Rich regularly pushes twenty or thirty sleds in the mornings before we arrive. On his fiftieth birthday, he came in early as usual. But instead of his normal workout, he honored the landmark by pushing fifty sleds in fifty minutes. That would kill an ox. Rich didn’t break a sweat. I am always excited to hear what crazy-man workout he did while I was still sleeping. But soon I notice a pattern developing. The harder his workouts get, the harder ours get. If a fifty-year-old man can do it, then surely eighty professional athletes in their twenties can, too.
Only that isn’t always the case. Football players are dynamic athletes. We burst. We explode. We do not plod. Our slow-twitch muscles are not refined and when pushed, they crumble. Rich enjoys this immensely. We bitch about it every day. But we need the slow-twitch work. He promises us that if we win the Super Bowl, we can have a bonfire and torch the fuckers. Sorry to spoil the ending, but we never do win that Super Bowl.
Show me a painful ritual and I’ll show you a way to cheat it. The mischievous O-line discovered that the sleds slide better on wet turf, so whether we’re indoors, on the forty-yard synthetic grass field connected to our hangar-size weight room, or outdoors, enterprising slackers squirt down their tracks with water when Rich has his back turned. This makes life much easier. But look out for Crime! He’s the enforcer.
—Don’t water down the grass, Nate!
—C’mon, Nate! Touch the line!
—All the way through, Nate!
—C’mon, Nate! That’s only nine!
—How many times are you going to tie your shoes, Nate?!
Crime is a loyal and humble assistant. Together with Rich they make a daunting duo on the field and in the weight room, where we each have our own folder with our daily lifting regimen inside. Weight lifting is important. But everyone’s body is different. Every body responds differently to the strain. Some guys get too big, too bulky, too weight room strong, and have no mobility on the field. When I moved to tight end I started lifting much heavier. I gained twenty-five pounds. I was much stronger. I lifted incredibly hard. And my body fell to shit.
Champ is a naturally freaky athlete. He does not have to lift weights. One off-season he participated fully with the lifting program, grunting and pressing and pleasing Crime tremendously. All parties agreed: Champ looked better than ever. But by the time the season came around, his body was giving him trouble. He battled injuries all season long, his least healthy as a pro, and learned a valuable lesson that only a guy like Champ could actually pull off: weight lifting isn’t really my thing, coach.
But most of us don’t have that luxury. We lift and run as we are told. No one asks us how we feel. It’s assumed that we feel fine and that we are ready to push on, harder and faster. There simply isn’t time to pay attention to the individual athlete’s body. It’s the industrial football complex. Here’s the program. Go.
But it isn’t bad. I’m nitpicking. My job is to work out. I like working out. And it only makes me feel better about going to Las Vegas, a trip that is already in the works. I’ve been going to Vegas since college, when I had little money and few resources. Just another random dude. If you haven’t been, the random dude experience in Vegas goes like this:
Four guys jump in a Toyota Corolla and drive seven hours from San Jose to Las Vegas and check into their room at Bally’s. Two double beds, two dudes to a bed. They throw their stuff in the room and go down to the casino immediately, hop on the five-dollar blackjack table, and look around for the cocktail waitress. Where the fuck is she? Five dollars a hand and free Coronas until forty to sixty dollars is lost.
Twenty minutes later they’re walking down the Strip with plastic yard-margarita souvenir cups and three-and-a-half-foot straws. Men on the streets hand out cards advertising prostitutes.
—Vegas showgirls at your door in fifteen minutes!
—Holy shit, bro! I’m calling this girl later. Look at her!
He slides the card into his pocket, to be fingered the rest of the day as they wander the Strip ogling the scenery and playing low-stakes blackjack. One of them is winning. The other three are in the hole. Two have already gone over budget for the trip.
They are all drunk. They stop at McDonald’s in the Paris food court for dinner. They throw french fries at each other. They meet a group of girls near the bar of the casino. The girls are there for a bachelorette party. They are all sucking on dick-shaped lollipops and they have dick-straws in their margaritas. The bride-to-be looks frightened. She is wearing a crown and a sash and has a list in her hand. She decides that one of the dudes is a good candidate for the “Let a random guy take a shot out of your belly button” item on the list. He chooses tequila. The Cuervo stirs up fermented navel bacteria, forms a sexy cesspool. She laughs and it spills down her sides. He slurps it up and fist-pumps. This will be the highlight of the trip.
They say goodbye to the girls and go back to the room to get ready for the night. Tequila-shot guy passes out. The other three shower and change into their best shirts. Tequila-shot guy won’t wake up. They leave him and decide to go to a popular club. They wait in the cab line for thirty minutes and arrive to a hectic scene. There are several long lines to get into the club. Beautiful women are everywhere. The guy with the showgirls card thinks he sees the girl on the card walk past him. He waves. She does not.
They get in the general admission line and wait. They watch people being ushered in past velvet ropes: packs of girls, groups of dudes, shaking hands with bouncers, laughing. The general admission line isn’t moving. They try to get a bouncer’s attention. He pays them no mind. They look at each other. Fuck this. They go to the casino bar and order drinks. They lose one friend to the blackjack table on their way to the bar. He will not be seen the rest of the night. The two remaining random dudes meet another bachelorette party. The rest of the night is a blur: more shots of tequila, low-grade narcotics, lots of walking, a few cab lines, and an after-hours club full of dragon chasers. The two remaining random dudes stumble out of the club into the morning daylight and look around. They cannot find a cab. They don’t have money for one anyway. And they have already reached their withdrawal limit for the day.
They walk back to the room and fall on the beds with their friends, taking care to keep a layer of blanket between them. They sleep until 2 p.m., wake up, and repeat the previous day’s drill. On Sunday they get back in the Corolla and sit in Vegas exodus traffic for the next four hours. Tequila guy pukes out the window, and gets some in the car. They all tell him to go fuck himself. He swears them off as friends, puts on his headphones and pulls on his hood, fakes sleeping. He thinks about his tequila shot.
—Did anyone get a picture of me and that girl?
No one answers him. They ride home in the silence of their self-loathing.
What our Vegas experience as NFL athletes lacks in Cuervo, it makes up for with Patrón. First I go to the bank in Denver and get a large wad of cash. I learn that from Rod. I want to know what I’m spending. The teller smiles knowingly.
—Going to Vegas again?
—Yes, ma’am! But this time I’m bringing some back. In fact I’m gonna double it.
—Yeah, right. Have fun!
The NFL has scattered our friends around the country. This Vegas trip is a chance to get back together. Patrick Chukwurah, a muscly, dreadlocked defensive lineman who we hung out with in Denver, is in Tampa now. Grant is back home in California. Charlie is in Houston with Kube. Kyle and I are still, for the time being, Broncos.
We touch down in Vegas and retrieve our bags. The cab line is too long, we decide. We walk to the other side of the terminal and find an idle SUV. One hundred dollars to the Wynn. Free bottle of water in the cup holder. Definitely worth it.
We check in at the VIP desk. We all have our own rooms and plan to meet downstairs in thirty minutes. It is wise to ease yourself into your Vegas weekend. Don’t walk in the front door of the casino and go s
traight for the roulette table. Check in, put your bags down, and relax. Have a beer. Go to the pool. Look at the boobies. There will be plenty of time to hate yourself later.
We are very happy to be in Vegas. We splash around in the water and make friends.
—What do you guys do?
—You play for the Broncos?
—What?! Honestly, like, the Broncos are literally like, my favorite teeeeeeam!
—Oh, my Gawd! Let’s take a picture!
Our cocktail waitress is pretty and easy to talk to. I like the way she keeps her bottle opener tucked into the side of her red bikini bottoms. As the sun arcs above us, we become best friends. She likes me for me, I tell myself, not for the excessive bottles and shots I’m ordering.
We meet a bachelorette party in the pool. The bachelorette considers Charlie for the “random football player she’ll cheat on her fiancé with” item on her list.
The sun is almost down. The pool is almost closed. We’re the last group. The cocktail waitress sits down next to me as we close out our bill.
—What are you guys doing tonight?
—I think we’re going to Tryst. Do you want to come?
—Maybe!
—Maybe?
—Yes, maybe. Give me your number and I’ll text you later if I can come.
We all go up to our respective rooms for some quiet time before the evening. The rooms at the Wynn are nice and spacious. I throw my board shorts on the couch and walk to the floor-to-ceiling window. Las Vegas: so beautiful, so ugly. I plan the evening in my head, lie back on the bed, and doze off.
A knock at the door from room service wakes me up. Pepperoni pizza, chicken fingers, fruit, side salad, water, six beers, service charge, delivery charge, casino charge, resort fees, utensil rental, tip: $112.67. Whatever. It’s just my signature.
We meet downstairs and play blackjack. We look for the cocktail waitress. Where is that lovely woman? I can’t wait to meet her. Oh there she is.
—Hello, Edna. A Tanqueray and tonic, please.
I win nine hundred dollars in thirty minutes. Give forty to the dealer, forty to Edna. The cocktail waitress from the pool texts me.
—Hey! Me and my girlfriend are coming. You boys better be nice!
Just before midnight we go to Tryst. We spot Ryan, our VIP host. We all shake hands, then he pulls up the velvet rope and we walk in, past legions of random dudes waiting. I lock eyes with myself, seven years younger. I look restless.
—We have you guys at a great table. You’re going to like it.
I put down my credit card. Ryan ushers us past a few more ropes and lines and we walk down the staircase and into the long hallway of the club, where the lighting changes from paltry to sultry. Ryan was right. It is an excellent table: near the dance floor but not too close. Charlie slips Ryan a few large bills. He leaves us, and I turn to my brethren.
—Fellas, what do we want to drink? It’s a three-bottle minimum.
—Three bottles? Dawg, are we gonna drink all that?
—We have no choice!
—Vodka.
—Vodka.
—Vodka.
—Tequila?
—Yeah, tequila is good, too. We’ll start with those two and worry about our third bottle later.
Grey Goose and Patrón: bottle-service booze brilliantly marketed to the tune of $475 apiece. It’s the price of having your own table and couch: your own private island in a sea of sleaze.
Our waitress introduces herself. She’s a typical Vegas industry girl: hypersexual, overproduced, worn-out. I give her our order.
—What mixers do you guys want? OJ, tonic, soda, Red Bull, cranberry?
—All of the above.
—Okay. Do you want some water?
—Yeah, six.
While she’s gone the bouncer in our area introduces himself.
—Fellas, you look like you don’t need any help but if you do, let me know. Anything you need, I got you.
Handshakes and hugs all around. These people really love us.
Our waitress from the pool arrives with her friend. She looks much different done up and dressed to go out. No bottle opener and no bikini but she looks very good. I pour them vodka and Red Bulls. We yell into each other’s ears from inches away. I ask questions. She gives answers. We chuckle with tight lips.
After the arbitrary get-to-know-you conversation, I push through the haze of smoke and bad decisions and go to the bathroom. When I return, women have emerged from the fog, pulled toward us by our oversized pituitaries and our caveman libidos, vibrating the floorboards like a Dr. Dre bass line. The music pulses through the high-octane speaker system and into my bones. I lean back on the cushy couch and watch. Who are all of these girls? I don’t think they actually exist. The paper in our pockets has conjured them out of thin air. And now everything is open wide: arms, doors, and legs. We are young, physically powerful men with money. Big money usually doesn’t come quickly. When it does, it’s rarely because of physical prowess. We are temporarily rich because we are bigger and stronger than you. This unnerves people constantly. Well, it unnerves men. It nerves women.
A few tables away a group of Englishmen start throwing money in the air. Dead presidents are pinwheeling around us in the current of the high-powered air conditioners. The Brits are jumping up and down on their couches yelling. They are spraying champagne.
A table of Persians is not to be outdone. They start throwing money in the air, too: but they use larger bills. The whole club stops to honor the moment. One of our new friends walks over and scoops up a handful of cash and comes back to us. She drops the money on our table next to several nearly empty bottles of booze.
—That’s for later.
Girl from the Pool and I look at each other and laugh. Her red lips and white teeth shine in the blue-black backdrop. I want to kiss her. Our hypersexual waitress has started drinking with us. Now she’s dancing with us. Now she’s giving Kyle her number.
—You better call me! What are you guys doing tomorrow? There’s this cool bar off the Strip that we should go check out if we have a chance.
It is 3:30 a.m. We have been through five bottles. Our bill is over three thousand dollars. I tip the waitress five hundred. Fifteen percent really shouldn’t apply to bills like this but who cares. I will collect the money from the boys later if I remember. We skip into the casino with ten new friends.
—What’s the plan? Is anyone tired?
A sweet harmony of “No!”
Cab line is too long again. We find a limo and we get in. A hundred dollars for a half-mile trip to Drai’s at Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall. More free water. Turn up the music. Sing songs of the damned. Pull up to the curb. Tip our driver an extra twenty. He gives me his card. There’s a small mob in front of the entrance to Drai’s. We walk to the front of the line. Ryan is a host there, too. He opens the rope.
—You guys want a table? It’s just a one-bottle minimum. Otherwise it’s pretty crowded down there.
—Yeah, let’s do it.
Another credit card changes hands, another sacred gate unlocked. We descend the stairs to the vampire dungeon. Googly-eyed bobblehead dolls float across the sticky dance floor, pause to light cigarettes, can’t steady the flame, close one eye, finally get it lit. The bathroom attendant broods over a glass vase full of bills. He squirts soap into my hand. Dries my hands off. Zips up my fly. I drop a five-spot into the vase. We bump fists: best friends forever.
I walk around and engage in one-liner small talk with approachable vampires. I feel the wad of cash in my pocket. It wants to be spent and I want to spend it. I want to feel the bills peeling off one at a time, slowly lightening the stack. I want to pass them along and keep the Vegas food chain strong. I want to help the economy. I want to spend my money to remind myself that I have it, to remind myself that I am special, that I am
desirable, that I am somebody.
The rest of the night dives into the gutter.
We fly back to Denver when we’ve had enough. The taste on my lips makes the self-loathing easier to swallow. The paper in my pocket is gone.
After a few hard days of working out, the Vegas fog is lifted and only the beautiful memories remain. I have been texting Girl from the Pool since I got back to Denver. One day, after having spoken the previous day, she texts me and tells me she is having phone problems and will be using a different phone until she gets it fixed. Later that day, she amps up the flirting and asks if I’ll send her a picture. “You first,” I say. She sends me a couple of innocuous pictures of her: one at a table with a “Happy New Year” hat on, one posing outside near a bush. So I send her a few innocuous ones of my own.
The next day I wake from a nap to a very long voice-mail message from her. She says that she is married. Well, she’s separated. It’s a long story. But her husband has gone through her phone and discovered our flirty texting. He then texted me, pretending to be her, and gave me the broken phone story. The number that he redirected me to was his own. I sent pictures of myself to her husband, after he sent pictures of his wife to me. Oh, she was sorry, so sorry about this; so, so sorry. I soak my phone in bleach and get back to work lifting heavy pieces of metal.
We are done working out by noon every day. It’s a very good feeling showering after a hard workout, sitting down for a free lunch and looking up at the clock, knowing I have the rest of the day to do whatever I want. It’s the ideal stoner schedule, really. Wake up early, shake off the cobwebs of last night’s fun with some exercise and have the rest of the day to kill. But NFL stonerdom is a more calculated endeavor. The off-season months, which might be used to make ganja-induced epiphanical deposits in the bank of the soul, instead are spent abstaining in anticipation of the league’s once-a-year street drug test. By the time the draft comes around, you’d better be good and clean, because the testing starts during minicamp. Like Greek said years ago, if you can’t pass this test, you’re either stupid or you’re an addict. Either way, you need help.
Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile Page 15
