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

gorgeous starry night. Attempts to squeeze past distracted security thugs are easily thwarted. The bouncers are on their game. This is their Super Bowl, too. We need actual tickets. Luckily I run into a girl whom I had met outside a club the previous night. There had been a rowdy mob trying to get in and she was pinned against a barricade. I pushed back against the mob and gave her some breathing room. Her name is Sasha.
    Sasha has an extra ticket to the party, she says. It’s for her sister but she’s not going to make it. Here, take it. Now we need one ticket. I walk to the will-call desk.
    —Hi, there, how are—
    —Are you on the list?
    —Yeah, should be.
    —What’s your last name?
    —Jackson.
    She flips through the stapled pages and runs her finger down a long, tight list. She stops her finger.
    —Tom?
    —Yep, that’s me.
    She hands me my ticket. Sorry, Tom. You’ve probably been to a hundred of these things, anyway. Inside the palace doors are the excesses of the industry; sports and entertainment collide in a puff of sex. Justin and I walk around and giggle. There are naked girls in body paint, celebrities, free drinks and free food and everyone laughing a little too loudly. I’ll remember these girls forever. One of them ends up in a cab with us after the party. She has olive skin and dark hair. She speaks clearly. Smells of black orchids. Wears loose-fitting linen. Her earrings are dream-catchers. Her aura is magenta. We drive across the Coronado Bridge and drop her off at her resort hotel. I never see her again, but I smell her every time the wind whispers, Mary .
    A few weeks later the Niners hire Dennis Erickson as Mooch’s replacement. Although he had a few losing seasons, Mooch did his best to carry on the Niner tradition. He ran the same offense. He often referred to our forefathers. He kept counsel with the elders. He was Bay Area through and through. Erickson has none of that. He brings his own brand and the 49er brand blows away in the wind.
    I keep reminding myself: Joe Montana was here. Jerry Rice. John Taylor. Brent Jones. Ronnie Lott. Roger Craig. Steve Young. Dwight Clark. Tom Rathman. Eddie D. Everyone was here. But I have to put my face right up against the glass trophy case to remember they ever existed in this building. Who are these people who call themselves 49ers? Not the 49ers I know.
    Part of my disappointment with this new brand of football (a new system of offense, new terminology, new schedule, and new coaches) is that it’s bumped me even further down the depth chart. I’m getting no reps. When Mooch was around, I often saw Bill Walsh on the sidelines at practice. He would offer me an encouraging word after a nice play, a nod or a pat on the back. But I rarely see him down there anymore. It’s just me and my fellow long-shot receivers, blowing dandelions and chasing down the safety on backside run plays. As a receiver, it doesn’t just matter if you get in the game; it matters what plays are called when you’re in. The veterans get all of the good pass plays. When they get tired we go in for a few run plays or screen passes. Once they catch their breath we’re back behind the huddle picking our butts.
    On a typical training camp day in mid-August, I’m suited up, helmet in hand, walking through the double doors out onto the practice field for our afternoon practice. One of the quality control coaches taps me on the shoulder and tells me that Bill wants to talk to me in his office.
    —Bill?
    —Yeah. He’s waiting for you.
    What could he possibly want to talk about?
    I throw my helmet in my locker and walk upstairs. My cleats clack on the linoleum. Heads look up from desks in cubicles to see what beast this way comes. Bill’s door is open and he’s sitting at his desk. Behind him is a window that looks out the south end of the building. There are framed pictures of his family around the office, and papers stacked neatly on his desk.
    —Come in, Nate. Sit down.
    I