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40 yards and a cloud of dust
Posted: Monday October 19, 1998 04:57 PM
I guess I had just seen one too many highlight clips from
the 1998 NFL season. Is it me, or does it seem like every
time you turn on the tube these days some hapless
cornerback is getting turned into room service breakfast
(expensive toast)? A few weeks
ago, I swear I saw the Colts' Marshall Faulk catch a TD
pass where he was so wide open it looked like pregame
warmups.
Having seen enough, I jumped off the couch, brushed the
Cheetos from my shirt and yelled at my dog Scoop , "If
some guys are gonna get paid $15 mil to blow coverages by
20 yards and make a fool of themselves on national TV, well
then, by god, it should
be
us!"
I figure, these days an NFL cornerman needs to be big,
tough and fast. But wait a sec. If New York Giants
cornerback Conrad Hamilton can pass himself off as
5'11" and 190 pounds (he must of had cowboy boots on
and his pockets full of nickels when the
Giants measured and weighed him) then I should be allowed to
fib a few inches and a pound or two about my frame. And as
far as toughness, well, don't even go there. I covered a
WNBA regular-season game and an Olympic synchronized
swimming event and stayed
awake almost the entire time. The key, then, would be speed.
The slowest DB in the pros can cover a 40-yard dash in
around 4.4 seconds, or the average time it takes for a
sports radio talk show to insult your intelligence. Just
how fast am I? To find out, I bought a stop watch, borrowed
some chalk from the
neighborhood kids, marked off 120 feet on our cul-de-sac and
started
stretching.
Just then my neighbor,
Jak , came outside to see what was going on (and, I'm quite
sure, to tell his kids to get away from the weird man doing
deep knee bends in the middle of the street.) Jak, it turns
out, ran track at Purdue. He disappeared, then returned
with a raggedy,
gnarly pair of red track shoes he had dug out of his attic.
The first contestant was a 10-year-old girl from down the
street. She ran a 6.1 in bare feet. Jak ripped off a 5.24
and then a 5.14. With the aid of some animal crackers,
Scoop, a yellow Lab who is roughly the size of a polar
bear, lumbered his way,
with the unhurried and unashamed gait of Gilbert Brown , to a
6.26. Not bad. Although for a
Pop-Tart the damn dog would've broken 6-flat, easy. Canton, here we
come, I thought.
After all, I run three or four times a week. Like Jak, I
too was a Division I athlete in college. So I was hoping to
dip into the 4's. Instead: 5.44. A
big-fat-slow-mo-motherscratchin' 5.44. I barely beat the
barefoot kid. And on top of that I ran over
the neighbor's flower bed (but they never go
online, so it's cool, they'll never know).
I just didn't feel quick. Stupid, dorky and really, really
old, yeah, but not quick. What I needed was to get into the
mindset of a professional athlete. I needed to commit a
felony (then get a fine and probation), cuss out some
handicapped kids seeking
my autograph or father a child out of wedlock. But the
wife, nearby trimming bushes, nixed all three. "DO YOU
WANT ME TO MAKE IT TO THE NFL OR NOT?"
Next
try.
5.41. Not bad, but suddenly the difference between me and a
pro athlete, which is roughly one-mississippi (or
one-monicalewinsky), seems less like a split second and
more like the time it takes to renew your license at the
DMV. Let me tell you, anyone
who can run a sub 5.0 is freakin'
hauling.
5.38. Spirit lifted. Lungs burning, knees wobbling, wife,
neighborhood kids and, I'm pretty sure, family dog-all
giggling.
5.36. Jak explains that some people have "fast
twitch" muscles and "slow twitch" muscles. I
have apparently been blessed with "no twitch"
muscles.
I grab a bike and ride the 40
yards.
6.6.
Rollerblades.
5.85.
A friend's, um, slightly more svelte
dog.
5.23
I jump in my car and gun
it.
4.94.
Ah-HA!
Exhausted, o.d.-ing on lactic acid and with a new found
respect for NFL cornerbacks, I collapse on the front lawn.
Man, the bushes look great.
Tune in next week, folks, when my Civic starts at
cornerback for the
Redskins.
Spanning the strange and wonderful world of sports, the Flem File has visited
a nudist colony, investigated nasal strips, tried out for the Olympic bobsled
team and endured injury and humiliation at the NFL Experience. What, or who,
should we riff on next week? If you've got a suggestion, a comment or a
question, don't just sit there, bring it on! Click here to send an e-mail to
Flem, or address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com.
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