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

fifteen minutes to Santa Clara and walk in the front door, greeted immediately by a trophy case that holds the talismans of my childhood. All five Lombardi trophies gleam in the halogen lights. Three of them came under Bill Walsh and two were under George Seifert, Bill’s successor. We change into 49er shorts and jerseys in the locker room. I’m caught between focus for the workout and a surreal admiration of my surroundings. I walk through the weight room and imagine Joe Montana and Jerry Rice discussing a play between sets of leg presses, or Charles Haley yelling at Steve Young in the showers and having to be restrained by Ronnie Lott.
    Out on the field it’s all football stuff: ball drills, routes, one-on-ones. No stopwatches and no clipboards: just coaches coaching football. I have a good workout. There was no way I wouldn’t. I feel ordained by the tradition of the institution. After I’m done, receiver coach George Stewart—a large, deep-voiced, kindhearted man everyone called Stew—pulls me aside and tells me what I’m starting to figure out. I can do this.
    At the end of the month is the two-day draft. The day before it starts, the Niners want to time me in the 40-yard dash. It is a beautiful, sunny day. I drive from the small parking lot outside of my Menlo dorm room, down El Camino Real to Stanford Stadium, where I meet Ryan and a few 49ers scouts. I run a 4.5 and a 4.6 on the bright green field of an empty stadium. I ask Ryan how I looked. Strong, he says.
    The first day of the draft passes. The next morning Ryan tells me that the Niners might draft me late. Some of my close Menlo friends come over to my house to watch it with me. Dave Muir sits next to me in the deafening silence as we watch player after player get what I want. I stare at the phone. During the seventh round it rings: the Ravens. They want to sign me as a free agent after the draft ends. I want to be drafted. If I’m not, I can still sign as a free agent. Sometimes, Ryan says, that’s actually better, assuming you have a few teams that want you. Then you get to choose. If you are drafted, you have no choice.
    The last pick comes and goes and my name isn’t called. A few minutes later the phone rings again, the 49ers this time. They want me, too. My first business decision: Baltimore or San Francisco. Because of my many connections to the team, the fact that the 49ers didn’t draft any receivers (the Ravens drafted three), and the team’s proximity to my family, Ryan and I agree that the Niners are my best bet. I call them back, while Ryan delivers Baltimore the bad news, and not a minute later I’m out the door, making my short way to the facility again. I walk upstairs to sign my new NFL contract, complete with a $5,000 signing bonus. Look, Ma, I’m a 49er!
    M inicamps start the next week and my confidence continues to grow. I step to the line of scrimmage with an NFL cornerback in my face. He’s coiled like a snake. My heart races. The ball is snapped and we strike. Sometimes he bites me. But sometimes I bite him. And each successful bite further confirms my suspicions: I belong here. One of my fellow receivers, Terrell Owens, is the most physically dominant wide receiver in the game. Early on I learn a valuable lesson from him, as we’re of similar size. The lesson is this: Do what you’re good at and do it well. Don’t try to be something you’re not. T.O. dominates the cornerbacks who try to cover him, throwing them around like rag dolls. He doesn’t try to dance around on the line of scrimmage and look pretty. He picks them up and moves them out of the way. Then he runs his route. I’m not on that level, but I take note. Decide what you’re going to do and do it violently.
    I’m able to focus solely on the physical because I’ve got a solid jump start on the mental. Our offense at Menlo used the same terminology as the 49ers. Football-speak is a language. If you are not fluent, you are lost. And it varies from system