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to California and move on, sell insurance, and have sad sex with my girl. But General Manager Ted Sundquist is on the phone saying in fact that I’m not being cut loose. They want me on the practice squad. I clear waivers—the twenty-four-hour period that I’m able to be picked up by another team—then I go upstairs to Ted’s office to sign my contract: $4,350 a week. He congratulates me with a handshake. Ted is a former fullback at the Air Force Academy who worked his way up the scouting ladder in Denver. His hair is exquisitely coiffed and he knows it. He was promoted to GM by owner Pat Bowlen two years ago. Ted has an amiable, genuine way about him. I like this Denver place. And now I have a bona fide job in the NFL. Look, Ma, I’m a Denver Bronco.
    On Tuesday, our first day off of the regular season, I buy a new Denali. It’s a foolish purchase but I can’t help myself. I could picture it with my eyes closed as soon as I signed my contract. I love the Denali’s angles, the chrome grill. I love the idea that I can buy a giant luxurious machine with only my football skills.
    Still, practice squad players have less job security than anyone on the team. They are shuffled around constantly. If someone on the active roster gets hurt, the scrambling and rearranging often squirts a practice squad guy onto the streets. But I had no vehicle, not even my green Civic, and when I looked around at the players’ parking lot, I glimpsed the spoils, at minimum, that my talent might afford me. No point in saving every penny. Might as well try to keep up with the Joneses, just this once. And the Denali does make me feel like I have accomplished something. It gives me a tangible reminder of my hard work. Every morning when I jump onto the soft leather seat and turn over that sweet engine, I tell myself that I better have a great day at practice or I won’t be making the payments. I’ll be “workin’ a nine-to-five with a thirty minute,” just like our special teams coach Ronnie Bradford says will happen to us if we keep fucking up the plays.
    L ater that week Rod holds a money meeting for rookies. Rod loves money. He loves making it and seeing it grow. He loves talking about it and he has a wealth of knowledge about everything monetary. All you have to do is ask him a question, sit back, and listen. During the meeting, Rod is stressing the importance of paying attention to what things actually cost. He says that we often have a skewed perspective of the money we are spending because all we are doing is signing our names. Well, he says, if you buy a $50,000 car, it’s not just your signature. This, he says, is what you’re spending. He reaches into a small black bag and produces five stacks of wrapped cash, ten grand apiece. He drops them on the table with a plop. So that’s what fifty grand sounds like. This is the year that the meaning of money will change for me, forever.
    T here are five of us on the practice squad. Our obligations are simple: practice hard. The NFL workweek starts on Wednesday and ends on game day, with an adjustable Monday schedule and nothing at all on Tuesday. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are really all that matter for a practice squad player because those are the days we practice.
    My job is to run the opposing team’s plays during the week leading up to the game. An assistant coach pores through our opponent’s game film and draws up every one of their plays on large cards. He color-codes each skill position and writes the jersey number of each player inside the colored dot that indicates where he lines up. There’s no memorizing of plays, no learning of concepts. Just find your colored dot and copy it, shmuck. All week I’m the same dot.
    Practice squad players don’t travel with the team. It’s a strange feeling watching the games on television after the week of practice. I’m a part of the team all week. An important part of the team, too. I prepare our defense to dominate. The better I