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

“Men-huh?”
    But Menlo was an oasis. The campus was lush and quiet. The classes were small and inclusive. The professors were friendly and passionate. The surrounding neighborhoods are wealthy and extremely safe. A common police blotter blurb from the local newspaper: “Suspicious looking cat seen near parked car.” Or: “Man tying his shoes across the street from suspicious looking cat.”
    After my first season at Menlo, Ken Margerum went on to coach receivers at Cal Berkeley and Doug Cosbie took over as head coach. Dave Muir, a backup quarterback at Washington State who was only a few years older than me, joined the coaching staff as our receiver’s coach. We became friends almost overnight, a rarity between players and coaches. A few days into two-a-days he called me up to the coaches’ offices.
    “Nate,” he said, “you can play on Sundays. I’ve seen it and I know it. We’re going to make it happen.” The next two seasons were a dream. I caught over 100 balls in consecutive seasons and earned All-American honors alongside my quarterback, Zamir Amin, who ran Walsh’s brilliant offense once to the tune of 731 passing yards in a single game. I was playing football with my best friends: for football’s sake. I was as happy as I have ever been.
    After a big game in week two of the 2001 season, Coach Cosbie, who stood six foot six, with light blue eyes and a booming voice, told me that someone wanted to talk to me. Bill Walsh came to our home games from time to time. His son Craig used to be Menlo’s athletic director, and Bill still supported the school. I always knew when he was there. He stood in the northeast corner of the end zone. His silver hair was unmistakable. So was the way he stood, with his arms folded beneath an omniscient gaze. I had been watching him since I was a boy. I dropped my helmet on the grass and jogged over to the legend. He told me to keep doing what I was doing. He said that I would get my shot at the next level. I jogged away with a new pep in my step. Men-huh?
    F our months later, as I stand on the sidelines watching one of the East-West practices that I can no longer participate in, Bill Walsh comes and stands next to me. He’s one of the chairmen of the Shrine Game committee and helped get me on the roster. Like Ryan, he tells me not to worry too much about the hamstring.
    —Just get healthy and you’ll have your shot.
    I crawl off the ledge and, after the game, start rehabbing immediately.
    A couple of months later I’m at San Jose State’s pro day. It’s early in the morning, cold outside. But the presence of stern NFL men fingering their stopwatches puts a buzz in the air. That’s the first thing that strikes me: The NFL is a pageant. Football is no longer just a game. The NFL’s regional scouts stretch from Pacific to Atlantic and work all year long compiling information on their employer’s potential investments.
    They’re conducting research for their bosses. I’m trying to touch God. This is the moment I’ve been training for. Most of us here weren’t invited to the NFL Scouting Combine in Indianapolis. Only 260 guys go to that. This is our only shot in front of scouts. We run the 40-yard dash, the L-shuttle, the 20-yard shuttle, and the 60-yard shuttle. We also do the broad jump, the vertical jump, and hit the 225-pound bench press. Then we run routes.
    The success I had at Menlo had come with an asterisk: *D3 football. I bought into it for a moment: just like I momentarily bought into Cal Poly coach Larry Welsh’s assessment of my athletic ability. But after seeing the D1 talent at the Shrine Game, and now here at San Jose State’s pro day, I’m hit with a surge of confidence. They’re just dudes: dudes with strengths and dudes with weaknesses. Dudes with doubts and fears and pain. Humanity equalized all of us. D1, D3, NFL: just dudes.
    L eading up to the draft the 49ers invite about thirty local prospects to their facility for a workout. I drive the