warehouses off Santa Fe, where the road dips slightly then banks a hard right at an angle that’s left the guardrail permanently scarred. After the road straightens out and ascends a small incline, the skyline once again comes into view to the northeast. And a moment later, like a flash, [Insert Corporate Logo Here] Field, straight ahead and slightly left.

  Our stadium feels different than other stadiums. Where others are boxy, ours is rounded. Where others are rigid, ours flows. The upper rim of the stadium is not parallel to the ground but rises and falls like a hilly landscape, creating the illusion of moving water. And when all seventy-six thousand fans are in a frenzy, the field is a raft on a sound wave to Happy Town.

  Normally I make the drive by myself. When the stadium comes into sight, my heart starts racing. I slow down for my exit and feel a stream of sweat run down my side. The Seventeenth Street exit wraps around and back underneath the freeway, past tailgaters and ticket scalpers, past the traffic cops and the early Broncos fans, all flooding into the stadium area with orange and blue everything. I show the security guard my player’s parking pass and pull into the players’ lot. Same time every time: 11:45 a.m.

  But today I drop my family off at a restaurant downtown and take a different route into the stadium, no less festive. I park my car, grab my bag, and head for the locker room. To enter the bowels of the stadium from the players’ lot, we have to walk down a long ramp that’s lined on both sides by three-foot-tall iron dividers. Fans congregate behind the makeshift fences to watch us come to work in our civilian clothes, gazing upon us like ugly runway models. Some fans shout for autographs but most respect the game-day focus etched on our faces.

  I pause at the locker room door and turn off my cell phone; I can be fined five thousand dollars if it rings on game day. On the other side of the double doors is Fred Fleming, our Everything Man, seated near the entrance.

  —Cell phone off, Nate.

  —Got it, Fred. Thanks.

  The locker room is a large, open room: defense in the front, next to the equipment room, offense in the back near the showers. The carpet is blue with an orange and white Broncos logo in the middle. I walk straight to my locker and swing my bag into it. Then I circle back to the equipment room near the entrance and grab a pair of gray shorts, change into them, and go to the hot tub next to the training room. Like every other week, here’s Lou Green and Cecil Sapp.

  —What up, fellas?

  —What’s up, Nate Jack?

  Cecil has his headphones on so he can’t hear me. He’s reviewing his notes for the game. Running backs always have extra notes and tests and handouts they’re studying. Lou’s a linebacker. But we’re all special teamers. And we came into the league around the same time and were on the practice squad together before being activated. We’ve done it the hard way.

  After the hot tub I rinse off in the shower and walk back to my locker, change into my shorts and a T-shirt, put on my headphones, and take the field to warm up on my own before the team assembles. Those first steps onto the perfectly manicured grass, surrounded by seventy-six thousand seats, remind me of something I forget from time to time: I’m playing in the NFL. To be in the NFL, you can’t be in awe of the NFL. You can’t appreciate it while you’re doing it. There’s precious little time for self-reflection.

  But as I jog onto the field at my own pace, the music in my ears, the stadium nearly empty, I take it all in. The crisp mountain air, the bright colors, the Broncos legends listed around the stadium in the Ring of Fame, and the faces of the fans who are given early access. The way they look at me. They don’t know anything more about me than that I’m wearing cleats. That’s enough.

  After my warm-up routine, I reenter the locker room and sit back down in front of my locker. We have forty-five minutes before we’ll take the field. I tape up my two big toes with two different kinds of tape, to stave off the blisters. I wrap a thin strip of tape around each finger and thumb between each knuckle. When I was a wide receiver, my fingers were pristine. I didn’t need any finger tape. I barely needed gloves. But now I’m popping fingers all the time grappling with the beasts. The tape protects them.

  Then I put on all my gear: socks, compression shorts, game pants, then my cleats. After tying up my shoes, I walk to the training room and jump up on Corey’s table for my ankle spat. A spat is a tape job that wraps around the shoe and secures it to the foot, making the two feel like one. It is not as constrictive as a normal tape job, which goes directly on the skin, but still supplies noticeable ankle support. Even if there is a line for Corey and an empty table next to him in front of Greek or Trae, I wait for Corey. Corey spats me during the week, too. His spat feels like home. I’m not going to mess around with a new feel on game day.

  Back at my locker, I pull on my shoulder pads and jersey. The pads are already fitted inside, and the whole setup is sitting on top of my locker when I arrive. I think about those doleful Sundays in the past when, after I had been declared inactive, Flip would come pull my jersey off of the shoulder pads I wouldn’t be using.

  I go into the bathroom to behold my body in its game-day armor. I’m not the only one who finds strength in the pre-kickoff mirror. There is a clamoring around the reflective glass. We are going on television. We want you to love us.

  I’m impressed by myself. I look good and I feel good. My adrenaline is bubbling. I am a man built for hand-to-hand combat. The look is in my eye. The mirrored gaze.
The dream fulfilled. I am a hungry animal. Time to eat.

  Tight ends, running backs, receivers! Bring it up!

  Bobby-T calls us up to take the field. We get in a line and walk out of the locker room, through the hallway, and out the tunnel. We stop at the back edge of the end zone and make a tight circle. D.G. puts his hand in the middle. We stack our hands on top of his.

  —All right, fellas, we’ve put in the work, now it’s time to have some fun. This group right here, everyone is looking at us to make plays. When you get that ball in your hand, make a fucking play. Make a fucking play! Forget everything else. Let’s look out for each other out there, all right? And have some fucking fun. Broncos on three. One-two-three!

  —Broncos!

  And we’re off, jogging down our sideline toward the opposite end zone, where we get loose. By this time the crowd has begun filling the stadium. The buzz is getting louder. We bounce around in the end zone and go through small drills with the tight ends: foot drills, ball drills, and some blocking to get the crank shaft ripping and the kinks out. Smack heads a few times, light off a few thunder bombs.

  We break off with the quarterbacks and run routes, on the thirty-five-yard line, going in. Precise, crisp routes, exploding out of the break, snatching the ball that by now is as big as a blimp and squeezing with a strength reserved for emergencies, tucking the ball high and tight in my arms and exploding up the field into the end zone. I circle back around and toss the ball to Flip, who stands next to the quarterback and keeps him fed with balls. Then I’m back in line, waiting my turn again, nodding my head to the music that blasts from the speakers.

  The horn blows. Riverside! Flip the line of scrimmage and take it down to the ten-yard line, coming out. We run set plays with the whole offense and the whole defense, thudding up but nothing too physical. A smack and a pop but let’s save the ultraviolence for the game. After fifteen minutes of plays, the horn blows again and we jog off the field back into the locker room. As we make our way across the field, a cameraman lies on the ground filming us walk by him with a live feed to the Jumbotron. I walk past him slowly and look up at myself in giant form. Another quick reminder: you’re in the NFL, buddy.

  We have twenty minutes in the locker room before we come out to play. Quiet time. The calm. A pregame sheen of sweat covers me as I take my seat and again put on my headphones. The tunes are arranged down to the minute, to load, cock, and shoot my gun in unison with the first whistle. Seated on my locker chair, facing the large, open locker room, I scan the faces of my brothers. All of them are lost in thought, or lost in a thoughtlessness, a weightlessness that cannot be duplicated anywhere, ever—something that contrasts violently with the constant blah that follows an NFL career. This blah, when compared to the feeling right before stepping on the field, is what drives men to fits when they step off it for good. The nitro button is all the way down for too long and now the juice is all burned up.

  —Praying in the shower, fellas! Praying in the shower.

  The Christians gather in the large communal shower area, a secluded open space to kneel and pray. I joined them my first year until I realized I am closer to God if I sit still and listen to my music.

  Coach Shanahan makes his way around the room and shakes every man’s hand, tells him good luck, and gives him a pat on the back. He has an elephant’s memory with the handshake thing and all things, really. Sometimes guys aren’t in their seats when he makes his way around the room, so he goes around several times until he finishes the job, down to every last man. He never double-shakes.

  Kickoff is at 2:15. The digital clock strikes 2:00 and Coach yells:

  —Bring it up!

  I throw my headphones in my locker and circle up tight around Coach, taking a knee and grabbing the hands of the men on either side of me.

  —Okay, guys. We know what we have to do. We’ve had a great week of practice, but it’s time to do it out there on the field. Leave it all out there. Do it for the guy next to you. Look after each other and execute, for sixty minutes, and we’ll be just fine. Let’s go get it done.

  Then Coach also drops to a knee and grabs the hands of the men on either side of him. We are all locked in a chain.

  —Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, the Power, the Glory, forever and ever, amen.

  Goddamn right amen.

  The fireworks explode and we stampede through the mouth of the inflatable Broncos helmet and into the open air, lined on either side by shiny, smooth cheerleaders. Their hair bounces with an enthusiasm unfakeable and their skin glistens in the sunshine unmistakable. Game day in Denver is beautiful for many reasons. The cheerleaders are one of them. Their teeth are as white as the Rocky Mountain snow and their chaps hug perfectly the contours their job demands.

  I run through their lane and hear the crinkling of their pompoms and smell their sweet perfumes mingling with the acrid smoke of pyrotechnics. I look skyward to the upper-deck seats, now fully packed and bubbling. Mile-high magic. The first few times I ran through the tunnel on game day, I was taken aback. We didn’t have any cheerleaders at Menlo and our stands held five hundred people. Denver sells out every game—each and every game.

  We take off our helmets for the national anthem and stand in a line to count the ways America is awesome. One, two, three . . . there are thirty-two cheerleaders in all. By the time I picture my life with each of them, the harmonized tune reaches its crescendo and the four fighter jets in formation come thrusting into view over the south end zone. The jets rip over the stadium ahead of their own sound, buzzing the white horse erected atop the Jumbotron in the south end zone and passing over the bubble of human energy, charging it further with the delayed roar of military turbo engines that buttress the final note of the anthem, carrying it into the distance with the jet fumes of America. Home of the brave. Whatever this is, it feels important.

  Our captains take the field at the fifty-yard line for the coin toss. I don’t pay attention. I’m pacing back and forth on the sidelines, smacking shoulder pads and head-butting. It doesn’t matter who wins the toss. Heads or tails, I’m on the field for the first play.

  —Kickoff!! Let’s go! Kickoff team, bring it up!

  We lost the toss. All ten of us, minus Paul Ernster, our kicker, who is kicking blades of grass off in the distance, bring it up tight around Scotty O’Brien, our special teams coach.

  —Okay, guys. We know who they are. We know what they do. Watch their right return. And be ready for the double team on the fives. Keep your head up and pay attention to who is blocking you. They’ll tip their hand. Avoid the block, stack him, and stay in your lane. Maintain it, fellas. And get down the fucking field! We’re going deep middle, okay? Deep middle. Broncos on three: one-two-three!

  —Broncos!

  The huddle pops and we jog onto the field. Ten of us with one job: tackle the ball. The speakers are blasting our opening kickoff song by AC/DC, and the crowd is screaming. Not only have we waited all week for this moment, going through the rigmarole of practice and meetings, but so have the fans, going through the rigmarole of American life. This is for all of us.

  I jog and take my place on the kickoff line and look up into the rafters. I see every face. I feel every breath. I’m the R3 on the kickoff team. The numbering system starts at the kicker. The first man to his right is the R5, then the R4, R3, R2, and R1. To his left, it’s the L5 down to the L1. Paul counts off his steps, takes his three deep breaths, and puts his right hand up in the air. He pauses, drops his hand, and starts his approach. When he crosses my line of sight, I start mine. We all cross the thirty-yard line in lockstep with the pop of the ball off his foot and the explosion of the crowd.

  And, zip.
The portal closes over my head.

  I hear myself breathing. And I hear my shoulder pads, plastic on plastic, echoing through the enclosed dome of my helmet. It’s the hum of a high-performance vehicle on race day, purring in unison with the other nine muscle cars ripping down the runway, intending to flatten some silly rabbit. In our way are ten other vehicles: Ferraris and Mercedes and F-150s, diversified to throw off our assault. They have six Mercedes spread out directly in front of us, fifteen yards away.

  They are the return team’s first line of defense. As the R3, I keep my eye on the two directly in front of me. They’re the most likely to try to block me. Every man on the kickoff return team has a specific blocking assignment, instructed to block a specific man. Some guys disguise who they’re assigned to engage. But most don’t.

  As I run down the field no one is looking at me. The two men I’m watching dip inside. One of them goes to help his buddy on a double team of our R5, just like Scotty O said they would. The other sizes up and attempts to block Cecil, who is next to me. I have a clear path to the wedge, which is a group of three linemen holding hands and trying to clear a path for the returner. They’re the F-150s: nearly one thousand pounds of meat coming downhill. Go ahead, try to stop them. It’s your job, after all.

  The R1 is the safety, the last line of defense, so he stays a few steps behind us. If the wedge comes free to me and the R2, and all the other guys get blocked, then the R2 and I must eat up the wedge and spill the returner outside into the arms of the R1. The returner has an upback, often a running back, who stands deep with him and leads him up through the wedge. But often, as is the case here and now, there is backside pressure from the kickoff team that forces the upback to bail out on the return and seal off the backside from pursuing coverage men.

  The returner is on his own.

  The R2 and I must take out three linemen and spill the returner outside and into the arms of our R1.