If Only a Big Head Meant Something
Jeff Foley
Wednesday May 10, 2000
"So what do they have you doing?" Loots asks.
Jeff and I haven`t seen each other since Albany won ArenaBowl XIII in late August, but we`ve talked on the phone several times since. Loots knows that I`m going through the 2000 training camp, just not in what capacity. We haven`t spoken since my decisive meeting with Farrell, general manager Joe Hennessey and Coach Dailey.
"Offensive specialist," I say. "And I`m doing everything. Even playing in two more games."
Loots laughs. "I`m going to get you the rock. I just want you to catch it and turn it back down the sideline and just go. Hopefully you`ll get a couple blocks. I want to see you get into the end zone."
"Cut it out. You`re making me nervous."
"You`ll get in the end zone. All you have to do is take it to the hole."
As Loots smirks, I tell him I`d be happy to stand in the end zone during pre-game warm-ups, but that I doubt I`ll be anywhere near paydirt once the game clock is running. Jeff continues to insist that I can get the job done against the Carolina Cobras, delighting the Albany crowd and probably giving my wife a heart attack. Even in jest, his support feels good. It helps me loosen up. I remind myself that I`m in camp to live out every man`s dream.
In fact, "Touchdown" Eddie Brown would later say: "You know how lucky you are? You know how many men would give up their houses, their wives, their families to do what you`re doing?"
I shake my head at Loots. "I just want to catch the ball. And not fumble."
"You can do it," Jeff says. "I`m going to make sure you get the ball. All you have to do is tuck it away."
It seems like a long shot. I had trouble catching anything thrown my way in 1999. My first experience with the Firebirds, a free-agent tryout, ended in disaster. I was playing pitch and catch with a group of hopefuls when a quarterback let loose with a bullet. The pigskin headed straight for my head, like a mallet threatening to smash a melon. My eyes closed and the speeding spiral slapped into my palms with a thud. Then the football kept going, crashing square into the spine of assistant coach Paul Booth.
"He wanted to kill me," I tell Loots. "The quarterback had apparently forgotten that I`m a writer. I was so embarrassed, I thought Boothie was going to kick my ass."
"Don`t worry," Loots says. "You`ll catch the ball. I`ll bury it in your chest. You won`t have a choice."
Yeah, and I`ll probably never breathe again.
Fortunately, Farrell interrupts our debate, giving us each a thick packet of paper and a pen. We were forewarned about the player questionnaires; they`re supposed to encompass our likes and dislikes, and hobbies and interests. The questionnaires, which will be used to provide media with information, cover that ground and more. There are 56 questions in all.
"Tim`s got to relax with these sheets," wide receiver/linebacker Carl Sacco says.
But Sacco, same as everyone else, sprawls out on the floor and jots. For the most part, the gym is quiet as players work through questions like, "What`s your favorite movie?" and "Nobody knows that I…" Every few minutes a veteran reads an answer out loud, drawing laughter.
"Favorite writer?" says Mark Valvo as he walks by and gives me a high-five. "Jeff Foley. Hands down."
I answer many of the questions straight, but get bored halfway through. After identifying Milwaukee`s Bradley Center as my favorite arena to play in other than the Pepsi (the Bradley Center is the only place I`ve ever played), I`m supposed to describe my pre-game ritual. I figure Farrell will be the only one to see my responses, and that he`ll probably be as bored reading through the stack of questionnaires as we are filling them out. So I write that before each game I like to "shiver and try to climb into a locker."
Farrell is going to need the laugh. As he collects completed forms, he looks every bit as stressed as he did at the team physicals last night. He approaches Kyle Moore-Brown, who`s in the middle of a comedy routine. Kyle has a hand pressed against one of his ears, and he`s yelling, "I hear millions and millions of fans calling my name. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle." A group of rookies watch the massive lineman, laughing and urging him on. But Kyle quiets down as Farrell reaches for the questionnaire.
"Tim," Kyle says. "You have our rings?"
Kyle has been in entertaining mode all morning, singing and rapping loud enough for everyone to hear. The lineman actually has a nice voice. He often belts out hip-hop songs, sounding very much like the artists he imitates. In fact, one of his teammates told me that he once walked onto a field several hours before a game and heard the national anthem blasting over the loud speakers. The teammate thought nothing of it, assuming that arena workers were getting ready for the game. But as it turned out, there was no noise coming out of the loud speakers. Kyle was standing at midfield, holding his helmet at his side and singing with all his might. "He sounded perfect," the teammate said. "Just like a recording."
Farrell frowns at the 298-pounder. Same as he did at the team physicals the night before, Tim informs Kyle that the championship rings are en route and that players will have them as soon as they arrive.
Kyle grins. He puffs out his already-massive chest and sucks in a deep breath. He maneuvers his face so that it`s just inches from Farrell`s and becomes the WWF`s The Rock. "What the hell you want?" he shouts. Everybody in the gym is still, watching a showdown between the lineman and the PR guy. Kyle threatens to poke Farrell in the chest. "You know what you can do with your damn player questionnaires? You can take `em all and put `em in a pile and fold `em up real nice. And then you can turn `em sideways … and stick `em straight up your candy ass!"
The last sentence is delivered with a roar. It`s anticlimactic, however, as Farrell puts a quick end to the mock confrontation. He simply shakes his head and walks away.
"Know your role and shut your damn mouth!" Kyle calls after him.
I wear a No. 86 home jersey, orange with white numbers, for my headshot, and then meander over to the equipment room, which is actually a garage; the same garage team meetings will be held in. The door is closed. Players are being taken in two-at-a-time, but Loots sticks his head in and informs the coaches that there are still two vets who haven`t been fitted yet. Just like that, we`re in.
Equipment manager Tom Frater walks me through the process. The Toronto native, sounding like one of the Hansen Brothers from the movie Slap Shot, hooks me up with team grays, shoulder pads, and knee and thigh pads. Frater, who doubles as equipment manager for the National Lacrosse League`s Albany Attack, chuckles when I can`t tell the difference between the knee and thigh pads.
"Ey," he says, moving on. "So what do you need, a medium helmet?"
"I don`t know," I say. But I do know that a medium isn`t going to cut it. Loots, who stands 6-foot-2, has just been fitted with a large, and I`m afraid I need a size up from that. I have a hard time finding baseball caps that fit comfortably on my skull. But I feel like a fat woman in a bathing suit store; I don`t want anyone to know my true size. "I`ve got a big head," I say, blushing. "Let`s try a large."
It nearly rips my ears off. Loots and Frater laugh as I grimace and yank the helmet off. Frater grabs an extra-large, the same size guys like Kyle wear, and hands it to me. It fits perfectly.
"You`ve got to be kidding me," Loots says. "I know you said your head was big, but I didn`t think it was that big. Wow, that`s a big head."
"Shut up."
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
