Johnny Anonymous - NFL Confidential

CONTENTS

A MESSAGE TO
MY BEAUTIFUL READERS

At the beginning of the 2014 season, I started keeping a detailed journal about my life as an NFL player. I carried around the notebook the team issues to all the players to write down crap about plays, and I wrote about other stuff instead. Fun stuff, scary stuff, controversial stuff. Real stuff. Everything that went on in meetings, in the locker room, on the field, as it happened.

My coaches thought I was the most diligent note taker theyd ever seen.

Theres one simple rule youre gonna have to follow if you want to be a part of all this. You can never know my real name. I know, tragic, right? Dont worry, its a normal, boring white-man name. But if you found it out, the League would find it out. And theyd destroy me.

Now if I wanted to be safe, Id get everything approved by the NFL, and youd get a completely whitewashed, totally inaccurate, and extremely dull story about life in pro football. And sure, youd also get my real name.

To hell with being safe. Im gonna be honest.

What should you call me? Honestly, I dont really care. Im not a Brady, Im not a Peyton, Im not a Sherman, and I sure as hell dont have a stupid fucking nickname like Johnny Football. But if you gotta call me something, fine. For once in my life Im gonna get the stupid nickname.

Call me Johnny Anonymous.

Oh, and I changed a bunch of other crap too. Names, timeline, details, the usual. All so you cant figure out who I really am. Go ahead, try. I dare you. Catch me if you can.

Friday, July 25, 2014

My first day of training camp with my brand-new team starts in exactly forty-five minutes. And Im feeling pretty fucking good.

Its a gorgeous morning. Im driving my truck through my new, sprawling, filthy city, the sun is shining, and football is everywhere.

God bless America.

A giant billboard for the team just inside the city limits. The wall of an old brick building, painted with the teams faded logo. Posters and flags in every storefront window, jerseys on the kids, jerseys on the dads, even jerseys on the moms, unless theyre headed to work, in which case hats are acceptable. I turn on the radio, and every station is talking about the upcoming season. Not just the sports talk radio crap, but all the other stations too. Classic rock, rap, easy listening, all of them going on and on about football, football, FOOTBALL!!!

And Im feeling like what I do matters . Like Im gonna be a part of something big. Something bigger than any single player, fan, or coach. Something meaningful. Something important.

I see the football everywhere, and I feel like Im somebody.

I pull my truck into the parking lot at my new teams complex. Its 8:45 A . M . Im right on time. I open my door and step out, all six feet, three inches and 279 pounds of me. I look around, and what I see makes me feel even bigger, even better.

Its massive. Offices, courtyards, conference halls, indoor training facility, practice field. Its modern, pristine, with this giant arched entrance, stone pillars and gorgeous bubbling fountain, and big shiny windows. Its like a temple of football. But this is the NFL, the best of the best, the biggest of the big, the richest of the rich, and Im an NFL player, so I should expect nothing less.

Right? Right? Fuck yeah!

I walk down the sidewalk to the big glass doors, and just outside is the special teams coach, standing with his teenage daughter. Now Im not the kicker, Im an offensive lineman, but I did spend a lot of time with this guy during the summer session just a couple months ago. Still, Im impressed that a coach is waiting to greet me at the door on my first day. Thats a pretty classy touch from my new organization.

Hey, Doug, I say, calling him by his first name because you never call a coach Coach in the NFL. Great to see you again! How was your break?

Hey, look who it is! he says, a big warm smile on his face. Alyssa, I want you to meet Keith, Keith Nunn. Hows it going, Keith?

Theres just one small problem. My name is not Keith. Not even close.

I pause, clear my throat awkwardly.

Johnny, I say. My name is Johnny .

Dougs gigantic, tooth-filled grin vanishes instantly. His daughter gets that look on her face that only a mix of embarrassment, parents, and adolescent hormones can create. I almost feel bad for her.

Daddy! she says. Jesus! Hes your own player, and you dont even know his name?

Oh, he stammers, confused. Ohoh, right. Johnny. Of course. Well. Okay. Um. Welcome, Johnny. And Ill, you know... Okay, see you!

He pumps my hand furiously without looking me in the eye, physically grabs his daughter by her narrow shoulders, and walks away as fast as he can go.

I stand there, fuming. My name is not Keith, or even Keith Nunn. Fuck, I dont even look like a Keith. In fact, no offense to all you Keiths out there, but Keith is one of the stupidest fucking names in the human language and just saying it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Did I mention I look nothing like a Keith?

And then I realize the truth. They dont give a fuck who I am. I could be a Keith, I could be a Johnny, I could be a Steve or a Carlos or a Tyrone. I mean nothing to them.

Im an NFL player, so I should expect nothing less.

YOU CAN BREAK NFL PLAYERS down into three categories.

Twenty percent do it because theyre true believers. Theyre smart enough to do something else if they wanted, and the money is nice and all, but really they just love football . They love it, they live it, they believe in it, its their creed. They would be nothing without it. Hell, theyd probably pay the League to play if they had to! These guys are obviously psychotic. Gronk is the obvious prototype here, but you also got a lot of your star quarterbacks like Peyton Manning or Brett Favre, people who fear life after football so much that they stay in the game way too long.

Thirty percent of them do it just for the money. So they could do something elsesales, desk jockey, accountant, whateverbut they play football because the money is just so damn good. And it is good. The least you can make as a rookie in the NFL in 2014the least!is $420,000. The guys in this category arent the big stars. Were talking about most of the special teams guys, some offensive linemen, maybe a few backup linebackers here and there. I could tell you names, but trust me, you wouldnt have a clue who they are, and they like it that way.

And last of all, 49.99 percent play football because, frankly, its the only thing they know how to do. Even if they wanted to do something normal, they couldnt. All theyve ever done in their lives is play footballit was their way out, either of the hood or the deep woods country. They need football. If football didnt exist, theyd be homeless, in a gang, or maybe in prison. I could give you tons of examples here, but if they ever learned my true identity, it wouldnt be good for my health.

Then theres me.

Im part of my own little weird minority, that final 0.01 percent. Were such a minority, we dont even count as a category. Were the professional football players who flat-out hate professional football.

Resent it. Loathe it. Hate what it does to our bodies, how it breaks us down, tearing our ligaments, shredding our knees, turning us into old men while were still in our twenties. Hate what it does to our minds, how it makes us forget things like where we put our keys and eventually who the hell we are. Hate what it does to our lives, how it separates us from our friends and family, treats us like high-priced slaves who can be bought and sold, telling us it loves us one second, then tossing us out like trash the next. Hate the whole idea of Football as a Way of Life. All the garbage about us being warriors on a battlefield, that somehow were Real Men or Heroes because we play this stupid game with a little scrap of leather on a hundred yards of fake grass.