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purpose. In my position group alone are Rod Smith and Ed McCaffrey: two Pro Bowl receivers nearing the end of their careers. The Niners had veteran guys, too. Terrell Owens was an All-Pro and surefire Hall of Famer. But I hardly heard a peep out of him while I was there. Rod’s vocal. He is thirty-three years old, six feet tall, and two hundred pounds. He is the consummate professional and he thrives on sharing his knowledge—from coming out of a break on a comeback route, to coming out of a club before the cops come out. He considers it a sin to keep anything inside if he thinks it can improve his team. If he ever notices us doing something wrong, he’ll pull us aside and give it to us straight. I decide I’ll learn how to be a pro from watching Rod.
    B ut I don’t have much time to make an impression: It’s already mid-August. Camp’s winding down. But I feel fresh and energized. Training camp inevitably becomes mundane and guys get sluggish going through the same routine every day. Changing up the scenery has given me a spark that I know I can use to my advantage.
    After a few weeks of good practice, my life in professional football comes down to the last preseason game, at home, against the Seattle Seahawks. The atmosphere at [Insert Corporate Logo Here] Field is impressive, especially compared to dilapidated Candlestick Park. The stadium is full and intimate, the weather crisp and clear. The cheerleaders lithe and sexy. The hot dogs wafting sweet and wonderful all around us.
    I play special teams and, on a kickoff, make a tackle, tripping up a returner who was about to bust through the wedge untouched. Then in the fourth quarter I’m wide open in the end zone on offense. Danny Kanell, the backup QB, throws me a high ball. I leap, but it slips off my gloveless fingertips. A defender jumps on top of my body and lands on my shoulder as I reach for the elusive ball in vain. Lucky for me it’s my good shoulder. Now it’s my bad shoulder, my second bad shoulder. But already I don’t care about my body. It was the only ball that came my way and I didn’t catch it. I’m the only receiver who doesn’t wear gloves. I have never needed them before. But the altitude in Denver makes the ball slicker, drier, and faster through the air. I decide after the game that if I make the team, I will spring for a pair.
    T hat night we go out and get hammered. I’m with Ashley Lelie and Charlie Adams—two fellow receivers—and Kyle Johnson, a fullback. Ashley is a first-round draft pick and a lanky speedster from the University of Hawaii who doesn’t take anything very seriously. Charlie is a record-breaking receiver from Hofstra, a friendly, outgoing guy, always upbeat, always smiling. Wherever we go, everyone always knows Charlie. Kyle is from New Jersey and went to Syracuse. He is a thick, powerful, thoughtful man: a philosopher in a warrior’s body. He detonates the dumb-jock stereotype with ease. I like my new friends already. It’s my first real night out in Denver and it’s raining the wavy hard rain of Colorado summer storms. I have a new girlfriend back in California whom I met in the summer. Her name is Alina. We are very excited about each other. We talk on the phone, a lot. We will make it work, regardless of where I am. That was our vow.
    But it will prove difficult. The world is ours in Denver. I learn that very quickly. There’s never reason to worry: Drink up, young stallion. And keep your wallet in your pocket. Your money is no good in this city. Your dick, however, is another story. Keep that thing ready. You never know when you’ll need it.
    The next morning I sit on my hotel bed watching the phone. Coach said to be ready for a call between eight and twelve. That’s when they’d be doing the cutting. I don’t know what to expect. I’ve practiced hard, made some good catches, played well on special teams. But it’s all happened so fast. My phone rings shortly after nine. My gig is up. Time to go back