Gameday: What it`s Really Like
Jeff Foley
Wednesday November 8, 2000
My roommate, wide receiver/linebacker Dale Koscielski, is in high spirits this morning; his hamstring seems healed so he’ll be in uniform tonight, and his mom and girlfriend are driving from Pennsylvania to watch him play. They’re due in town a couple hours before kickoff, and they’re heading back to our apartment to visit afterwards. Dale is all smiles as we walk into Siena’s cafeteria for breakfast.
“Are you ready?” he sings. “Are you ready? Are you ready for love?”
For all the gifts Dale possesses – athletic prowess, strength and size, artistic talent (he does quite a bit of drawing, mostly sketches of people and the mansion he hopes to someday build) – a good singing voice is not among them.
I ignore the off-key crooning and an easy wisecrack. “Are you excited because you’re going to see your girlfriend?”
“Yup,” Dale says. He pauses for a moment, grinning. “And because I finally get to lay my elbow up on somebody’s head.”
I’m glad it’s not me.
“Are you ready? Are you ready for love?”
***
Gameday is anything but glamorous.
After breakfast Dale and I go back to the apartment and play Madden ’99 on Playstation. This is pretty much like being on a real football field. I’ve never played the game before and Dale plays with rookie lineman Ricky Hall every day. Hall always uses his alma mater, Marshall, saying, “How often can you see yourself in a video game?” Madden ‘99 does not use player’s names, presumably due to lawsuit fears, but as Hall points out with a smirk, Marshall has a lineman with his jersey number and physical attributes.
Now, as I attempt to guide Georgia, Dale scores on the first play. Sean Tremblay (a veteran center better known as Tusk), who spent two seasons at Georgia before transferring to UConn, watches in disgust as Dale pushes Florida State’s kick returner to a ninety-yard touchdown, laughing as he scrambles away from my would-be tacklers. This trend continues for the entire first quarter, my thumbs helplessly flailing away at the controller, much like my legs and arms during practice. When the first quarter ends, it’s 21-0. Dale says Madden ’99 is not supposed to be as high scoring as the AFL. I’m just that uncoordinated.
I toss Tusk the controller and head off for a nap.
Soon, I hear him slam his bedroom door shut. I close my eyes and drift asleep, only to be woken by a thumping bass line. Dale is playing Christian rap in the living room. After several minutes of the music, which sounds like any other rap music, just with the words Jesus Christ and God inserted, I get up. I can’t sleep with the rhythm shaking the apartment’s fixtures. Dale can though. He’s snoring on the couch, covered by a blanket, his feet hanging over the edge.
I miss my wife, Tina, who’s at work right now. I can’t remember the last time I was this lonely or scared. Or bored. This isn’t like the hours leading up to last year’s preseason game against the Milwaukee Mustangs. I had no clue what was going on then. I simply hopped a flight with the team one day and suited up the next. This year I truly feel like I’m part of the Firebirds. I’ve been through two-a-days and team meetings. I’ve been tackled and bruised. I can run a few routes. I’ve caught evil glares from Coach Dailey for screwing up. Nobody calls me Reportman anymore. It’s Foley, Akmel, Ick or Jefe. And most importantly, my teammates, friends and family want to see me catch the ball. They want me to do more than just survive this time.
The pressure is overwhelming.
I drive to a used bookstore for solace, grabbing the first book that looks good – King Of The World by David Remnick, a biography on Muhammad Ali – and go back to the apartment. I’m too nervous to stay in one place for long. Fortunately Dale is awake again, reading the bible, and we decide to kill time by shooting pool at a local billiards hall. Another mistake. I get killed in pool too. I’m taking a beating well before the opening kickoff.
Next I drive to Latham Circle Mall for a haircut. It’s the first enjoyable thing I’ve done all day. I can’t help explaining why I need a trim – “I’ve got a game at the Pepsi Arena tonight that I have to look good for. I’m an offensive specialist for the Albany Firebirds.” – intentionally leaving out the part about my book. Talking like a real football player makes me feel good, tough, and the woman doing my hair is impressed. She gives me a fifty-percent discount. She also asks for my autograph, which she says her young son would love to have. I can’t sign an autograph under false pretenses though. That’s going too far. As I’m about to explain to her why I’m playing for Albany, that I’m not a professional athlete, that she doesn’t want my signature on a piece of paper, she tells me about her son.
“He’s small for his age and gets picked on a lot at school. But he loves sports. It’s so good to see that you don’t have to be really big to play. He’ll be happy to know that.”
I nod and keep my story to myself. “Just tell him that heart counts the most,” I say, handing over a good tip and sneaking out the door without signing anything. “Tell him he can do whatever he wants to as long as he believes in himself.”
***
The sight of the Pepsi Arena from turf level almost makes me vomit. I’ve watched plenty of games here, but this is the first time I’ve ever been on the field. Everything is so close together. The seats are right on top of the turf. And it feels like you could reach out and touch the walls on both sides at the same time. The playing surface leaves nowhere to hide. It’s as tight and compact as a mousetrap. Perhaps as deadly too.
It’s 4:30 p.m. I’m dressed in black and orange football pants, the same skintight design I wore in 1999. I’m also wearing black turf shoes and a gray Firebirds’ T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. My tattoos are showing.
“Today’s the big day, Foley,” says wide receiver/ linebacker Jake Hoffart, clapping me on the back as he jogs onto the field. “Today will go down in history.”
Yeah, it’ll be the first time an AFL player has ever puked on the turf three hours before kickoff.
I take a deep breath and try to control my knees, which are knocking. I look up into the stands and, keeping my wife in mind, wander to the middle of the field, searching for section 114, where my family and friends will be sitting tonight. I find their area to the right of an end zone and wonder what they’ll think if I get drilled during the game. Will Tina stay composed if they have to take me off on a stretcher? I’m sure that sounds morbid but when you’re five-foot-six and as tough as pureed potatoes it’s only natural to wonder about injury. Or worse.
Mark Valvo, a six-foot-five lineman known as Biggs, taps my bare arm. “You nervous, Foley?”
“Yup.”
“Me too. Nervous as a mother(freak)er. That’s good though. It means you’re ready.”
***
According to head coach Mike Dailey, nobody in Albany’s locker room is ready twenty minutes before the game. The coach is in the center of the room, demanding everyone’s attention. His face is red, sweat drips from his curly bangs onto his forehead. He’s wearing slacks, shoes and a Firebirds’ windjacket, all black. His right arm is extended, his index finger pointing, and he’s yelling. Coach Dailey says our effort during pregame warmups was lackadaisical, and that the Carolina Cobras – as he puts it, a ragtag collection of players picked up in the expansion draft – look more in synch than the defending world champions.
“When you put your (crap) on, you instantly become a different person,” he says. “It’s a whole different mindset from their football team and our football team. Their football team is brand new. They’re trying to make the team; they’re trying to get a little timing. We’re trying to repeat as champions. I don’t wanna see a (freak)ing guy out there tonight dogging it. You put your (crap) on, the lights come up, you better crank it up. Maximum effort, no stupid penalties, no stupid physical mistakes. Protect the ball, have ball security. You catch it, you tuck it. OK? Everybody’s got a chance to make a play, everybody’s gonna play. Let’s crank ourselves up and have some fun out there. Give me a team prayer.”
Twenty-eight Firebirds take a knee and clasp hands. In another locker room, the Cobras are likely doing the same thing. Eyes close, players lean forward and tuck their chins into their chests.
“Athletes, we know we’re blessed,” says Dale, explaining why religion plays a large role with professional football players. “Physically we’re not average. We know that at least in that area – and there’s other areas we’re blessed in, same as everybody else – we’re really thankful for the abilities that we have.”
What does prayer in the locker room do for a team?
“I can’t speak for everyone. I can only speak for actual Christians, but prayer is powerful. The prayer of the righteous man is powerful. It says in the bible, ‘Ask and you will be given.’ So when I kneel down, I ask for strength to play hard. I ask to be safe and healthy. I pray for everybody else to have the same. Just for everybody to be healthy and to use our abilities to work hard to glorify God. That’s the reason why we’re on this earth. I mean, you see a lot of people praying who will say, ‘God this, God that or whatever,’ but when times are tough it’s, ‘Oh God, oh God.’ They know He’s there.”
Do you ever pray for victory?
“No,” Dale says. “Winning is good and that’s the goal on the outside, but overall I’d rather lose a game than have my friend, my teammate or an opponent break leg. I’d rather not win a game than have somebody break a leg. My main prayer is for everybody to be safe so we can continue to do what we love, which is play football.”
Every man in the locker room recites the Lord’s prayer: “Our Father, who art in heaven … Amen.”
“Here we go,” Coach Dailey says when the praying is finished.
“Time to go, baby!” shouts fullback/linebacker Leroy Thompson, jumping up and down. “Time to go to work! Time to go to work!”
“Crank your asses up, men,” Coach Dailey says. “You separate yourself when you start getting paid. You’re a professional athlete. Go out there and act like one. Firebirds on three. One, two, three.”
“FIREBIRDS.”
Coach Dailey exits the room. Now the players are ready to go too, clapping and bouncing around like they’re about to burst out of their skin. Touchdown Eddie Brown steps to the center of the room, helmet in hand, eyes bulging out of sockets. The room quiets as he speaks.
“Those guys over there, those mother(freak)ers are excited,” Brown says, pointing toward the visitors’ locker room. His voice is deep and full of rhythm, like he’s working the crowd at a poetry slam or a Sunday service, wowing them with passion. “Them mother(freak)ers ain’t come here just to show up. If we just came to show up, (freak) that dumb (crap). Let’s get our minds right. We said it the first day of practice – ‘One (freak)ing game at a time. One game at a time.’ That (crap) starts tonight. Not next week, not next two weeks.”
Other than someone yelling out, “That’s right,” the entire team is silent.
Brown continues: “And it carries on ‘til we win the championship again. But it starts tonight with the right attitude, the right enthusiasm on how we gonna focus and how we gonna defend. Now I’m not talking about championships no more. We gonna defend what we did last year. I forgot what we did last year, but we gonna defend something. It’s gonna be our pride, it’s gonna be our uniforms, or something. So get your mother(freak)ing minds right. Let’s fly around and play Firebirds football. If you don’t wanna do that, pack your (crap) and get the (freak) out of here. Simple as that. Now if you’re with me, let’s get this (crap) rolling.”
The players each stick a hand in the middle of a human circle.
“Firebirds football, baby,” Brown says. “That’s all we know. Firebirds on three. One, two, three.”
Twenty-eight men say the team name together again, but it’s different then when Coach Dailey led the squad a moment ago. This time the name is yelled. It starts with Brown, who shouts out the countdown, and trickles down to every player. We all scream the nickname, sending a chill down my spine. The energy actually matches what I’ve seen in football movies. While Hollywood’s presentation of gridiron life is often over the top (at least compared to what I’ve experienced so far) this is like a scene out of Varsity Blues or Any Given Sunday. Players cheer and whack each other’s shoulder pads, banging facemasks together.
There are ten minutes left until the Firebirds are due on the field for pregame introductions. The attitude Coach Dailey said we lacked during warmups – which consisted of stretching, catching and tackling drills, and last-minute advice from the coaching staff – seems to have taken hold now.
Quarterback Mike Pawlawski, who has been a training camp holdout until today, is in the locker room, having flown in from California. He’s wearing khakis, a green sweater-vest and a championship ring, which he was given this afternoon. The quarterback still has to sign a contract with Albany, but during our warmup session, I overheard him tell a reporter that the deal is as good as done. All he has to do is pass a physical with the team physician, proving that he’s recovered from off-season neck surgery, and Pawlawski says that should be a no-brainer. His doctor already gave him the go-ahead to play football again.
While I’m happy to see Pawlawski, I wonder how Jeff Loots will handle him being in town. Pawlawski led the Firebirds to their ArenaBowl XIII victory last year and I’m sure that once he has a ball in his hands again, possibly as soon as tomorrow, he’ll be declared Albany’s starter. Loots, the designated starter through the first week of camp, will once again be relegated to a backup role.
It looks like they might be fighting already. Pawlawski has Loots shoved up against a wall, twisting his arm behind his back. Loots grimaces, a small moan escapes his lips.
“What the heck are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping him stretch his shoulder,” Pawlawski says, grinning. He’s clearly thrilled to be around his teammates again. Around football again. Even in street clothes he looks like he owns the locker room. He walked in like Jesse James swaggering into a bar, chin held high. “All this stupid quarterback (crap),” he says, loving every minute of it.
“Doesn’t it feel like we just left this joint last week?” lineman Kyle Moore Brown says.
“It’s like we played the ArenaBowl yesterday,” agrees defensive specialist Derek Stingley.
“I thought that was ten minutes ago,” Biggs says.
Stingley laughs. “No, this is halftime right here.”
Fullback/linebacker Anthony Jenkins is sitting next to me, gloved hands folded across his lap. His eyes are closed. The 250-pounder’s head is pressed up against the locker room’s white, orange and black wall. A highly spiritual person, Jenkins is a good friend of Dale’s. The two organize prayer meetings and talk religion every chance they get. And like me, Jenkins, a second-year player out of Maryland, is nervous right now. Earlier, he put his jersey on backwards and couldn’t figure out why it was uncomfortable. If Jenkins put any part of his gear on the wrong way on a practice day, Kyle and Biggs would be all over him. He’d hear about nothing else for two days. But gameday is different. Nerves and adrenaline are supposed to run high. So nobody teased Jenkins. They just pointed out his mistake and went about their business.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,” Jenkins sings. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”
“Hey, Foley, fix my (freak)ing straps,” fullback/linebacker Mike Waldron, a rugged man nicknamed Chains, says.
Chains turns his back so I can reach underneath his jersey and pull his shoulder pad straps to the front. I search for the straps, but between his muscles and the pads, it’s crowded underneath the jersey. I’m having a hard time.
“What the (freak) are you doing back there?” Chains says, turning to glare.
Finally, after getting physical in my search, I get my fingers on the straps and hand them over. Chains hooks himself up and drops to the floor. He’s in full gear, wearing a bright orange jersey bearing the number 45, black pants, gloves and sneakers, white tape on his wrists and right bicep, and a black helmet with the Firebirds logo. He cranks out pushups, breathing loud and fast. Across the room, fellow fullback/linebacker Tim Brown, also fully suited up, is doing inclines on a bench, lifting his 235 pounds plus uniform and gear up and down.
“Alright, it’s time,” says Coach Dailey, sticking his head in the locker room door. “Let’s go. Big men first.”
***
We’re crammed together in a hallway in the Pepsi Arena’s recesses, waiting to be introduced to the Albany fans for the first time in the 2000 season. The field is just feet away; you can see the greenness of the turf if you stick your head around the corner.
The Carolina Cobras are introduced first. Their defensive starters are called out of another hallway one by one (this is the routine in the AFL – the visiting team’s defensive starters are introduced, then the home team’s offensive starters get to hear their names), prompting the sparse crowd to boo.
Albany typically draws about 10,000 fans per regular season game, but there are less than 3,000 people in the stands today. Due to the off-season labor issues, and the ensuing work stoppage by team owners, Albany’s front office employees say they didn’t have time to properly promote the game. But the Firebirds don’t care about the size of the crowd. They just want to play football.
Dale is standing apart from the rest of the team, bouncing on his feet. His hands are raised in the air, fingers spread apart. His eyes are closed, head uplifted and he’s mouthing the word Jesus over and over, praising his savior. Jenkins head-butts anybody who stands still long enough. Defensive specialist Evan Hlavacek is running in place, getting his legs ready. I stand alone in a corner, wondering why I’m going through this again.
“I love you, Foley,” says Kyle, pulling me into a hug.
My facemask is lost in the lineman’s expansive midsection. He squeezes tight and pounds my shoulder pads. The affirmation of love is Kyle’s way of telling me he’s got my back in the heat of battle. Same as he did last year, he’s trying to make sure I’m OK.
Before I can respond, the announcer says: “Ladies and gentleman, please welcome your world champion Albany Firebirds!”
Suddenly, Albany’s defensive players and non-starting offensive players are ushered onto the field by an arena official. I follow Kyle to midfield, nearly falling on my face as I listen to the crowd cheer. The turf, or carpet as players call it, has bumps every so often, half-inch rises that are easy to trip over. The bumps exist because the turf is not a permanent fixture in any AFL arena. Since arenas often host hockey and basketball contests (as well as concerts and wrestling matches), the turf is laid on top of ice or concrete just before each game. It’s held in place with staples or Velcro and pulled back up afterwards. And since I’m watching the fans, the Pepsi Arena’s turf monster almost gets me twice over the course of a twenty-five-yard trot.
Our offensive starters then enter to dimmed lights, lasers and music. Van Halen blasts over the PA system as Loots is introduced. The crowd, which includes his girlfriend and her family, responds by calling out, “Lll-uuu-ttt-eee-sss,” dragging out his name for about fifteen seconds. Thompson blasts onto the turf next, dancing and shadowboxing until he’s mobbed by teammates. Even though my name is not announced, my friends and family make their presence known. I grin and wave as they cheer for me.
Once the introductions and national anthem are over, the game gets underway. Carolina stuns Albany by getting on the scoreboard first. Dexter Dawson hauls in a ten-yard touchdown pass from World Football League alumni Jim Arellanes at 10:47 in the first quarter, putting the expansion team ahead in the their first moments of competition. Much to the distress of Coach Dailey, Carolina hangs around for the entire first half, trailing the world champions by just ten points as the session expires.
There are a few Albany highlights in the half, which flies by. Nelson Garner boots a thirty-yard field goal. Rookie Angelo Harrison, starting at offensive specialist in place of the resting Touchdown Eddie Brown, who rarely plays much in preseason games, takes his motion into the backfield and accepts a handoff from Loots, scoring on a two-yard run. Loots scores from one yard out, and Hlavacek bursts downfield on kickoff coverage, diving on a loose ball in Carolina’s end zone and giving Albany a special teams touchdown.
“Man, that’s probably the only touchdown I’ll score all year,” Hlavacek says.
Unfortunately for the Firebirds, there are also some low points in the half. Rookie wide receiver/defensive back Lee Terry Moore loses his footing and gets beat for a forty-five-yard touchdown. Hall gets called for two penalties in a row. Even the vets lack focus, causing yellow hankies to fly.
“That was pathetic,” Coach Dailey yells.
There are only two sounds in the locker room: The coach’s booming voice and the short, raspy breathing of the players. Each player sits on a wooden bench, shoulder pad to shoulder pad. Joe Jacobs and Kyle lean forward, resting their massive arms on their legs. Their helmets sit at their feet. Touchdown Eddie Brown and Stingley recline on the bench. Van Johnson unties his shoes and rips off his socks, reaching into his storage area for a dry pair, as Coach Dailey launches into a tirade.
“It was horse(crap),” he says. “We made no effort at all. That team’s an expansion team. They don’t even belong on the same field as us. You’re making them look good. And I’ll tell you what. If this attitude keeps up, I’ve got ten new guys coming in Saturday. I’ll ship your asses home. I better see some mother(freak)ing effort out there in the second half.”
With that said, the coach storms out of the locker room like an angry father, followed by a wake of silence. Nearly everyone sits like Brown and Stingley now, leaning back and breathing hard, trying to forget the mistakes of the first half.
Five minutes pass in silence. The calm before another storm. Coach Dailey’s big body crashes through the locker room door again. His head looks like it’s about to pop off his shoulders. His cheeks are flushed and covered with sweat. Everyone sits up straight when he enters, his mouth moving before the door shuts.
“You call yourselves professional football players? Play your (freak)ing ass hard. Play what is called, and play smart. That football team shouldn’t be on the same field as you. Don’t allow that to ever happen. Don’t show people anything other than dominance.” Coach Dailey’s voice is hoarse, and yet his full-throttled scream becomes louder with each word. It’s almost like, after leaving the locker room the first time, he went and watched a tape of the first half, discovering that Albany’s effort was even worse than he initially believed. “Run their (freak)ing ass out of here like you should. Let’s go.”
 Tina Foley shows her support of her writer-player-husband. Image courtesy of Jim Franco |
“Be ready, Foley,” offensive coordinator Ed Hodgkiss says, walking past me. “You’re going in soon.”
My grin disappears like a ham sandwich in the locker room.
***
While my personal cheering section, organized by my wife and consisting of about twenty-five people screaming “Foley!” and waving signs, is thrilled that I’m in the game, it’s not where I want to be.
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, 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 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.
This play is new to me. During pregame warmups Hodgkiss told me I’d no longer be running a simple five-yard hitch route. Loots and I were tossing a football around when he approached. I was trying to act normal and fit in with the rest of the players, working to convince myself I belonged.
“I want you to start seven yards behind the line of scrimmage,” the offensive coordinator 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. 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. The “Rudy!” chant dies down as I approach the line of scrimmage.
Just focus and get the job done. Do you know how many people are living vicariously through you right now? And your teammates and coaches are counting on you. Get open. Catch the ball. Suck it up, Foley.
 Jeff Foley`s preseason action is vivedly captured on this Albany Firebirds football card Image courtesy of CustomSportsCards.com |
The football is already flying high above the turf, going to the other side of the field. All three Albany receivers are covered and Loots throws the ball into the stands, sending somebody home with a souvenir. The defensive back disengages and I hit the turf with a bang. My left knee screams in pain. My ribs hurt so much that I lose my breath.
But the physical pain dims in comparison to the blow my ego takes when I look up. A yellow flag is lying on the turf, right where I crossed the line of scrimmage. A penalty marker. Judging by its position on the field, it’s got to do with me. I want to ask a referee what I did wrong, but I have to get off the turf in a hurry. AFL teams have only twenty-five seconds to run each play and there’s another Albany receiver coming into the game to take my place.
“Offsides on the offense, number 80,” the referee calls out as I leave the field.
“Rudy! Rudy! Rudy!” cries the crowd again.
That’s me. I’m Rudy. Number 80. Garner is wearing my number from last year so I got stuck with a new number. I hang my head as I join my teammates on the bench. Biggs pats me on the helmet and tells me not to worry. I’m more confused than worried though, not exactly sure what I did wrong.
“You were offsides,” says Biggs, echoing the ref. “You crossed the line of scrimmage before Loots snapped the ball. You’ve got to watch the quarterback.”
“Oh.”
“It’s OK,” Biggs says. “It’s just one play.”
None of the coaching staff glances at me. They’re too busy getting ready for the next play. The Cobras accept the penalty, making it second and thirteen from inside the Albany five-yard line. I find a spot on the wall, overlooking the field, and set my helmet down. Pawlawski is on my immediate right. I unhook the Velcro on my gloves, certain that’ll be it for me today. Pawlawski, who’s been shouting advice to Loots throughout the game, takes a moment to console me. It happens to the best, he says.
But I feel like the whole focus of Coach Dailey’s anger at halftime was stupid mistakes, unnecessary penalties. And I wonder how many gassers I’ll have to run at the next practice.
***
The Firebirds get past my mistake. Loots ends the drive that began with my offsides penalty by hitting Brown with a thirteen-yard scoring strike. After Garner drills the extra point, Albany leads 37-20. Raymond Philyaw then relieves Loots and hooks up with Greg Hopkins on a forty-yard touchdown pass. Albany’s defense also picks up the pace. At the end of the third quarter, the Firebirds lead by twenty-four points.
“Are you going back in?” Loots asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say, knowing the decision belongs to Coach Dailey. “I hope not.”
“I wanted to get you the ball,” Loots says. “But I saw that defensive back creeping up on you and there was no way I could throw it to you. That was bull(crap) that they were in a man-to-man defense there. Nine out of ten times they’d be playing a zone and I could get the ball to you no problem. But that’s OK. If Raymond doesn’t hit you in the fourth quarter, we’ll get you in Milwaukee next week. You’re definitely going to get a reception.”
I sigh. I don’t care about catching the ball right now. “I can’t believe I got called for a penalty. How embarrassing is that? One play and I screw it up. That’s horse(crap).”
“No, no, that wasn’t you,” says Loots, talking fast. His hands move as he speaks. “That was my mistake. My timing was off. I didn’t call for the snap in time.”
I don’t quite believe that, but I appreciate Loots’ effort to deflect my pain.
In the fourth quarter, Jenkins bulldozes his way to a two-yard touchdown run. Rookie Damien Morris flashes his speed on a thirty-one-yard touchdown reception, tossed by Philyaw. And Carl Sacco caps off the scoring with 1:33 left in the game, picking off an Arellanes pass and rumbling forty-five yards for a touchdown. His leg speed dies near the end, and he stumbles into the end zone with several Cobras in hot pursuit. They barely miss hauling him down as he dives with the ball outstretched over the goal line.
“I was running out of gas,” Sacco says, laughing. “I thought they were going to get me.”
A ref also provides an entertaining moment in the fourth quarter. Instead of assessing a penalty to Carolina when one of their coaches wanders too far during a play, almost walking into the action, he tells the crowd that the penalty is on a “Charlotte coach.” The crowd and Albany players are in hysterics as he says, “Um, excuse me, Carolina.” Not only are the Cobras getting blown out in the second half, they’re getting no respect.
***
“Foley! Foley! Foley!”
My fan club takes up their cheer again with about one minute left in the game. We’re leading, 65-27 – Carolina has scored just seven points in the second half – and my friends and family are imploring Coach Dailey to send me in for another play. I ignore them and hope the coach does the same. Hearing my name called out in the Pepsi Arena is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had, but I wish they’d stop. I don’t want to go back in. The game is too fast and frightening right now. I’m comfortable on the bench.
“Are those your people, Foley?” Philyaw asks, nudging me in the shoulder and looking up toward section 114.
“Yup.”
“That’s cool,” Philyaw says, grinning. “Sounds like they want to see you play some more.”
“I wish they’d shut up.”
I keep my head low and avoid eye contact with Coach Dailey. When the horn sounds and the game ends without me having to play again, I breathe a sigh of relief. We win, 65-27, behind Loots and Philyaw. Loots throws for 179 yards and two touchdowns, and runs for another score. Philyaw contributes 119 yards and two touchdown passes. Neither throws an interception.
“Ladies and gentleman, stick around and meet your Albany Firebirds,” says the announcer. “The players will be signing autographs down on the field.”
I step onto the turf as the Albany and Carolina players converge, shaking hands and hugging. Several Carolina players approach and wrap me in a hug, telling me I played a good game. Apparently this part of the game is like a Mary Kay meeting, full of good feelings. As long as you belong to the club – in this case, your membership in the football fraternity is proven by the uniform – you’re told you did a good job.
“Make sure you sign autographs with the rest of the guys,” says assistant coach Paul Booth.
I nod and jog toward section 114, where my friends and family are at the edge of the field, yelling out my name. My head is hung low as I walk. The penalty weighs heavy on my mind.
“What’s wrong with you?” Biggs says as I slouch past him. “Are you still bothered by that offsides call? Big deal, man. You gotta be tougher than that. We need players who can forget about their mistakes – everybody’s gonna make them – and go out and run the next play. You’ve gotta have a short memory in this game, Akmel. Get over it, man.”
Seeing Tina helps. Her smile is huge. I give her a hug and kiss, sign a few autographs for friends, more in jest than anything else, and tell them I’ll meet them at the postgame party as soon as I change. As I walk toward the locker room, somebody on the opposite side of the field shouts my last name. Figuring it’s somebody I know, I go over to where Jenkins is signing autographs for a group of children.
“Well, well, Foley,” he says, reaching out with a hug.
I look for the person who called out my name. To my surprise, he’s an older man, maybe forty, whom I’ve never seen. He’s holding a disposable camera.
“Mind if I take your picture, Jeff?”
Why would anyone want a photograph of me? I mean, I’m barely a player. But I oblige and pose with my helmet at my side. The man snaps his picture, blinding me with the flash, and says thanks.
“I’m John,” he adds. “From ArenaFan.”
 Jeff Foley poses for a picture he thought he might not ever see. Image courtesy of John Ferlazzo |
“Hey, Foley, wait a minute! Can you sign this?”
I turn around again. A father is holding his little girl up to the boards. She’s clutching a piece of paper that’s covered with autographs. They want me to add my name to a list that includes Touchdown Eddie Brown and Derek Stingley. Now I feel like a football player.
I borrow a black marker from Jenkins and scribble my name. Since I’m in uniform, I don’t mind signing autographs. It doesn’t feel misleading, like it would have with the hairdresser. My signature is barely legible, but neither the girl nor her father seems to care. As I sign, a line of four more kids forms. I feel like a superstar, moving down the line, scribbling my last name and the number 80 on each piece of paper. The kids smile and the parents beam. When I get to the fourth kid in line though, a little girl, she looks away. I reach for her paper but she clutches it tight.
“Don’t you want him to sign it?” says her mother.
The girl, seven or eight years old, shakes her head no and pulls the paper even closer to herself.
That hurts. I hang my head again and run straight to the locker room.
***
The locker room is loud and filled with naked, sweaty men. Jacobs doesn’t have a single piece of clothing on as he chews on a slice of pizza. There’s pizza, subs and soda in the center of the room. I grab a cup of soda as Coach Dailey enters.
“Anybody who’s ever played in this league before knows that’s not what we’re gonna face week in and week out,” he says. He looks much calmer than he did at halftime. “We needed to go against some live competition and it was good. I think some guys really played well and helped themselves. Alright? At two o’clock tomorrow we’re gonna watch the film. Let’s learn from our mistakes to get better. Let’s get a little more disciplined. Any questions?”
No questions.
“Let’s take a knee and get a prayer. Here we go. Thank you Lord for letting us be victorious. And help all the injured, particularly Terry.” Rookie wide receiver/defensive back Terry Guess twisted his knee during his one and only play, getting his foot stuck in the turf as he made a catch and was tackled. He needed help leaving the field, grimacing in pain as he limped off. “Let us exercise good judgement tonight. Help us Lord to continue to get better at what we do. Thank you Lord for everything you give us in Jesus’ name.”
“AMEN.”
“Good job, men. Make sure you use good judgement tonight,” says Coach Dailey with a laugh as the players break from the prayer huddle. “That means stay away from Eddie Brown.”
I change quickly, putting on jeans, a Firebirds T-shirt (in case I run into anybody other than my family and friends, so they’ll know I play for Albany) and sneakers. I then hurry toward the door, anxious to see Tina.
“What are you doing, Foley?” Pawlawski calls out. He’s in the locker room, eating.
“What do you mean?”
Pawlawski grins. “Aren’t you going to shower? Or are you scared?”
“I only played one down,” I say, sounding defensive. “I don’t need a shower.”
The fact is, I haven’t showered in the locker room once during training camp. And I have no plans to now. It’s not like I’m not the only player who showers at the apartments or back home. I’m just the one Pawlawski caught.
“Yeah, but you went through pregame warmups and worked up a sweat just like everybody else.” Pawlawski turns to the other players in the locker room, who are laughing, happy to have one of the team’s biggest troublemakers back. “I think somebody’s afraid of the shower, guys.”
I move closer to the door, weary of being dragged into the shower. I’ll bolt if I have to.
“Whatever,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Foley,” Pawlawski says. “We all know you’re Irish. We understand that you have a small penis. Nobody cares.”
I walk out the door. That’s enough of the football world for one day.
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
