Inside the Helmet: Hard Knocks, Pulling Together, and Triumph as a Sunday Afternoon Warrior

by Michael Strahan

  But that’s what we do. If anybody does anything to improve himself, we accuse him of juicing. Or when a fat guy comes back in shape, we accuse him of getting a stomach bypass. Jonas Seawright, one of our young defensive tackles, came back this off-season down thirty pounds and even the coaches were jokingly accusing him of getting his stomach stapled. We knew he didn’t but we couldn’t pass up that joke.

  Usually the fat guys just take diet pills, some of which are legal and some of which aren’t. Actually, I believe these pills are used by guys in our locker rooms more than steroids.

  Remember, we get fined if we are overweight. Our weight gets checked every week and the stress of the season causes guys to give up any sort of diet. In many cases guys fight stress by finding a vice like food.

  The problem with the diet pills is that if you get busted, it’s reported that you have been suspended for four games under the NFL’s Anabolic Steroids and Related Substances Policy. Anabolic steroids is suddenly associated with your name, even if your body looks like utter crap.

  We have more forgiveness for those guys than the juiceheads. If a guy is using a weight-loss drug and his body is bad, we’ll just rag on the guy for a while for getting ripped off. “I don’t know what you paid for that stuff, but do they give refunds?”

  Diet pills are a big deal with the NFL because many of them are used as a replacement for speed. Finding something extra to push us through practice and geek us up on game day is a huge part of our game.

  Yet as we stand on that sideline listening to the national anthem, awaiting that majestic flyover, why in the world would we need any extra boost coursing through our veins? But I do, as do the guys I’m hitting the trenches with and my opponents trying to run my butt over. What we take to give us that boost has changed over the years. Right now it’s diet pills and many of them are legal. But if that Colts-Giants game were played back in 1993, my first year in the NFL, guys on both sidelines would be geeked beyond belief on some sort of speed, amphetamines, reds or greenies.

  During my rookie year, we were in a play-off game against the 49ers and one of our defensive linemen ran out of speed. He relied on the boost so much he was actually licking the empty bag for residue! Those days, I assure you, are long gone.

  Today’s NFL is far from the old North Dallas Forty movie where they were handing out speed left and right and smoking cigarettes at halftime. That was the late 1970s, and it was done by players generations before me. Could you imagine walking into a halftime locker room of the greatest athletes in the world and see guys sitting on their bench puffing cigarettes?

  But think how much our game day locker rooms have changed in just ten years when it comes to how we jack ourselves up. Speed was prevalent for years and then suddenly it vanished, almost overnight, when the ephedra drinks came around.

  As the energy drinks came into fashion, the pills began to disappear. There are so many energy drinks out there now that do the same things as those old-fashioned greenies, the pills are no longer necessary. The only pills you really see are Ritalin and other ADD drugs that act as amphetamines. Although some guys try to land these for help, most are prescribed by a physician and monitored by the team.

  A few years ago ephedra took the NFL by storm and we were all on that. Hell, you’d look over on the sidelines and see a coach drinking that stuff to get jazzed up.

  Some guys would down a couple for pregame warm-ups, go to the bathroom, and then drink another for the first half, then another for the second half. They were still going nuts after the game and then they’d rely on an entirely different pillbox to bring them down. That is when Ambien and other sleep aids started to seep in as well. They needed something just as powerful to counteract the speed of the ephedra drinks. If they didn’t bring themselves down, they’d stay awake all night long, then crash at work the next day. A lot of guys gathered in the fenced-off Player’s Only parking lot after a game and pounded beers to take the edge off after a game.

  Once guys like the Vikings Pro Bowl tackle Korey Stringer and an unfortunate number of high school players died, we were forced to change what we put into our bodies again. Not only did the NFL ban ephedra, but the government followed suit. We’re lucky for that because, as a player, you always believe “it won’t happen to me.” Even if a few of your own teammates have died from it, I guarantee you’ll still have a whole slew of guys willing to use the stuff, saying, “It won’t happen to me.” Our search for an edge on game day makes us ignorant. Don’t ask about the dangers and hopefully we won’t find out.

  Once the ephedra got banned, companies started coming out with ephedra-free stuff that does the same thing but without as much danger. Some guys still use some of those drinks, but at this point, we’ve figured out something else.

  Believe it or not, now it’s pretty much coffee and Red Bulls. You know what I’ve realized after all these years? Red Bull does pretty much the same thing as the old speed pills or the ephedra. It gives you the same peppy feeling and you can drink it in the locker room knowing that (a) you won’t die and (b) you won’t get popped for four games.

  But how about this? In the span of twelve years, we went from speed pills to Starbucks and Red Bull. The only thing we complement that with is a couple of ammonia caps, or smelling salts. The smelling salts clear our heads right before we take the field. Because our adrenaline is rushing so fast, we sometimes have to take a few deep whiffs to get the desired effect.

  Who would ever have thought that a man readying for gladiator-type battle has to throw down a couple of heavily caffeinated lattes or espressos before he tries to tear someone’s head off? Maximus would be so ashamed.

  But not as ashamed as I was when my boy Merriman got busted. Man, he’s just too good for that. He’s too good a guy and too good a player, but he will forever be tarnished and questioned.

  Four games of pay is a tough pill to swallow. But having to play the game under a cloud, trying to prove his innocence to his peers, is tougher. Why couldn’t he just have gotten busted smoking weed? All would have been forgiven.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Super Bowl Shuffle

  I’m watching the Bears take the field against the Colts from a house in Miami and my palms begin to sweat. I know exactly how each player on the Bears and Colts feels because I’ve been there. I played on the biggest stage in the world of sports just six years before, January 2001. When I watch a Super Bowl I’m not playing in, I get nervous for the guys playing and my body reacts. I sweat.

  I was in Miami for the festivities of Super Bowl week. When it comes to the Super Bowl itself, I’m a big-time hater. I have no interest in attending the game. I get tickets every year and give them away with no interest in watching somebody else play on a field I should be playing on.

  I love watching the “24/7 football guys.” They hate this day, too! I was cracking up watching my man Brian Urlacher during his media day. You could tell that about ten minutes into the hour session, he was done. It was hilarious watching him slowly lose patience. He had had enough and just wanted to hit somebody. Some guys aren’t too comfortable with the media. That’s Urlacher to a tee. The more repetitive the questions got, the shorter his answers got. I think if he could have laced it up and played the game that afternoon, he would have.

  Urlacher, Peyton Manning, Marvin Harrison, Lance Briggs. They’re introduced and I’m a jealous fool. It stings me that I’m not out there on the Super Bowl field—forced again to live vicariously through others. What did I do wrong? Why was I not there? Did I do something bad in a previous life and this is my form of punishment? A ringless existence?

  I do play the game for the money and camaraderie. But the ultimate reason I’ve taken all those stupid injections and beaten up my body is for that ring. In 2001, my Giants teammates and I talked about the Super Bowl in Tampa on the sideline of the NFC Championship Game after we blew out Minnesota 41–0. We talked about how incredible it is to work your whole career toward one goal, never knowing if you�
��ll ever really accomplish it.

  The feeling of relief was overwhelming. It’s like we climbed all the way up a mountain and took in the beautiful view in solitude. Multiply that feeling times 100 and that’s how we felt coming off the field following the thrashing we gave the Minnesota Vikings. It strikes you so hard, you feel like you want to cry. My soul and spirit felt unbreakable. I was living football’s equivalent to heaven on Earth. Every worry, ache and pain, real-world problems, all gone.

  The thing that brought me back to reality was my cell phone. After the Vikings game, by the time I got back inside our locker room for the postgame celebration and media session, my cell phone’s mailbox was filled with ticket requests. I could no longer accept new messages. I had family members I never knew I had and “friends” I hadn’t talked to in years, all asking if I could get them a ticket to the Super Bowl. It was amazing how many people were suddenly related to me. I had acquaintances who somehow believed they were not only entitled to tickets but were special enough for me to get them into parties as well. I have no idea how many of my true family and friends called that night after the hangers-on filled up the message box. It was ridiculous.

  The feeling I had when we gathered at the stadium to embark on the plane ride down to Super Bowl week was like a twenty-fifth high school reunion. Every time somebody pulled up and joined the group, we greeted him with hugs and laughs, like long-lost friends. Every teammate, whether you liked him or not, was suddenly your best friend. I had fifty-two best friends that day. It was total euphoria. It was surreal. The whole time, I was waiting to wake up from the dream. Finally it smacked us between the eyes. This was, in fact, no dream.

  The plane ride down to Tampa was exhilarating. It made the whole ordeal a reality. We were told to bring video cameras and catch everything we do on tape. This may never happen again, so tape every little thing. Players roamed the plane interviewing other players, roasting guys, busting on one another.

  As we began our descent into Tampa, the vibe inside our plane immediately shifted. The party came to a screeching halt. As we landed, guys started to tighten up as most of us tried to hide our giddiness. Then the plane doors flew open and the cameras began to roll.

  I didn’t want to be caught on camera with the wrong expression, because this week every little thing is broken down. Every word, every expression, every step is dissected, discussed and analyzed by every “expert” in America. I walked out of the plane and asked G-d, “Please help me look like I belong here.” I didn’t want to seem too happy because people might say I wasn’t focused. I didn’t want to seem too focused because then the media might claim I was too tight.

  The most difficult task was trying to convince myself this game was “just another game.” The Big Lie. Of course it’s different! There’s nothing like it, but in every interview you lie and try to explain how you’re simply playing a football game, just like we’ve done hundreds of times before. What a crock that is!

  That first night, I stayed at the hotel by myself. I didn’t feel the need to party. I didn’t feel the urge to enjoy the sideshow part of Super Bowl week. I’d worked too damn hard to screw this thing up by trying to party with the masses. We were the elite. We’d already defied the odds by getting there; why screw it up now?

  My teammates didn’t go crazy that week, either. It would have ticked me off if guys were out partying late. This was the one week of the year that players really tried to police each other. I understood that players were excited about being there, but I figured these parties are the same every year. They’ll be here next year, too. The ladies will be around. Hell, if we win, the number of women throwing themselves at us after the game will triple.

  Bottom line: Don’t screw up my chances of winning. I need you guys now more than ever before. Come on, brothers, give us one more week of total focus. Let the nightclubs go untouched for one week. That’s all I ask.

  At 2007’s Super Bowl I saw a pretty big name out on Ocean Avenue on South Beach about twenty minutes before curfew. I pulled him aside. “What are you doing? You better get your ass back to your hotel. I don’t think you realize this, but you may never get back here. This is your one chance. You’ve got fifty-one other weeks to party. Come on, young buck, don’t be stupid.”

  The player got upset with me. He’s a damn good player, too, but he was selfish. What if it got reported that he was seen drinking well past curfew? He’d become a goat forever. As his teammate, I’d beat his ass if he became a distraction, especially if we lost the game. Seeing that guy not wanting it bad enough ticked me off. I would have given anything to be in his shoes, to have another chance to play for a ring. To any other young player who reads this book, get that through your damn skull!

  IT’S NOT JUST ANOTHER WEEK TO PARTY!

  If you don’t want it bad enough for yourself, at least do it for the NFL brothers you fought in the trenches with all year long. Go down there to win. Nothing else.

  Remember I said you have to act like it’s just another game? The first night we met with the media, it was nuts. The Sunday night we arrived at the hotel was a media frenzy unlike no other. And this would be the lightest day of the week for interviews. Lightest day? There were at least fifty times more media at the first session than any play-off game I had ever been involved with.

  We confronted the press throngs every day, one of which was at the Super Bowl stadium, two of which required us to wake up at 6:30 A.M. for a session with hundreds of cameras and thousands of media members. Then you answer the same questions over and over and over again. The first night of interviews was pretty cool because you’re finally doing what you’ve watched so many championship players do before. But after you field the same question a hundred times, for four more days, it gets taxing.

  Jim Fassel, our coach at the time, said, “Don’t give the Ravens any ammo, don’t say anything bad about them. Don’t say anything that can go on their bulletin board.”

  Looking back, I shouldn’t have been so afraid to speak my mind. What were they going to do? Play harder because of something I said? Would they suddenly get more talented? It’s the freakin’ Super Bowl! If you aren’t already more jazzed up for this game than any other, then you should be down in Tijuana getting drunk. I was very vanilla that week—and that’s one thing I am not! I wish I had been my usual ebullient self.

  The wildest part of the week was the famous Media Day, where we were perched atop podiums at the stadium taking questions from the wildest group of questioners you’ll ever see. Somebody hired the two kids who were kicked off that year’s American Idol: the one Simon likened to a bug-eyed bush monkey, and his portly friend who got laughed off the show. The duo asked players to sing the national anthem with them on camera. Famous comedians asked stupid questions and Nickelodeon hired a guy to dress up as a nerdy Superhero to pelt us with ridiculous queries. I met reporters from every newspaper and magazine in America, TV and radio hosts of reality shows, and network news and entertainment shows.

  You try to have fun with it since it’s your only chance to shine, aside from the game itself. I got every type of question you could imagine. Questions about the gap in my teeth, growing up in Germany, going to a black college, old coaches, what my breakfast routine was and what my favorite cereal was. Questions about game plan, questions about the Ravens, questions about other teams, questions about questions asked of my teammates. It got maddening.

  The part of the week I enjoyed most was the part I hated most during the year—practice. Practice was my lone escape from the hysteria. We were off-limits to the press. Practices were shorter and guys were more jovial because we saw light at the end of the tunnel. You realize this will be your last week playing with some of these guys and your appreciation for the man standing next to you grows.

  When I was out on that practice field, I didn’t have to worry about tickets to the game or who wanted to eat where or which guest I needed to take care of. Here, I didn’t have to bother with anything other than the
game.

  During the season, practice felt more pressurized, a lot more intense. Guys were playing angry and the monotony of the season caused frustration. You’re so sick of looking at the same damn faces across from you every single day. All those players who use anger as motivation, it’s all out the window during Super Bowl week. It’s a time to be one of the fellas, with the fellas.

  We practiced at the Tampa Bay Bucs facility, the worst place in the NFL. It was a joke. Their rusty-ass weights must have come from a prison yard. I couldn’t believe an NFL team actually called this place home. It’s Super Bowl week; why would they put us in the Bates Motel of practice facilities? Shouldn’t they find us the Ritz-Carlton of practice facilities?

  The Bucs players’ lockers become our lockers for the week. I had Warren Sapp’s locker, which gave me carte blanche to try to upset my portly Pro Bowl friend. He left his Lineman Challenge trophy in it to show people that if you worked as hard as he had, maybe you, too, could be a Warren Sapp someday. I took a piece of tape and wrote “Michael Strahan, the Real Champ” and taped it to his trophy. I heard that didn’t sit too well with him. I just wanted to bust his ass. Mission accomplished!

  Every time I left practice, it was back to a never-ending stream of requests. Come on, people, gimme a break! Let me focus on the biggest week of my life. Don’t make this about you and your quest to be part of it. Isn’t this week supposed to be about me and not about whether I can get you into a party?

  I wanted to immerse myself in meetings. As I’ve said, normally, I hate the monotony of meetings. Scratch that, I despise the monotony of meetings. But this week those meetings were different. I craved information—any additional scouting reports, film work or any tidbit I could get on my opponent. That made prep week special. Nobody was falling asleep. Nobody needed a single cup of coffee to stay awake. This week guys voluntarily stayed in the hotel and went downstairs to watch film together. Guys sat up late at night and studied harder than they ever had.