Jackson - Slow getting up : a story of NFL survival from the bottom of the pile

AP Photos/Jack Dempsey

SLOW GETTING UP

A Story of NFL Survival

from the Bottom of the Pile

NATE JACKSON

Contents

Wake the fuck up. Its time to hit.

Look, Ma, Im a Denver Bronco.

The grass is still green, the hits still hurt, and the ball in flight is still the most beautiful sight I know.

It takes a village to raise a jock.

The weight comes quickly. So do the bowel movements.

Its hard to play quarterback with a noose around your neck.

One-liner small talk with approachable vampires.

God loves the NFL too much to crash one of its planes.

Whatever this is, it feels important.

The limp and the hop echo off the tiles of an empty shower room.

Every game a needle.

I am doing Gods work, after all.

To Mom and Dad

Why did football bring me so to life? I cant say precisely. Part of it was my feeling that football was an island of directness in a world of circumspection. In football a man was asked to do a difficult and brutal job, and he either did it or got out. There was nothing rhetorical or vague about it; I chose to believe that it was not unlike the jobs which all men, in some sunnier past, had been called upon to do. It smacked of something old, something traditional, something unclouded by legerdemain and subterfuge. It had that kind of power over me, drawing me back with the force of something known, scarcely remembered, elusive as integrityperhaps it was no more than the force of a forgotten childhood. Whatever it was, I gave myself up utterly. The recompense I gained was the feeling of being alive.

F REDERICK E XLEY

Football is fun.

J AKE P LUMMER

Goodbye, Dude

(2008)

B lank screen.

I hear the sound of children playing.

And I can feel the wind. I hear it rustling through the autumn leaves.

I smell the wet dirt and the long grass.

There is an iron taste in my mouth. This is where I belong.

Mom, tell me when its time

Dont move, Nate. Theyre going to a TV timeout. Just relax.

Thats Greek, our trainer. Its Thursday night in November 2008 and were playing a nationally televised game in Cleveland. Im a tight end for the Denver Broncos. Im sure that, above me, the hit is being replayed over and again in slow motion. I also know that my mother is watching at home. With Greek holding my head and neck still, I move my legs and arms to let her know Im not paralyzed.

After a minute, I get up and walk off the field, mad at myself for not holding on to the ball. I almost caught it. Had it in my hands. But Willie McGinest, a linebacker for the Browns, dislodged it when he buried his shoulder into my temple and spun me around in the air. I hit the ground like a dead body.

I stand on the sidelines as Jay Cutler finishes the drive with his third touchdown pass of the quarter. It goes to Brandon Marshall. After the score B-Marsh reaches for something in his pants but Brandon Stokley, another star receiver, stops him, fearing a flag for an unlicensed prop. The Browns receive the kickoff, cant score, and we win. A much-needed win; we had dropped the previous three. The locker room afterward is raucous with reenactments of the end zone shenanigans. B-Marsh had been reaching for a homemade black and white unity glove he had tucked into his game pants, and now, in the safety of the locker room, Stokleys standing on a bench doing his best Tommy Smith impression from the 1968 Olympics. It is two days after Barack Obamas election and B-Marsh wanted to honor the moment. His president is black and he is proud. And like many proud black men who came before him, he got bear-hugged by whitey. Great gesture, bad timing. They call it the No Fun League for a reason.

On the airplane ride back to Denver I sit completely still and sip a cocktail. We used to have beers on the flights but NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell banned them. Legislate all you want, demand finds its supply. And booze is easier to smuggle past a tarmac TSA screening than a thirty-pack.

I go to our team physician, Dr. Geraghty, and ask him if he could give me something for the pain.

I cant move my neck, Doc.

He says the best he can do is one Vicodin and one muscle relaxer and hands me two pills in a small bag.

Thats it? Two pills?

I hold up the nearly empty bag.

Youre going to make me hit the streets for this one?

Sorry, Nate.

The two pills dont make it off the plane. I lie in bed all weekend, unable to move my head. By the time Monday comes around I put on my sweats and drive into work, stiffer than a wedding nights dick, as one of my coaches used to say. Business as usual.

Yes, I could have gone in for injury treatment over the weekend, but Im sick of being treated for injuries, sick of spending time in the training room, sick of feeling fragile. It is my sixth year in the league. Im well versed in the injury/rehab cycle of professional football. I know which injuries I need to treat and which ones I can handle on my own. This one I can handle. As long as I can run fast Im fine.

I deal with the pain all week and by game day I am ready to play. It will be the last game of my career.

It is in Atlanta against the Falcons. We win 2420. I have three catches for 33 yards. I jump over a cornerback after one of them. Most cornerbacks tackle low. They shoot for the kneecaps or the ankles because thats how you can bring down a larger man. The announcer says I shouldnt have jumped over him. He says it was too dangerous. I could have been hurt. Worse, I could have fumbled.

Several days after our win in Atlanta were practicing in preparation for the Raiders game at home in Denver. Practice is dragging along. Were running plays against our scout team defense. There are two tight ends in the huddle: me and Tony Scheffler. Our quarterback, Jay Cutler, calls a play that has us running mirrored corner routes on either side of the ball. Tony and I are always being scolded for not reaching our required depth on our routes. If the route calls for ten yards, were always breaking it off at nine. If it calls for twelve, we make it eleven. Were the same that way: eager to get there and eager to get the ball. We break the huddle and agree to go for the full twelve this time.

I run it full and break to the corner. Jay throws me a fastball with an arc that leads me to the sideline. I burst to track it down and a lightning bolt strikes me from behind. My hamstring rips off the ass bone with a bang, the sound of my season ending right there.

A month later, after a three-game losing streak puts us out of the playoffs for the third consecutive year, our teams season ends, too. And a few days after that, our head coach, Mike Shanahanthe man who brought me to Denver in the first placeis fired. There is zero job security in the NFL. Everyone knows that. But if there was anything close to job security, everyone thought Coach Shanahan had it. He had won two Super Bowls for the city of Denver. He was a close friend of the owner. He was building a new house. We were good every year. But good isnt good enough in the National Football League.

After a two-week search, the Broncos hire Josh McDaniels, thirty-two-year-old offensive coordinator with the New England Patriots. He helped organize the most potent offense in the NFL while still in his twenties. A young Shanahan, some are saying. Im still rehabbing at the facility every day so a few days after he is hired, I go upstairs to introduce myself. Check him out. See if he knows Im on the team. Were pretty much the same age. We both went to Division III colleges. Im sure we have a lot in common.