Ogden quickly decided he would be fine in Baltimore. It was only forty-five minutes from home, but not right on top of all his family and friends the way he would have been if he had been drafted by Washington. It was still the NFL. Playing guard wasn’t a problem, especially on the left side, where he was comfortable. “It actually would have been tougher to adjust to right tackle at that point since it was an entirely different stance,” he said. “Left guard was just fine.”
The Ravens knew almost right away—even before Phillips became a complete bust—they had made the right pick. Ogden was so smart, he picked things up almost instantly and was mature beyond his years. Most O linemen need two or three years to adapt to the NFL from college. Even changing positions, Ogden had no such trouble. A year later he was moved back to tackle and immediately became an All-Pro. He had quickly become the most respected offensive lineman in the game. He had become the team’s quiet leader, someone everyone looked up to, even though his next pregame speech would be his first.
Ogden had turned thirty on the second day of two-a-days and was in the process of negotiating what he hoped would be his last contract. It would be for huge money—the signing bonus would be in the neighborhood of $15-$20 million. He was very much the leader of the offensive line even though he was legendarily thrifty. Most of his teammates were convinced he had yet to spend his rookie signing bonus.
There was also the Bern’s story.
Bern’s is a famous steak house in Tampa, the one place every tourist goes at some point while in town. It looks like a brothel on the inside and is most famous for the fact that customers don’t eat dessert at their tables, they go instead to a separate dessert room. Bern’s is, if nothing else, a unique dining experience. When the Ravens arrived in Tampa for the Super Bowl in January of 2001, Ogden announced—to the shock of his linemates—that he was taking the entire O line to Bern’s to celebrate their presence in the Super Bowl.
Off they all went to Bern’s, where, as you might expect, each of them ordered a huge steak. Ogden took two bites of his and pronounced it unacceptable. He sent it back (much to the horror of the waiter) and demanded another one. Needless to say, he was pilloried for being spoiled and inflexible and for being the one person in the party whose steak wasn’t judged superb. Ogden sat quietly while everyone else ate and waited for his new steak. The barbs continued. Finally, the check came. Ogden grabbed it and announced that each of them owed $100.
“What happened to you buying?” they demanded to know.
“It ended when you guys killed me about sending the steak back,” Ogden said. “Haven’t you ever heard the old saying, ‘never bite the hand that is feeding you?’”
Four years later the story was still told and retold. Ogden’s defense was simple and to the point: “Come on guys, it was four years ago. Get over it.”
While Ogden and the veterans viewed the scrimmage as an evening they would have to endure, the rookies and free agents in camp saw it as an opportunity to get the attention of their coaches. The rookies dressed in a separate locker room from the veterans in the McDaniel Field House, and the atmosphere at their end of the hall on the night of the scrimmage was entirely different from that in the veterans’ locker room. While the older players told jokes, played loud music, and made plans for the weekend, the rookies dressed quietly, eyeing one another, taking deep breaths, and glancing constantly at the clock, hoping that staring at it would make it move faster.
“I just want to do something out there that convinces them not to cut me right away,” said Matt Zielinski, a free agent from Duke who had received a $1,000 bonus to sign.
Zielinski wasn’t going to get cut based on the results of the scrimmage. The Ravens didn’t need to make a cut until after the third exhibition game, when the roster had to be trimmed from eighty-five players to sixty-five. That meant everyone would get a chance to show what he could do under game conditions on four occasions—the scrimmage and the three exhibitions. In some cases, that chance would be a series or two. Just as Ogden wanted to play as little as possible, the rookies wanted to play as much as possible.
Some knew they had virtually no chance to make the team. Punter Clint Greathouse, a rookie from Texas Tech, was thrilled just to be in a training camp. He knew he wasn’t going to beat out Dave Zastudil for the job, in part because the team was committed contractually to Zastudil but more so because he could see on the practice field each day that Zastudil was better than he was. All Greathouse wanted from camp was to learn from Gary Zauner and Zastudil and, just as important, get into a game or two so his agent would have game tape to show to other teams in the future.
Many of the rookies in camp knew they weren’t going to make the Ravens. Don Muhlbach, the long snapper from Texas A&M, wasn’t going to beat out Joe Maese. But he might play well enough to get another team to take a look at him, if not now, then later in the season. If not, then next season. Brian Gaither, the free-agent quarterback from Western Carolina, knew the Ravens had four quarterbacks under contract: Kyle Boller, Kordell Stewart, sixth-round draft pick Josh Harris, and the injured Anthony Wright. Only another injury would give him any chance to make the team. If he was cut, though, it wouldn’t mean the end of his career. Football players rarely go home and look for a job these days when they get cut. They continue to train, they might take a part-time job, but they all check their phone messages every day, hoping it will be someone from an NFL team calling to tell them someone has been injured and can they please fly in for a tryout. When Billick cuts players, he reminds them of the violent nature of the game and tells them that someone, somewhere, is going to get hurt and that’s when their next chance may come.
The evening of the scrimmage was as close to perfect as one could hope for on an early August night. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, the humidity was low, and the little campus sparkled in the sun as thousands and thousands of cars descended on Westminster. The scrimmage would start at six o’clock. By four o’clock, all the roads leading to town were choked with cars. The Ravens would announce the attendance for the scrimmage at 16,820, a number that again proved the power of the NFL. This was not a real game, it wasn’t even a fake game like the exhibitions, it was a scrimmage, Ravens vs. Ravens. And yet the number of people willing to fight the traffic on a Friday night to get to and from the game was the same as a good crowd for an NBA basketball game or an NHL hockey game.
The presence of the crowd—and the team’s cheerleaders and band—was what made the scrimmage different from a normal practice. There would be officials, and the team would go through its normal pregame routines, except that Billick would be on the field answering questions from the fans instead of pacing the locker room getting ready for a pregame talk.
The players walked to the field through the ropes that led down the hill to the little stadium. Fans pressed against the ropes, screaming players’ names, hoping for a smile or a nod or a high five. Many of the players had not yet put on their helmets, so they put out their hands as they walked by, smiled, nodded, perhaps pointed at someone they knew. Being this close to the players was a big deal for many of these people, which was why they had made the effort to come to the scrimmage. The player whose name was screamed the most already had his helmet on: Ray Lewis. There were more “52” jerseys sold in Baltimore by far than any other, although “31” (Jamal Lewis) was becoming more and more popular. There were hardly any “75” jerseys to be found. Left tackles, even ones going to the Hall of Fame, were rarely seen as heroes.
Ray Lewis walked down the hill, eyes straight ahead, looking neither left nor right, even as Corey Fuller screamed, “It’s a rock concert, starring Raaaaay Lewis!” He was wearing a football uniform and he was about to perform in public—even if for only a couple of series. Lewis took every opportunity he had to play football very seriously. Still, as he reached the bottom of the hill, he noticed two kids in wheelchairs seated at the end of the rope. They had ear-to-ear grins on their faces as different players came by
and shook their hands or patted them on the head. Lewis stopped, took his helmet off, and crouched in front of each of them to shake their hands and pat them on the back. The kids couldn’t stop smiling.
The scrimmage was played under a scoring system that had been handed down from Bill Walsh to Denny Green to Billick. The defense scored by causing a three-and-out, by getting an interception, or by recovering a fumble. The offense got points for first downs and for touchdowns. There would be no field goal attempts, except at halftime, when kickers Matt Stover and Wade Richey would have a field goal kicking contest. Stover had already checked the wind and told the coaches that he and Richey should kick toward the end of the stadium opposite the locker rooms because they’d have the wind at their back.
Stover was the last of the old Cleveland Browns. He was entering his fourteenth season as a Brown/Raven and his fifteenth in the NFL. He was thirty-six and had just signed a new five-year contract. He believed he could kick until he was forty and he worked tirelessly all year long to keep himself in shape. He had jet-black hair and could easily pass for a defensive back or a youthful Republican congressman. (Being a professional athlete, the chances of Stover being a Democrat were about one in a hundred.) He was one of the most consistent kickers in NFL history and one of the most popular Ravens. He was friendly and articulate, with an easy smile that hid a manic competitiveness. He was already dreading that Richey, who was the team’s kickoff specialist, would probably beat him in the kicking contest.
“Wade’s got as strong a leg as anyone in the league,” he said.
Richey had a strong but inconsistent leg. He had kicked a 53-yard field goal in 2003, but inside 50 yards no one was more consistent than Stover. With no rush and no pressure, Richey would probably win. But Stover would definitely go down kicking.
Just before kickoff, a number of the veterans jokingly tried to pick the rookie or free agent who would have the best scrimmage. Every year one player would get himself noticed in the scrimmage with a big play or two. Stover announced he had number 44.
“That,” said Trent Smith, standing a few feet away, “is probably a good pick.”
Smith was in good position to know. Number 44 was Daniel Wilcox, a free-agent tight end the Ravens had signed in June after the minicamps. The reason Wilcox had been signed was Smith. Specifically, the condition of Smith’s left leg, which had been shattered a year earlier in the Ravens’ first exhibition game. A rookie drafted in the seventh round out of Oklahoma, Smith had the team made when he was injured. He had impressed the coaches with his speed and his hands. He was six-five, 245, but could explode off the line and get open. He had just caught a pass for 39 yards when he broke his leg.
“For some reason, as they were carrying me off, I remember thinking, ‘I just lost a hundred and fifteen grand,’” he said, a reference to the fact that on injured reserve he would be paid 50 percent of the rookie minimum, which was $230,000 in 2003. “I’m not sure why I thought that. I think I was in shock. I remember looking up in the stands for my mom and knowing from the way guys were acting that I was hurt bad.”
The Ravens had hoped that Smith would be ready for the 2004 season, but the leg had broken in multiple places and was healing slowly. By the end of minicamp, Newsome and Billick were convinced he wouldn’t be ready for the start of the season and might not play the entire year. Wilcox had played in NFL Europe, the developmental league. He had been in and out of the NFL for three years, having been cut seven different times by the New York Jets and Tampa Bay Buccaneers. He had been recommended by Daniel Jeremiah, one of the team’s young scouts. Jeremiah and Wilcox had been teammates at Appalachian State—Jeremiah a quarterback, Wilcox a receiver—and Jeremiah was convinced that even though he was undersized for a tight end at six-two and 230 pounds, Wilcox would thrive in the Ravens’ multiple-tight-end sets, in which one tight end was offset from the line of scrimmage.
Wilcox had already impressed everyone in camp. He was a good route runner and an accomplished special teams player. Stover proved prescient. Wilcox made four catches in the scrimmage, including one from Josh Harris on the last play of the night for a 19-yard touchdown that gave the offense a come-from-behind 19-18 victory. He had clearly been the star of the evening, along with Richey, who had won the kicking contest by making a 61-yarder after both he and Stover had made every kick out to 56 yards. “Got under the last one,” Stover said, smiling, but still clearly not happy to lose.
The smile on Wilcox’s face as the backup players he had been on the field with celebrated in the end zone was quite real. He knew he had taken a giant step toward making the team with his performance. Trent Smith watched it all and felt his stomach churning. He liked Wilcox and knew he was a talented player who could help the team. But that should have been his catch and his celebration out there. Except his leg wouldn’t let him do it. Smith was the first player to leave that night, not hanging around for any postscrimmage rehashing or going out for a drink with his friends. He got in his truck and drove, wanting to drive a lot faster than he knew he should.
“I had to get ahold of myself,” he said. “It was such a helpless feeling. I know I’m a good football player. I knew I could make the plays Daniel was out there making. And there I was, standing and watching, standing and watching. I went right home. If I hadn’t, I might have wrapped my damn car around a tree.”
9
The Games Begin
THE ONLY GOOD NEWS for Trent Smith was that he didn’t have to worry about being cut. If he wasn’t healthy enough to play, the team would put him on injured reserve again, meaning he could not be activated for the entire season. Injured reserve is the Twilight Zone of the NFL. For a marginal player, being placed on IR can be a boon because a player cannot be cut when he is injured. If a player is deemed to have a season-ending injury, he must be placed on IR even if he was going to be cut. That means he makes 50 percent of whatever salary he is due for the season—more than players on the developmental squad make. The developmental (or practice) squad consists of eight players who did not make the fifty-three-man roster but are kept by the team to take part in practice, be available to move up to the fifty-three if someone is hurt, or have a chance to make the team the following season. In 2004 a player on IR would make no less than $117,500 for the season. A practice squad player would make $4,350 a week, or $73,950 for the season if he remained there for all seventeen weeks. Few players spend the entire season on the practice squad. Some move up, some are moved out as other players become available that the team thinks more useful, and some go to other teams when offered the chance to be activated.
Injuries are a dicey issue in the NFL. If a player suffers a relatively minor injury and a team wants to cut him, an injury settlement must be reached. The way it usually works is the team gets a medical report that says the player has a two-week injury and therefore should be paid for two weeks. The player’s agent then finds a doctor who insists the injury will take six weeks to heal. Everyone then agrees that the player should be paid for four weeks. One of the reasons that the league requires every team to tape every single practice is so that a player cannot claim he was cut while injured. That occurs several times a year. A player is cut, he files a grievance claiming he was cut while injured, and the team is then asked to provide tape showing he was practicing the day before he was cut. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily resolve the issue, because the player can still claim he was hurt that day.
Matt Zielinski, the rookie defensive lineman who had worried about being an early cut, clinched a spot on the Ravens’ payroll during the scrimmage. In a pileup in the second half, someone rolled onto his right knee. At first, Zielinski didn’t think he was hurt that badly, but by the end of the night, he had considerable swelling. The next day he found out he had torn his anterior cruciate ligament (the big one) and would need surgery. Welcome to the NFL. Zielinski would spend the season on IR and then be given a chance to make the team in 2005.
“It wasn’t exactly what I had in min
d,” he said with a wan smile. “I came here because I thought I had a chance to make the team. I was nervous every day, but the coaches seemed to think I was doing pretty well until this happened.”
The coaches did think he was doing well. Rex Ryan, the defensive line coach, was impressed with his strength, and Mike Nolan, the coordinator, liked his attitude. Now it would be another year before Zielinski would find out if he had what it took to play in the NFL. In the meantime, he would be making more money than most of those he had graduated with from Duke in the spring.
There were a lot of players in camp who knew that the first three exhibition games would decide a lot about their future. Billick had told the players early on that he thought he knew fifty of the fifty-three names that would be on the final roster, but that was subject to change. “You can play your way onto this team, or you can play your way off,” he said. “People will get hurt and spots will open up. We all know that. If your chance comes, you better be ready.”
The two rookies in camp who were absolutely going to get a chance were the rookie kick returners, B. J. Sams and Derek Abney. Sams had been the one wowing people early, but he broke a bone in his hand in the scrimmage. That meant Abney and Lamont Brightful, the incumbent, would be given chances to show themselves in at least the first two exhibition games, against Atlanta (at home) and Philadelphia (on the road). Billick had penciled in Sams as the returner after minicamps but was now worried about throwing him in for the regular-season opener if he didn’t get back in time to play in at least one exhibition game.
There weren’t that many other slots open for new people. Kyle Boller and Kordell Stewart would start the season as the active quarterbacks, with Josh Harris, the rookie, as the third quarterback, meaning (by rule) he would get into a game only if the other two were injured. Once Anthony Wright returned, a decision would have to be made on whether to keep the veteran Stewart or the rookie Harris. Jamal Lewis, Chester Taylor, and Musa Smith were set at the running back spot. Alan Ricard was going to be the fullback, backed up by backup tight end Terry Jones, who could play both positions. The offensive line had five starters back—Ogden and Orlando Brown at tackle, Edwin Mulitalo and Bennie Anderson at guard, and Mike Flynn at center. Casey Rabach and Ethan Brooks were experienced backups: Rabach at center and guard, Brooks at tackle. That left three-year veteran Damion Cook to battle with free-agent pickup Tony Pashos and rookies Brian Rimpf and Lenny Vandermade for the remaining spots. Tight end was the team’s deepest position, led by Pro Bowler Todd Heap with Jones and Wilcox backing him up. Rookie Brett Pierce could make a lot of teams (he would eventually land in Dallas), but not the Ravens. The most fluid position on offense was wide receiver. Travis Taylor and Kevin Johnson were set. Behind them it was wide-open, with Randy Hymes, a converted Grambling quarterback who had been on IR a year earlier; third-year veteran Ron Johnson; second-year player Kareem Kelly; and the rookies, Devard Darling and Clarence Moore all in the mix. Only four would suit up most weeks; no more than five would make the fifty-three.
Next Man Up Page 19