A ceiling of steel-colored clouds greeted me on the morning of my transcendence. This was to be no ordinary day. The challenge I had imposed upon myself finally arrived. And for the first time since adopting the mad notion of becoming a professional player in the Arena Football League — at age 35 no less (49 today) — I was nervous.
Fifteen years ago The Manchester Wolves, the Queen City’s very own AFL2 team, held tryouts for “perspective players” at The Rising Stars Sports Center in Bedford. I was one of 40 candidates showing off for the coaches and current players. Former high school and college stars worked out alongside aging hacks, running drills and catching passes.
It’s been 17 years since I strapped on a set of football pads; and that was for only one down during my senior year of high school. That night, I was watching the last game of the season from the sidelines, as I always did. We were crushing our opponent when my coach pointed me into the game for some fourth-quarter scrap time. I was elated. I never meant to play high school football. I did it on a dare. But there I was, running onto the field, struggling to hold up my girdle.
The moment died quickly when I committed a personal foul by jacking a player in the back. I was yanked from the game, and adding to the shame, the coaches didn’t even bother to chew me out.
For those past 17 years I’d lean on that bothersome image whenever a challenge was pressed upon me. Never again, I told myself, would I squander away a good dare.
I was at Gold’s Gym on Canal Street (now FitLab) when I set my mind to try out for the Wolves, who won their division and finished at 12-4 the year before losing in the first round of the playoffs. I was getting a splash at the bubbler when I saw a posting that read: “Open Tryouts: Manchester Wolves.” Not knowing why the flyer held my interest (I don’t even watch football) I decided I would do it. Maybe I saw redemption within the signage. Or was I just bored of raking leaves on Saturdays?
I went home and emailed head coach of the Wolves, Ben Bennett, a true gentleman with swagger and juice.
Dear Coach,
I was a stylish, hard-hitting (untrue) cornerback who was willing to bite through his tongue to finish a play (again, untrue). I’m interested in trying out for the Wolves.
Yrs,
RA
PS: I’m also 35. Bye.
The coach wrote back.
Call over to the office. And remember, there is no age limit on talent!
Coach Bennett
Now I was hooked.
The week leading up to the tryouts was a struggle. My body was rejecting my ambitions. My mouth was lined with canker sores (anxiousness wrecks havoc on my system) and I developed a pinched nerve in my neck. My body, now 60 pounds heavier than when I last played football, looked stuffed with cheese. Still, I did my running (one-mile a day) and cable work.
I needed some encouragement, though. I decided to call former quarterback of the New England Patriots, Steve Grogan, someone I had interviewed in the past and gravitated too. Grogan told me to “just let your natural instincts occur.” He also informed me that I would be starting at the bottom of the order.
I then phoned my old coach, Tim Morris, from Melrose High School in Massachusetts. As I suspected, he didn’t remember me. “I can’t recall your name. I’m sorry,” said Morris, laughing. “But you’ll have to work yourself into a near frenzy in order to compete with the younger guys.”
I arrived at Rising Star Sports Center about nine. Once again, I drank too much coffee. My stomach was kicking in. Mentally, I was back in high school, walking around a small food pavilion, pretending like I knew something. For a brief moment I considered driving home and climbing back into bed.
There were twenty-odd prospects from as far away as New York milling around, filling out paperwork. Everyone paid their $50 admission fee and was given a WOLVES CAMP T-shirt. I didn’t see any monsters in the lobby, but the lot of men was clearly divided. There were large, athletic-looking guys and a handful of obvious speedsters, young tikes dressed in stretch gear. Some of the gents looked much like me: puffy.
Then I was on the artificial turf, stretching out. I was listening for the braggarts, the guys I remember from the locker rooms in high school. My memories of playing organized football are half-assed and listless. I didn’t take much stock in the experience. But apparently the soapbox had been put away, because every guy at tryouts seemed serious, kind, respectful and eager to please the coaches in nylon.
“How do you feel about today?” I asked John Ross, a strapping 23-year-old father of two from Belmont, NH.
“I’m scared (expletive).” Ross said. Ross hasn’t done much playing since his first child was born when he was only 15 years old. “ I been mostly working,” he said. But Ross, who played some in high school, was still holding onto, yes, his dream.
“I’m too small for anything besides quarterback,” Ross said. “I’ve been throwing the ball some in my backyard.”
“Okay, guys! Gather around!” the coach shouted. I hadn’t responded to that expression in years. As I jogged toward the pile, the transcendence took shape. Once again, I was part of a team, challenging myself. It felt tremendous shouldering up with this crew of strangers.
Our first workout would be the shuttle, a side-to-side drill that checks for speed, or flab. Number 23 was called and off I went. I crouched down, waited for the go-signal and immediately felt my thighs crack wide open. My speed was 5.1, and that is nearly dreadful. Most of the guys were doing just under five. Still, I was breathing harder and living larger than I had in months.
Off we went to the center of the complex. We’d be doing 40-yard dashes now. I did a practice forty for my friends outside the Derryfield Country Club a few nights prior to the tryouts. They mocked me with a considered amount of vigor when I stopped half-way through.
Again my number was called when I shot the line too early. “Get back up there 23 and wait for the call!” Coach Bennett shouted from the finish line. I felt like I was watching myself from the stands as I plodded past the 20-yard line, lumbering to the forty.
“5.5!” exclaimed one of the coaches. Pathetic.
I did the forty for a second time and killed three-tenths of a second off my time. I was heading into the passing drills with confidence. I hoped we’d be using Nerf balls.
We lined up to take passes from an impressive line of quarterbacks, two of which were southpaws. These guys were some of the biggest blokes on the field. Warming up, I saw them snapping passes with accuracy and zip.
Coach Bennett was now listing the six pass drills we’d be doing: the Hitch, Slant, Go, Post … and a couple more. About then my A.D.D kicked in and I was somewhere in Boulder, Colorado, begging for a ride home.
Lining up for my first pass, I remembered how to do a hitch: quickly turn inside after 10 yards and pray the ball isn’t already up your nose. The QB snapped the ball. I ran a clean pattern and actually caught a tight pass. Not bad, I thought. We did these drills over and over for about an hour. I was feeling good, making friends, waving to my fans.
Then my age started costing me. My body, at 35, seems to run on chains. I have zero fluidity, and two hours into the workout I was about out of gas. I was doing a post pattern, where I basically ran to the center of the field — about 30 yards out — and tried to catch a pass. The coaches had implemented a defender into the scheme. I was midway into the pattern when I tripped over the defender’s feet and landed hard on my chest. I thought I tore both my nipples off.
Refusing to rub the pain out, I walked slowly back into line. I was done. Out of breath, dejected and in a fair amount of pain, I started looking for a watch.
When the final whistle blew, Coach Bennett gathered us around and spoke highly of the tryouts. He encouraged everyone to stay fit, do your drills and keep striving for that dream. “Keep working for that contract!” he said. The man can lead.
The coach handed out two ready-to-be-signed contracts. One went to a big slab of a cat named Brian Gordon, 22, from New London, CT. who played for Assumption College. Gordon has been all around the country trying out for American and Canadian teams. He’ll play both ways as a fullback and defensive back for the Wolves this season. “Slowly my skills are coming around,” Gordon told me later.
The other contract when to quarterback Mike Abate, 27, who played for Southern Connecticut. Abate was one of the players that you knew was legit. He’s big, about 6-foot-4, and he has a sling for an arm. He’s tried out at 10 other camps until finally being signed by the Wolves. “It feels really good to finally make it, “ he said.
As the castaways gathered their belonging, many of them looked content with not making the team. Others were poorly hiding their disappointment.
“I’ll probably come back in February for the final tryout,” said 26-year old Ryan Herlin from South Attleboro “It’s the dream: to play and get paid for it.”
I understood my own fate. I wouldn’t be hearing back from Coach Bennett and I would never see John Ross again. But as I emerged from my awakening, I decided, maybe instead of playing for the Wolves this season, I’ll just go down to the Wild Rover and put a good snap on.
Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com. His new book “Notes From The Last Breath Farm” is available at The Bookery and Amazon.
