Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson Page B

testy.
    But that’s not the only reason things are testy. Pete still has them beating the shit out of each other. Guys are tired and sore and all of that work isn’t translating to wins on game day. That’s when the rah-rah stuff can start to work against a coach. During training camp, we were the only team that practiced twice a day in full pads. The other teams were done by 1 p.m., hanging out by the pool and laughing at us as we limped off to another violent practice.
    —No one is going to outwork us!
    Well, fuck, Pete, what’s the point of working so damn hard if the dudes who were hanging out at the pool are beating us?
    But he’s trying to turn us into a good team. He wants us to win. And his answer for every failure, as for a lot of football coaches, is to work harder. Whatever we were doing before, we’ll just do more of it. We’ll do it longer and harder and damn it, we’ll get it right.
    The next day against the Amsterdam Admirals, we win the game and bring our record to 3-3.
    On the bus ride back to the hotel, my friend tells me that he’s really looking forward to the few days off. He has a fantastic plan. He’s going to take a Viagra and masturbate all day. He’s my next-door neighbor at our hotel in Hamm. I make sure not to be there: hairy palms and such, oozing through the German walls, contaminating our house of purity.
    T he next week we take the train to Berlin to play the Thunder. We occupy a whole car and are required to wear our team-issued maroon Rhein Fire jumpsuits during transit. After losing the game, we get back on the train to go home. We are tired and losing sucks. I take off the jacket portion of my jumpsuit and have a white T-shirt on underneath. While I’m standing in the aisle talking to a few teammates, Whiskey Pete comes walking through the cabin.
    —Where’s your jacket, Nate?
    —It’s over there on my seat.
    —Go put it on. What do you think this is?
    —A train?
    The next day I have an envelope in my locker. I open it. It’s a fine: two hundred dollars for improper road game attire. I guess “be flexible” only applies to the players.
    We are back to the Relexa for the last three weeks of our journey. I catch a few passes in our next loss and am working myself back into the fold. But my hands are rusty. For four weeks in Alabama, there were no footballs around. One day after practice we make up a game—Adam, Greg, Chad, and me. There are soccer goals around the periphery of our field. One of the quarterbacks stands at the top of the penalty box and tries to throw the football past me into the net. The quarterback can work on his accuracy while throwing hard and I can work on my reaction and ball skills. Then we flip the drill and I step out to the top of the box and unleash the cannon. The weapon attached to my shoulder has sadly been relegated to recreational duty only, but every once in a while I like to light the wick and let the dragon breathe. I played the wrong position.
    Back at the Relexa, I’m preparing for a visitor. Alina is coming to town for two weeks. We planned it months ago. When I first found out I was going to Germany, I was torn about how to handle it with her. We’ve been exclusive and devoted to each other but I have my doubts about all of it. I was shipped to Denver, then spent my first season in the NFL chained to my cell phone. And once you get started in on all the phone calls and text messages, it’s hard to go back. She wields the phone like a razor blade.
    When she arrives, all sixty-six inches of her toned and tanned body, her doe eyes, and her bright, dimpled smile, she spends her first few days sleeping off the jet lag. I go down to the meal room in the morning, say “Guten Morgen” to as many people as I can, eat breakfast, then bring a waffle with Nutella upstairs to my slumbering sweetheart before leaving for work. She’ll fall in love with Nutella in Germany, just as I have. Above all things, Nutella is the best symbol of our