Get in the Game: Part 1
Jeff Foley
Monday October 2, 2000
I’m the smallest player at the Pepsi Arena. Although the official game sheet lists me at five-foot-eight (the tallest I’ve ever been), Tina would later say she spotted me right away when Albany came out for pregame introductions. My wife is in the second tier, the cheap seats, where typically every player looks the same size, but my stature (or lack of) gives me away.
It’s the second play of the third quarter. In this, their debut game, the expansion Carolina Cobras trail the Albany Firebirds, 30-20.
Looking out of Albany’s huddle at the Cobras’ red-and-white-clad defensive unit, my heart races. Suddenly I long to be just a writer again. I’d gladly pay for tickets and sit with the rest of the fans.
“Strong Right, 30 Hitch, S-Go, Wing-Yo. On one.”
Those words come out of quarterback Jeff Loots in rapid-fire fashion. Now that it’s gametime the quarterback’s Midwestern drawl is nonexistent. He spits out the play and looks at me, nodding toward the left side of the field, telling me where to go. The eight men in the huddle clap once before Loots trots off to line up behind the center.
 Jeff Foley lines up and waits for the snap Image courtesy of Jim Franco |
“I want you to start seven yards behind the line of scrimmage,” Hodgkiss said. “You’re going to be the motion guy. When the quarterback says ‘Go,’ take one step back and then run a seven-yard hitch. I don’t think Carolina will press you if you’re in motion. But at the end of the route, make sure you angle toward the boards. Don’t go toward the middle of the field; the linebacker will be waiting and the quarterback won’t be able to get the ball to you. Drift outside and come back. We’ll get you in on the first offensive series of the second half.”
The play, which sounds easy enough – it’s just a hitch route with motion thrown in – is designed to keep Carolina’s defensive backs from jamming me at the line of scrimmage. We worked on it for five minutes during the warmup session though, and I couldn’t get it right. A serious case of nerves, made worse by rap music blaring over the PA system and strangers pressed up against the boards, took away any hand-to-eye coordination. Forgetting to drift outside, I dropped every pass Loots threw. Within minutes my gloves were soaked with sweat and my hands throbbed from the football smashing into them.
“Just relax,” my teammates said. “You know you can catch the ball.”
The football is on the Albany five-yard line, where we returned the second half’s opening kickoff to. I line up two yards deep in our end zone, standing a body-length from the wall. A Carolina defensive back is five yards past the line of scrimmage, twelve yards away from me, glaring at my chest.
To my left, the crowd watches my every move. Some people lean over the boards and pound on them with clenched fists, urging Albany on. My cheering section, on the opposite side of the arena, sings out my name again and again. A group of about fifty fans sitting no more than ten feet away from me, close enough that I can see what they’ve put on their hot dogs, also takes up a cheer.
“Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!” they chant, referring to the 1993 movie in which an undersized blue-collar kid overcomes the odds and makes Notre Dame’s football team.
As the fans pump their fists and point, I wonder if the nickname is sarcastic or supportive. Since we’re in Albany and I’m wearing a Firebirds’ uniform, I choose to believe they want to see the most diminutive Firebird succeed. Most of the crowd at the Pepsi Arena is not aware of my offensive specialist/writer status – no announcement was made to enlighten them – and I’m not sure the Cobras know who I am either. They’ve been informed a writer is playing, but the game moves so fast, the clock hardly ever stops, and it’s possible that I’ve slipped into the huddle unnoticed, just another player.
The defensive back covering me clenches and unclenches his fists.
“Watch the hitch, watch the hitch,” screams a Carolina coach, standing five feet behind me.
The defensive back nods and slides up a few yards. This is not good. There’s no way I’m a random player now; I’m a player who’s running the exact route the defense is expecting. I glance at Loots, who’s looking at my side of the field, watching the defensive back approach. It’ll be almost impossible for the quarterback to throw the ball to me now. And if he does, the defender will drill me.
“Go,” Loots says.
I’m the only offensive player allowed to move. I turn my hip, taking a step back, and then run forward as fast as I can. The linemen wait for me to cross the line of scrimmage, ready to engage in hand-to-hand combat. The defensive back stops clenching and unclenching his hands. His fingers stay extended. He looks like a statue, like a gargoyle – not moving, not breathing.
“Watch the hitch!” screams the coach.
“Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!” chants the crowd.
I keep moving forward.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
