Free Slow Getting Up: A Story of NFL Survival from the Bottom of the Pile by Nate Jackson

as to receive more sunlight, or something. The Arizona Cardinals stadium has the same technology. There are twenty-five thousand fans or so and all of them wear whistles around their necks. They blow them all game, rendering the referee’s whistle mute and the concept of “play the whistle” dumb. Be flexible.
    I’m on the front line of the kickoff return team. The opening kickoff of our season soars through the air. I turn and run to my landmark, pivot, size up my block, and engage him. Rober Freeman, our kick returner, weaves through the wedge and runs past me with the ball in his hands on his way to the end zone. Touchdown! Touchdown! Twenty-five thousand whistles.
    After a touchdown by Cologne, we line up for our second kickoff return. This time Shockmain receives it and shoots past us all the way to the house. I leave my man and follow Shock to the end zone as twenty-five thousand Germans lose their shit, again. This is awesome! This is Germany.
    After that, the game settles down. At the start of the second half I am split wide to the right. Greg is in at quarterback. He gives me a look at the line of scrimmage. I run a fade route and he lofts it up: slightly underthrown, just how I like it. I slow up and leap at the last moment. The cornerback has me covered but my jump takes away his advantage. I lose the ball in the lights. I stick my hands out where I think it will come down. It lands in my basket and I squeeze it into my body. As my feet hit the ground the free safety pops me under the chin. But he doesn’t bring his lunch pail with him. I bounce off his hit and gather myself, then head up the sideline. The cornerback dives at me. I pirouette and shake him off, heading up the sideline again. The safety who missed me the first time catches me from behind and latches on to my waist. I drag him another ten yards before his buddy jumps on my back and drops me at the five-yard line. Ja! Ja! Ja! We score on the next play.
    It’s a tight game. On our first drive of the fourth quarter, I’m split wide right from deep near our own end zone. I run a five-yard hitch and wait for the ball. Chad Hutchinson is in at QB. He throws the ball over the middle but loses control of it and it dribbles off in front of him. No one knows if it is a fumble or an incomplete pass. And the whistle won’t tell us. I run toward the rolling ball and pull up when I realize the play is dead. But not everyone gets the memo. A defensive lineman flies in, overshoots the ball, and lands on my good knee. Pop. No more good knee.
    I fall to the ground and grab my leg. It’s such a loud pop in my head that I expect a bone to be sticking out. I pull down my sock.
    Nothing. Clean leg.
    I stand up and walk to the sideline. I tell my trainer something popped in my knee. I try jogging around to shake off whatever just bit me. Unshakable is the phantom of truth. It’s no good. I sit on the bench and seethe. We win the game by a point. Afterward I go to the hospital for an MRI. According to the German doctor who reads the MRI, my medial collateral ligament is torn.
    —Zat pop you heard vas your ligament tearing, right here.
    He points to the apparently abnormal image on his screen, string-cheese-splayed fibers.
    —Ze recovery depends on if your doctors decide you need surgery.
    —My doctors? You’re not my doctor?
    —Nein.
    —I have nine doctors?
    This will apparently fall to HealthSouth. I’ll wait until they confer. I go back to the Relexa Hotel and flop onto the bed. It seems that every time I get hurt it’s on a play that feels wrong from the start. The finger, the bursa sac in my knee, and now this one. All of them flukes. And my two shoulder dislocations in college were the same: stupid plays that never should have happened. Either I’m rehabbing here in Germany, watching my teammates play, or I’m getting back on a plane to Alabama. Neither appeals.
    I pick up the phone to call Alina back home. I need the reassuring voice of my woman to