Cruz Victor - Out of the Blue

VICTOR CRUZ

WITH PETER SCHRAGER

OUT OF THE BLUE

A CELEBRA BOOK

CELEBRA

Published by the Penguin Group

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Published by Celebra, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Celebra hardcover edition.

First Celebra Trade Paperback Printing, July 2013

Copyright Victor Cruz, 2012, 2013

Title page photo by Claudio Marinesco

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THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION OF THIS TITLE AS FOLLOWS:

Cruz, Victor, 1986

Out of the blue/Victor Cruz with Peter Schrager.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-59294-6

1. Cruz, Victor, 1986 2. Football playersUnited StatesBiography. 3. Wide receivers (Football)United StatesBiography. I. Schrager, Peter. II. Title.

GV939.C783A3 2012

796.332092dc23

[B]

PUBLISHERS NOTE

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however the story, the experiences and the words are the authors alone.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

This book is dedicated to my dad, Michael Walker, and my grandfather, Fernando DeJesus. May you rest in peace and watch over my family and me.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

T HIRD AND TEN.

Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds left in the first half.

The ball was on our own one yard line. We were down 7-3 to the Jets.

Antonio Cromartie, the Jets cornerback, may have been lined up across from my teammate Ramses Barden, but he was staring me right in the eye, running his mouth. Its what Cromartie does. Hes a talker. He told me I was a no name. He said that I didnt belong on the field.

Cromartie had every right to be jawing.

Up until that point, Id done nothing the whole game. Earlier in the week, my teammate Mario Manningham and I had said a few things about Cros Jets teammate Darrelle Revis that we probably shouldnt have. The kind of chatter that gets copied and pasted on to a bulletin board and gets guys riled up.

The New York media ran with our quotes and they ended up on the back pages of all the major newspapers in the city. I showed up to practice one morning that week and saw in big, bold letters a headline that read C RUZ S AYS T EAMS A RENT S CARED OF R EVIS A NYMORE .

I shook my head in amazement. That wasnt quite what I had said, but thats what ended up being printed. Welcome to New York.

But it was Cromartie who answered back, not Revis. When a reporter asked him about Marios comments, he said, Well have to see on Saturday. Thats even if he touches the field. He let a guy named Victor Cruz come in and take his job.

A guy named Victor Cruz.

Like it was some shameful thing.

A guy named Victor Cruz.

I was looking at Cro and he was telling me that hed never heard of me, telling me that I wasnt worthy of lining up across from him. He was talking before, during, and after every play from scrimmage, and I was just silent. What could I say? We were getting beaten up and down the field all afternoon.

It was Christmas Eve and I was all out of sorts. We were playing the Jets at MetLife Stadium, our home building, but it was technically a Jets home game on the schedule. Things were twisted. At every other game wed played at MetLife, we lined up on sideline to the east of the field. For this one, because we were the visiting team, we were on the west sideline. You wouldnt think thatd matter, but it was throwing us off. We all had to get used to the change.

There was more. The night before every home game, we sleep in the same rooms at the same hotel in Teaneck, New Jersey. For this one, though, because the Jets were staying there and had priority as the home team, we were forced to crash at another hotel in nearby East Rutherford. Our routines were all off.

Before kickoff, I scanned the standsour standsand it was just a sea of green. I looked for my mother and my girlfriend, Elaina, who always sat together in the same seats in Section 111, but they were nowhere to be found. It took me a second or two before I remembered that they were sitting behind one of the end zones, with tickets my buddy Josh got them, instead. Id played in this stadium all seasonmy entire career, reallybut never as a visitor. I was out of my comfort zone.

There were guys in green Santa Claus suits in the crowd, that Fireman Ed dude was on his buddys shoulders leading the J-e-t-s, Jets, Jets, Jets! chant, and there was a bloodlust in the air unlike one Id ever experienced in the building before.

On our first five offensive drives of the game, we punted four times and kicked a field goal. Eli threw to me just twice and I only had one catch for twenty-nine yards.

Our defense had bailed us out all afternoon. The Jets kicker missed a makeable field goal attempt that would have put them up 10-3. We were lucky to be down just four points. It had been an ugly, sloppy game. Usually, were cool with that. Thats Giants football. We win games in the trenches and we capitalize on our opponents mistakes.

But it was late in the second quarter, heading into halftime, and we were still struggling.

THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER, about fifteen miles north of MetLife Stadium, I was wearing double pads and a red, white, and blue mesh jersey for my Little League football team, the PAL North Firefighters. I loved that jersey and wore it with a tremendous amount of pride.

My father was a firefighter in Paterson, New Jersey, and all the other kids on the team were either sons or nephews of Paterson firefighters, too. I played center on that squad. I hiked the ball to the quarterback. I blocked opposing blitzers. I was one of the biggest cats on the team, so the head coach put me on the offensive line during the first day of practice and that was that.

I really liked playing center. I got to handle the rock every down and I was a part of the action. Running play, passing playI was always involved. I got to hit the other kids; I got to run.

It was cool.

But, behind the scenes, my father was always telling the other coaches that I should be playing running back. He liked seeing me on the field and excelling at center, but he wanted me to get a chance at one of the skill positions. The offensive line made senseI was one of the tallest twelve-year-olds in the leaguebut he never viewed me as a lineman. He saw me as a playmaker, changing the game with my speed and scoring touchdowns. I was enjoying my life as the starting center on the PAL North Firefighters, but without me ever knowing, Dad was pushing hard for his son to get a shot at any other position.