Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile Read Free

Head coach Steve Mariucci was a loser. Steve Young was washed up. The Packers were going to beat us again. Then Steve Young hit Terrell Owens for the winning touchdown and capped Candlestick Park in a bubble of ecstasy. Tears of joy filled the stadium. I wiped them from my face. Wisconsin, please, this is the real California cheese.
    Much had changed for me between the two Niners games. Sitting in the stands with Ryan, my future agent, I no longer felt like a fan. I no longer cheered. I was watching my potential peers. I wanted in. After the game we stood outside of the 49ers locker room and watched the players walk out in street clothes. Ryan spoke with some of them. I stood off to the side. Then we left. Later that week I signed the necessary paperwork and officially made Ryan my agent. He will earn 3 percent of my contract for the rest of my career.
    Now it’s just Ryan and me in the lobby of the Hyatt. After the Ali/Jordan argument ends, I tell him about my hamstring, which I had pulled two days before checking into the Hyatt but hadn’t told anyone about. My Menlo coach Dave Muir had been throwing me routes so I could stay crisp for the important week ahead. On one of the last routes of the day—after Dave had run off to the port-o-potty clenching his butt cheeks, then returned five minutes later apologizing—I pulled my hamstring as I came out of a break. It was a new sensation. I had never injured a hamstring before. I decided to keep it to myself and try to work through it. I was already a long shot to be in the Shrine Game, let alone the NFL. I didn’t want anyone thinking I wasn’t ready.
    Ryan tells me to be smart with it. No use making it worse. But I have scouts to impress on the practice field. The week of practice is more important than the game. The NFL guys are watching us like they’re examining racehorses in the paddock.
    On the second day of practice, I run a slant during one-on-ones and rip my hamstring for real. I’m off the field for the rest of the week, including the game. I’m sure my chance has just slipped away but Ryan tells me not to worry. Just rehab it and we’ll get you on a team. There are other workouts, pro days and combines.
    But Menlo, my alma mater, doesn’t have a senior pro day, the day that the NFL scouts arrive to work guys out. Menlo’s too small—about five hundred students—and it’s a Division III program. I transferred there three years earlier after getting cut from Division 1AA Cal Poly. Poly’s head coach, Larry Welsh, told me I was too slow to play receiver and too small to play tight end. Now scram, punk. Menlo revived a football dream that was dead in the water. I wanted to play: that was it. I didn’t care about anything else. My high school coach, Myron Zaccheo, knew I was depressed about getting cut from Cal Poly. He was the one who told me about Menlo. It was thirty minutes away from my house in San Jose but I had never heard of it. But the more I found out, the more I felt pulled to Atherton.
    Fred Guidici, Menlo’s assistant head coach and recruiting ace, was my point man on the phone. With the voice of a long-lost friend, he told me about the pass-heavy offense and the local 49er pedigree. He told me about the stable of former NFLers coaching at Menlo. Ken Margerum, former Stanford and Chicago Bears receiver, was the head coach. Doug Cosbie, former Pro Bowl tight end for the Cowboys, was our offensive coordinator. Doug coached under Bill Walsh at Stanford. The Bill Walsh, the legendary head coach of the San Francisco 49ers who revolutionized offensive football. All-Pro defensive end for the Vikings Keith Millard was our defensive coordinator. Former All-Pro 49er guard Guy McIntyre was our offensive line assistant. The list went on. I visited the campus and instantly felt at home. I decided to transfer, leaving behind an ideal California college setting and a group of bewildered friends. “You’re doing what?” “You’re going where?”