Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

single play, maximum effort all of the time. So when we watch Randy Moss on film, his tendencies stick out like a dead fish at the aquarium. He has the habit of taking plays off completely. On run plays, he might literally walk off the line of scrimmage, or jog, or skip. He rarely engages the corner in contact on run plays, and generally avoids it altogether. This tendency allows me to do the same throughout the week. I’m a Method actor. I take my role seriously. How seriously? Ask the wives of the players I impersonated.
    Randy’s inconsistency works to his advantage and allows him to survey the scene, wait for his moment, then attack the defense downfield or across the middle. Football is about angles: linear movement in a contained area coupled with a finite amount of time in which to exploit it. Randy understands that finite time period better than anyone and can narrow the gap between action and reaction because he’s really damn fast.
    As he lazily skips off the line of scrimmage, everyone else explodes into the play. This forces the defenders to account for both his slowness and everyone else’s speed. The defenders pay more attention to the things around them that move faster, and Randy’s able to let the play develop in front of him before he joins in, and streaks up the field for an 85-yard touchdown.
    Of course, it doesn’t always work. You don’t even get to try that stuff unless you’re Randy Moss, or an actor playing Randy Moss. This week is the most fruitful week of my practice squad days. I catch a million balls: short, intermediate, deep. At the end of the week, Charlie has to pay me twenty dollars. He’s a practice squad receiver, too, and we have a running tally every week. Whoever catches the most balls gets paid. Touchdowns are worth two. Big money for a couple of big-time guys.
    W hen the game arrives, and the team ships out to Minneapolis, I’m not in the partying mood. I wake up early on game day and drive to the foothills for a hike and some fresh air. It’s a crisp, sunny November day; patches of snow dot the ground and glare white in the sun. I stop next to a creek, find a handful of sticks, and pull out my pocketknife. I whittle off the knots, kneel down, and fashion a water wheel in the shallows. My dad used to do that when my brother and I were kids.
    I sit down on the bank and watch the wheel turn with the current. Soon I lie back on a soft patch of dry grass and drift off in the afternoon sun.
    T he next thing I know, the sun is gone and I’m running through the forest with my knife in hand. I come upon fresh mountain lion tracks that lead to a cave. There’s a rustling sound inside and baby paw tracks around the outside of the cave. I pick up a rock and throw it into the cave. Then another. Then I throw a large stick. I taunt the lion, yell at her, insulting her choice of caves.
    I see a snake sliding along a fallen branch on a gentle slope toward a dry creek bed. I pick him up by his tail and fling him into the lion’s den. Two cubs come bounding out, followed by their mother, who recognizes me as the idiot causing the commotion. She squares me up and bears her teeth.
    —Here kitty kitty. Here kitty kitty.
    I flash my blade. She squats down and leaps at me with her front legs out and her jaw wide open.
    During our stony arguments I could never convince my friends that I’d have the wherewithal to actually, tactically, complete the task. They thought there was no way I could find her neck with a little knife. And besides, her jaws and claws were razor sharp and her hide was too thick to penetrate. She would rip me to shreds.
    But at the moment of truth time screeches to a halt. I see each molecule and fiber of both our bodies moving in unison. The will to survive reaches down and inflates me. As she leaps I stand my ground and take a slight step to my right. Using my left forearm as a shield I catch the brunt of her charge and sink the knife into her neck with my right hand. It