An Average Jeff Reports to Camp
Jeff Foley
Wednesday March 22, 2000
I popped five quarters into a parking meter, allowing myself 75 minutes for a meeting that was scheduled to take five to 10, and sprinted across South Pearl Street. Two days earlier, Albany had basked in 75-degree weather. Now the ground was covered with a fresh blanket of snow, and it was a struggle to avoid the puddles of slush on the road. By the time I reached the arena’s awning, my jeans were splattered and wet.
I took a moment to catch my breath, and studied the bustling downtown. Women in skirts and men in suits rushed by, not even glancing at me. They had no idea what I was up to, nor did they care. There was no way they could know that I was possibly about to become a member of the 2000 Albany Firebirds, the same team they’d crowd into the stands to scream for on Friday nights throughout the upcoming summer
But as I took the escalator to the Firebirds’ second-floor offices, the state employees were gone from my mind. Instead, I wondered how long it would be until Albany general manager Joe Hennessey was ready for me. And I wondered if this meeting would change my life.
“Hey, Jeff,” said Tim Farrell, director of media relations and corporate sales for the Firebirds. In other words, he’s Albany’s public relations guy. “Let me call Coach Dailey. Joe said he’ll be ready in a minute.”
After smirking at my dark-brown hair streaked with blond highlights, Tim picked up a receiver and dialed. “Hi, Coach,” he said. “Jeff Foley’s here.”
I was shocked. I’d figured I would have to wait a half-hour before Joe had a free moment. I looked at my watch; it was only 11:50. This was unbelievable – I’d been trying to meet with Tim, Joe and Coach Dailey for weeks, but they’d been consumed with getting the team ready for the season. First they had to deal with labor strife; a small group of Arena Football League players had filed an antitrust lawsuit that led to team owners shutting down day-to-day operations for a short time. And with that now settled, the teams were in a rush to get players signed to contracts and into Albany for training camp.
“What happened to your hair?” Tim asked.
“I was bored,” I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Originally I’d liked the patch of blond, but now I felt as if the highlights made me look like I’d stepped out of a 1980s nightclub, like I was hoping to be the reincarnation of Vanilla Ice. “I got some color put in it.”
“Oh,” said Tim, grinning.
I should have shut up, but I couldn’t. My nerves were running on high and my mouth was ready to match the speed. I explained that what I’d really wanted to do was shave my head bald. I’d done that once before, and the comfort level is incredibly high. But my wife has no appreciation for the hairless look, unless a goatee accompanies it. And that’s out of the question on my face.
“I grow facial hair like a 4-year-old,” I said, immediately realizing the irony of that statement. I was about to ask the Firebirds to let me join their team as a professional football player, an offensive specialist/writer. I was going to request that they let me partake in one of the most masculine activities ever, yet I’m incapable of growing a full goatee.
Fortunately, Coach Dailey walked into the office and I stopped talking about my hair. Or lack of it.
Coach Dailey got right to the heart of the matter. “So what are your plans?” he said. “Are you playing as a kicker or a wide receiver?”
Oh dear God.
The whole purpose of the meeting was to determine whether or not the team was going to let me pursue every man’s dream and play during the 2000 preseason. That question was answered just a little too quickly.
“Offensive specialist,” I said. Several months earlier, when Joe Hennessey and I had discussed my plans to write a book on playing in the AFL, I suggested that I spend time as a kicker in 2000. I figured that’d be safer than running around as an offensive specialist, which I did in one preseason game in 1999. But Joe didn’t agree. “I wanted to be a kicker, but Joe was worried about that. He was afraid I might get one of our linemen pissed at me, so that when I went to kick, they’d just step aside and let their guy come through and blast me. Joe was worried I’d get killed, so I guess I’m an offensive specialist.”
“That’s better,” Coach Dailey said, nodding. “You wouldn’t get much action as a kicker.”
We discussed a few of the particulars about my position before Joe beckoned for us. As I stepped into Joe’s office, my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest.
Joe was relaxed in his chair, talking on the phone. It sounded like he was trying to secure vans for the team. I took a seat in front of his desk and glanced around the office. The walls were filled with football photos, shots of Albany players in action as well as posed. I looked away. As much as the idea of wearing a Firebirds’ uniform again thrilled me, it was also a frightening prospect. The thought of three weeks with guys like Kyle Moore-Brown, Jon Krick and The Axe, also known as Mike Waldron, sent a shiver down my spine.
“Sorry about that,” said Joe, hanging up the phone. “So what do need to talk about?”
I took a deep breath. There wasn’t really much left to discuss.
“I had a short list,” I said. “My biggest question was whether or not I was going to play this year, but Coach Dailey and I just talked about that. I guess I’m an offensive specialist again.”
Joe nodded and smiled, his bearded face beaming with pleasure. Tim smiled as well, resting his hands behind his head as his goatee framed his lips. I suddenly wondered if I was the only grown man in the world incapable of growing facial hair “I guess my next question is, what do I need to do about insurance?” I said. “In case I get hurt or killed.”
Joe did nothing to ease my fear of injury. Instead, he continued to nod. “I’ll make a phone call to our lawyers and find out. What else?”
It was time to talk about the parameters of my participation. I figured the Firebirds would want me on the sidelines, where I could stay out of harm’s way, safely observing the happenings of a football team and writing about them. I wanted to wear a helmet and pads, but I was planning to get much more use out of my tape recorder and notebook. The glory of a football uniform appeals to me, but not the strings attached.
“I’m going to treat you just like all the other players,” Coach Dailey said. “You’ll participate in all the individual drills and we’ll probably use you on the scout team. Your legs are going to hurt after two days.”
I silently wondered how I was supposed to make it through three weeks of training camp. But I kept my skepticism inside and we agreed on a few more specifics. I was told that I’d have to stay out of the way for some of the more intense drills, where – as someone who lacked even Pop Warner experience – I could truly get killed. There was no argument from me. And it was decided that I was going to suit up and play in Albany’s two preseason games – one at home against the Carolina Cobras and one at the Bradley Center in Milwaukee, against the Mustangs, where I played in 1999.
Coach Dailey chuckled as he said there was a good chance I’d get yelled at during camp. He said I’d get no special privileges for being a writer. I’d even be subject to fines, handed out for offenses such as arriving late to a team meeting or dropping a pass in practice.
“You can write a check when your book comes out,” he said.
That’s great. With hands like mine, I’ll end up with no profit margin.
“Coach, what’s my schedule going to be like?” I asked.
I knew the team practiced twice a day during the preseason, typically for two hours at a shot. Piece of cake, I thought, I can handle that. I figured I’d even have time left over to eat dinner with my wife and walk the dog.
“We meet for breakfast at 6:45 and finish up with meetings around 10 o’clock.”
“At night?”
“At night.”
Gulp.
Dailey gave me a rough breakdown of the schedule. It sounded like boot camp.
A team breakfast at 6:45 a.m.; players get taped at 7:30; the first practice runs from 8:30 to 10:30; a team lunch at 11:30; more taping at 1 p.m.; a second practice from 2 to 4; dinner together at 5; and meetings until 9 or 10.
“Do you want me to write up a schedule?” asked Joe, sympathy showing in his eyes.
“No,” interjected Coach Dailey, glaring at the general manager. “You can’t be coddling my players. He’ll get his schedule the same time everybody else does. Your itinerary will be inside your playbook, Jeff, which you’re going to pick up Wednesday at Lake Shore Apartments. Just show up at the rental office between one and three in the afternoon.”
And, as if I didn’t already have enough to worry about, Coach Dailey then offered to let me room with the rest of the team at Lake Shore. He said that was where I’d get some good stories. After much inner turmoil, and with my wife’s blessing, I decided to take Coach Dailey up on the offer. I didn’t want to be gone from home more than 16 hours a day, but I knew this was a chance to really experience life as an AFL player. I couldn’t say no.
“Do you know what you’re getting into?” Joe asked. “My God, why would you want to do this?
For a moment, I wondered that myself. But I knew the answer almost immediately; I’d do anything for a story. I once played professional baseball, striking out in each of my three at-bats. I got a tattoo, despite my overwhelming fear of needles. And I ran a triathlon; losing 10 pounds and finishing next to last. It was all done in the name of literature. Nearly any amount of suffering is worth it to me if it provides a good story.
“Better you than me,” said Joe, turning to Tim. “Can you get him a pass to Gold’s Gym with the rest of the guys? And maybe get him one to the nail and hair salon with the cheerleaders too, just in case he wants to do something else with his hair.”
Note to self: Get a haircut.
I had five days until the start of training camp, and I knew I’d have to get the blond snipped before I had any contact with the players. If the general manager was picking on me, the players would be ruthless. And given my lack of athletic ability, I didn’t need to provide them with any additional ammunition.
“Welcome to the organization, Jeff,” said Coach Dailey as I shook hands with everybody in the room. “And remember, this is the last time we can be so nice to you.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
Later that afternoon, back in my office at Hudson Valley Community College, I had a terrible time trying to focus. I work in the community relations department, writing press releases and pitching story ideas to the Albany media, and as I waded through a release about the college’s engineering technology department, I couldn’t think of anything other than training camp. Each time I wrote a few words of the release, I’d think of another aspect of camp that frightened me.
I wanted to talk to Tim Farrell again, to pinch my cheek and make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Or having a nightmare. It was hard to believe that our meeting had actually taken place, that I was really going to be a Firebird again.
I wondered what I was thinking when I pitched the idea of playing the entire preseason for Albany. I suppose I didn’t think they’d say OK. I’m not a football player. I’d be lucky to make the cut as a water boy. And it isn’t hard to see myself winding up in the hospital.
I phoned Tim.
“Hi, Jeff,” he said. “Joe and I were just talking about you. We think you’re crazy. No offense, but you’re in the same kind of shape as us, and there’s no way we could make it through camp.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
“But at the same time, this is really exciting. Just think about it – you’re getting to do something nobody ever gets to do.”
“Yeah, because nobody else is crazy enough,” I said.
But crazy or not, Tim had a point. And as nervous as I was, I was also glad to be the football-playing writer who was going back behind the line of scrimmage.
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
