Guideposts – August 2019

30 GUIDEPOSTS (^) | August 2019
veteran players said. “Keep other
teams from signing you.” The Colts
cut me instead. I was re-signed to the
practice squad, then got cut from that.
That was the first time I holed up in
my bedroom. I didn’t want to talk to
anybody. I felt humiliated. Since I was
a kid, I’d talked about being a star in
the NFL. What was I going to say now?
A week later, the Colts called me
back to the practice squad. A second
chance! Coach Tony Dungy talked
about putting me in a Monday night
game. Then something went wrong
with my knee. I tried to suck it up and
play through it. Coach saw me limping
and told me there was no way I could
be activated if I wasn’t able to go full
speed. That was it with the Colts.
T
he next season, the seattle
Seahawks invited me to mini-
camp. They cut me at the end
of the preseason. A week later, they
called and said they wanted me to
come back. I packed my stuff, rushed
to the airport, all ready to board the
plane. My phone rang. Seattle again.
They’d changed their minds. Another
receiver had become available, some-
one who “fit into their plans” better.
Someone better than me.
I got another shot, with the Wash-
ington Redskins. I ran my fastest time
in the 40-yard dash: 4.3 seconds. Elite
speed. The Redskins signed me to the
practice squad, but I never played
a game. By November, I was—you
guessed it—cut.
I still wasn’t ready to face the truth. I
tried Arena Football—where the small-
er fields of turf laid over concrete were
brutal on my body. Then I signed up to
play for the United Football League,
right before it went belly-up. I went
into a spiral: smoking, drinking, party-
ing. I got a woman pregnant. I might
have been the son of a preacher, but I
wasn’t acting like it.
Around that time, my college room-
mate Anthony Arline took his life. A
Baylor football star like me, he’d also
had a short-lived NFL career. Like me,
he’d gone into a tailspin when his foot-
ball dreams ran up against reality.
Was that my fate? Retreating to my
old bedroom this time felt like the bitter
end of everything. I turned away from
the photos of me snagging a touch-
down, all the trophies and plaques.
They held no positive meaning for me
anymore. Only reminders of failure.
How was I going to move forward? How
was I going to support my son? What
kind of role model was I going to be?
I sat and wept bitter tears. God, who
am I now without football? Why did
you give me this dream just to take
it away? I prayed harder than I had
ever prayed before. Then it came to
me: rehab time. Athletes rehab from
all sorts of injuries and setbacks.
Wasn’t I also struggling with a set-
back? A big setback.
I started out by hitting the gym with
a dude from church. We’d go there in
the middle of the night, when the place
was empty. Pumping iron, pounding on
the treadmill, holding each other ac-
countable. I needed my friend to watch
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