Just a Dream
It's my freshman year at Cal all over again. This time, I decide to try out for the Cal football team. I'm easily outclassed by the scholarship players, but the running backs coach thinks he sees something in me. He takes a gamble and gives me the nod. Beyond belief, I earn a spot as a running back, as the backup's backup. I put 110% into each day's practice, working on my moves, hungry for the ball. The regular season finally arrives and Cal has a landmark year - its first winning season in six years.
I see no action that year.
During the off-season, I hit the gym hard. My lack of strength kept me from taking the field my first year and I'm determined to bulk up. I'm eating the usual suspects: raw eggs, cheeseburgers, and steak along with the junk: donettes, Cheetos, and Twinkies. In the process, I become bigger and faster, and if not completely ready, at least look the part.
Before I know it - it's time for my sophomore campaign. I'm still the backup's backup, but I bring an intensity and a razor-sharp focus that was missing my first year. Early on, I see some game time in the fourth quarters, but I don't fare so well. In fact, I'm really shitty: Averaging just 2 yards a carry - I'm the poster-child of mediocrity. I'm sidelined quickly and watch most of the season from the bench. But before I can throw in the towel and call it a career, the unexpected happens - with just a few games left in the season, our starting back has a season-ending injury before the big game against arch-rival USC.
We don't win, but I have a breakout game - 140 yards on 19 carries, including my first touchdown. I start the season's remaining games and am credited with saving the season, including running for 126 yards in a HUGE win against Vince Young and Texas in the Holiday Bowl.
The next few years are a blur - I lead Cal to two more winning seasons and two more bowl victories. In my senior year bowl game against Michigan, I am voted as the game's MVP. I "thank God and everyone for believing in me." The pundits love my gameday performance but doubt my ability to play at the next level, pointing to my lack of size. The NFL seemed to agree - when it seems that I won't be drafted at all, I am saved by the Oakland Raiders in the very last round of the NFL Draft.
My first year with the Raiders mimics my first year at Cal - lots of sitting. Lots of watching. Lots of "...I'm just excited to be here" and "...when it's my time, I'll be ready to play." Our starting back is a monster, evading would-be tacklers with ease and finding the end zone more times than our opponents would like. The Raiders make it to the play-offs, but are eliminated before making it to the Big One. During the off-season, two bombshells - the 2nd string back is traded to the Minnesota Vikings while our starter injures himself a week before the season starts. Suddenly, our status as Super Bowl contenders are thrown into doubt. It becomes clear to me very quickly who would have to rise to meet the challenge. Cameras and microphones are pointed in my direction, and I give the standard-issue answer: "I know the expectations are high, but it's my time to step up and play on Sunday. I'm sure you all have a lot of questions, but I hope to answer that on the field. Thank you all for coming."
I have a tremendous season. While less physical then my predecessor, I'm terrifyingly agile and a beast on the open field, dancing around tacklers like a ballerina boy. My face finds the front page of the Sports sections across the country (and a Wheaties box to boot). The Raiders go 11-2 in the regular season and face a dominant Green Bay team for the Super Bowl. Analysts talk about me and use words like "explosive", "compact", and "Asian". I talk about bleeding black and silver and about how BADLY I want to bring a "W" back to Oakland. And before you know it, John Madden announces the starting line-ups and both teams are out of the gates.
It's an ugly first half. Our QB fumbles the ball twice and throws a pick early in the game. I find the end zone once, but Brett Favre, of Packers fame, manages to find it twice. Our passing game is impotent; during half-time, adjustments are made to ensure I'm handling the ball. I continue to outwit and outrun the defense, making huge gains on the field and opening up nice passing lanes. The momentum is shifting. Fans in silver and black are stomping in the bleachers and calling for blood. I want the win so bad, I start making stupid decisions. Tragedy strikes late in the third quarter - the Packers defense reads our running play and lays me out cold. I hear my own bones crunch and crack before I black-out. I'm carted off the field...the Packers win the Super Bowl, 27-13. The doctors tell me that I'll walk again but that my professional career is over.
"And that's how my day dream ends."
Karin stares at me in disbelief. "What the hell kind of day dream is THAT?!" I ask her what she means.
"Well, you know, most people dream of success. They want to be famous celebrities or sports stars or millionaires...in your fantasies, you're supposed to win!"
My eyes searched for an answer. "Uhhh...I don't know. I guess this fantasy had to be real to me. It couldn't be me, you know, starting every game and winning the Super Bowl - dreams aren't fun that way."
Karin furrowed her eyes into a distinct "V". "Well, what I think is...I think that says a lot about you. How you think and how you dream. I think it's a defense mechanism - you acknowledge failure early on to protect yourself. Do you think that could be it?"
"Meh," I responded, unhappy with the psychoanalysis that I brought upon myself. I don't remember the rest of the conversation, but the gist of it stayed with me. I've thought about it, and come to some conclusions about myself.
I romanticized a life as an unlikely football player and punctuated it (or ruined it) with a tragic ending. It's not a defense mechanism - it's me in love with a beautiful struggle. Throughout the dream, I strive to be very unassuming and humble, a blue-collar player that is "just happy to be here." I see this lil' dream of mine to be a beautiful thing of my imagination, despite the broken neckbone or whatever career-ending injury I dreamt up at the moment. I think it's true that dreams speak volumes about a person. That being said, I'll have to make sure next time that I walk around with a fat ring on my finger that reads "SUPER BOWL" in big, block letters. That'll show those psychoanalysts, now wouldn't it?
------------------------------------
Question: Is it fair to call it a dream if you're awake?
I see no action that year.
During the off-season, I hit the gym hard. My lack of strength kept me from taking the field my first year and I'm determined to bulk up. I'm eating the usual suspects: raw eggs, cheeseburgers, and steak along with the junk: donettes, Cheetos, and Twinkies. In the process, I become bigger and faster, and if not completely ready, at least look the part.
Before I know it - it's time for my sophomore campaign. I'm still the backup's backup, but I bring an intensity and a razor-sharp focus that was missing my first year. Early on, I see some game time in the fourth quarters, but I don't fare so well. In fact, I'm really shitty: Averaging just 2 yards a carry - I'm the poster-child of mediocrity. I'm sidelined quickly and watch most of the season from the bench. But before I can throw in the towel and call it a career, the unexpected happens - with just a few games left in the season, our starting back has a season-ending injury before the big game against arch-rival USC.
We don't win, but I have a breakout game - 140 yards on 19 carries, including my first touchdown. I start the season's remaining games and am credited with saving the season, including running for 126 yards in a HUGE win against Vince Young and Texas in the Holiday Bowl.
The next few years are a blur - I lead Cal to two more winning seasons and two more bowl victories. In my senior year bowl game against Michigan, I am voted as the game's MVP. I "thank God and everyone for believing in me." The pundits love my gameday performance but doubt my ability to play at the next level, pointing to my lack of size. The NFL seemed to agree - when it seems that I won't be drafted at all, I am saved by the Oakland Raiders in the very last round of the NFL Draft.
My first year with the Raiders mimics my first year at Cal - lots of sitting. Lots of watching. Lots of "...I'm just excited to be here" and "...when it's my time, I'll be ready to play." Our starting back is a monster, evading would-be tacklers with ease and finding the end zone more times than our opponents would like. The Raiders make it to the play-offs, but are eliminated before making it to the Big One. During the off-season, two bombshells - the 2nd string back is traded to the Minnesota Vikings while our starter injures himself a week before the season starts. Suddenly, our status as Super Bowl contenders are thrown into doubt. It becomes clear to me very quickly who would have to rise to meet the challenge. Cameras and microphones are pointed in my direction, and I give the standard-issue answer: "I know the expectations are high, but it's my time to step up and play on Sunday. I'm sure you all have a lot of questions, but I hope to answer that on the field. Thank you all for coming."
I have a tremendous season. While less physical then my predecessor, I'm terrifyingly agile and a beast on the open field, dancing around tacklers like a ballerina boy. My face finds the front page of the Sports sections across the country (and a Wheaties box to boot). The Raiders go 11-2 in the regular season and face a dominant Green Bay team for the Super Bowl. Analysts talk about me and use words like "explosive", "compact", and "Asian". I talk about bleeding black and silver and about how BADLY I want to bring a "W" back to Oakland. And before you know it, John Madden announces the starting line-ups and both teams are out of the gates.
It's an ugly first half. Our QB fumbles the ball twice and throws a pick early in the game. I find the end zone once, but Brett Favre, of Packers fame, manages to find it twice. Our passing game is impotent; during half-time, adjustments are made to ensure I'm handling the ball. I continue to outwit and outrun the defense, making huge gains on the field and opening up nice passing lanes. The momentum is shifting. Fans in silver and black are stomping in the bleachers and calling for blood. I want the win so bad, I start making stupid decisions. Tragedy strikes late in the third quarter - the Packers defense reads our running play and lays me out cold. I hear my own bones crunch and crack before I black-out. I'm carted off the field...the Packers win the Super Bowl, 27-13. The doctors tell me that I'll walk again but that my professional career is over.
"And that's how my day dream ends."
Karin stares at me in disbelief. "What the hell kind of day dream is THAT?!" I ask her what she means.
"Well, you know, most people dream of success. They want to be famous celebrities or sports stars or millionaires...in your fantasies, you're supposed to win!"
My eyes searched for an answer. "Uhhh...I don't know. I guess this fantasy had to be real to me. It couldn't be me, you know, starting every game and winning the Super Bowl - dreams aren't fun that way."
Karin furrowed her eyes into a distinct "V". "Well, what I think is...I think that says a lot about you. How you think and how you dream. I think it's a defense mechanism - you acknowledge failure early on to protect yourself. Do you think that could be it?"
"Meh," I responded, unhappy with the psychoanalysis that I brought upon myself. I don't remember the rest of the conversation, but the gist of it stayed with me. I've thought about it, and come to some conclusions about myself.
I romanticized a life as an unlikely football player and punctuated it (or ruined it) with a tragic ending. It's not a defense mechanism - it's me in love with a beautiful struggle. Throughout the dream, I strive to be very unassuming and humble, a blue-collar player that is "just happy to be here." I see this lil' dream of mine to be a beautiful thing of my imagination, despite the broken neckbone or whatever career-ending injury I dreamt up at the moment. I think it's true that dreams speak volumes about a person. That being said, I'll have to make sure next time that I walk around with a fat ring on my finger that reads "SUPER BOWL" in big, block letters. That'll show those psychoanalysts, now wouldn't it?
------------------------------------
Question: Is it fair to call it a dream if you're awake?
posted by Nathan at 10:30 PM
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