I was always a real speed-demon when compared to the other kids at Hampden Elementary. In fact, I never lost a race when track and field day rolled around. At recess, we picked teams for our ritually brutal, 15-minute two-hand-touch scrimmages; and no one ever questioned that despite my huskiness, I could effortlessly penetrate any opposing front or scheme with a rare explosiveness never before witnessed by the cheering kids on the jungle gym.
Perhaps this is why Al Davis and the Raiders took a chance and drafted me five years ago. I'm reasonably sure that the scouts compile exhaustive player research, which dates back to the days of yore. Those in the know realized I possessed a solid foundation for speed even though I didn't necessarily exhibit the gift in college.
I firmly believe this is because my metabolism has slowed a bit and I've put on some weight since fifth grade. One hundred and seventy pounds later, I remember what it feels like to be fast; however, due to this grown man I'm piggybacking I've been relegated to being "quick". And husky. Behold, I am a fullback -- more full-figured than a back.
I am a fullback who is battered and lumpier than usual because training camp in Napa, Calif., is nearly over. Two-a-days pummel me into exhaustion I never experienced in the humidity of 1985. It's easy to forget the exhilaration of 11-year-old effortlessness. I scramble into the recesses of my mind to recall the lost joy of running. I pretend that I weigh 80 pounds again.
This introspection is necessary because the NFL is built on velocity. Our training camp reflects this. Each practice is divided into speedy, distinct periods that cover different situational aspects of the game.
For example, individual work is followed by team run, which leads into a red-zone drill, which is followed by a special teams period, which bursts into seven-on-seven, etc. Tempo is key. Coach Callahan demands that we hustle to and from the huddle and line of scrimmage. Moreover, the team scurries from field to field, as the sessions occur far from one another.
I have always raced the fellas between these situational sessions. I have always won. Forget the fact that none of the other players were racing -- this habit has inevitably inspired me. Not only does it help with my conditioning, but also it transports me back to the days of the Pennsylvania playground of my childhood. It makes me believe I'm fast. I need to believe.
This is why I have a problem with Charlie Garner. Somewhere along the line, he noticed my exuberant flailing to finish ahead of the pack. Now our mercurial tailback finds it satisfying to sabotage my victories. My attempts at savvy, fortuitous head starts fail miserably as he hawks me down period after period, practice after practice, day after day. I guess I could trip him or block him -- maybe bring a linebacker into the fold to tackle him or something.
Realistically, though, I don't think the coaches would understand. Truth be told, I've about had it with Charlie's competitiveness. The imaginary "Fastest Intra-drill Player" title meant so much to me. Maybe I'll come to grips with passing the torch someday.
