Things That Make White People Uncomfortable

We’re going to get you in the next round,” but it wasn’t happening. I got so agitated that right in the middle of the draft, my dad took me out fishing to relax and I threw all the fishing rods in the water. When we got home, I curled up in my mother Miss Pennie’s arms and cried. She patted my back, and when I looked at her and thought about everything she had taught me in life, it all made perfect sense. I didn’t get drafted—I am sure of it—because NFL scouts talk to coaches to get the inside word on how “coachable” a player is, and I think they said I was “different.” They probably said I asked too many questions. In any other job, an employer might think, “Hey! That’s a deep thinker. That’s a serious person. That’s a plus.” But not the NFL. They think that if you’re in college and you aren’t thinking and talking only about football, you aren’t focused on “the job at hand.” That’s what they call it: “the job at hand.” Yet it’s a “job” that doesn’t pay us anything but disrespect, lifelong injuries, and the chance to fulfill a dream or fall into a pit.

Not getting drafted was a defining moment of my life. I’m usually upbeat about everything, happy to be alive, but I felt a deep dread and was worried about my future. I was watching with my mom, my dad, Pele—my fiancée at the time, preparing for us to build a life together—and we had our baby daughter. It was a very depressing twenty-four hours. Just one year before, we’d had the full, joyous experience with my brother on draft night: the suspense, the drama, the family, the food, and the thrill when he was picked in the second round. This was supposed to be another celebration. Instead, I just felt, Damn, this is really happening. I’m not getting drafted.

Within ten minutes, though, I went from depressed to fiercely ready because the phone started ringing. I got calls from a dozen different teams to come to their training camps. Just like that, I went from being undrafted to having my pick of cities. My dad looked at me like Yoda, and, as if seeing the future, said, “You gotta choose Seattle. I think Seattle is a good place for you. I think you’d be good there. That’s the fit.” It wasn’t mystical. He had sound reasons. My dad knows football, and he told me that Seattle played the same defensive schemes as Texas A&M, so I would have a head start on every defensive rookie in camp. And then, unlike most rookies, my head wouldn’t be up my ass.

I trusted him, and Seattle has been the dream spot for me. But I’ll tell you this. It would not have mattered where I went because not being drafted made me ready to bust through any door, any window, any skylight to make it. It pushed me to prove my doubters wrong, and it still pushes me at thirty-two, every workout, every practice, every game, because it’s always on my mind.

THE NFL IS NOT INTEGRATED

I heard Jim Brown once say the gladiator can’t change Rome. I love Jim Brown. But I disagree. I’ll die trying, my brother.

—Arian Foster

I have a sack dance I love to do. I gyrate my hips around like the great pro wrestling legend and lover Ravishing Rick Rude. I call it “Two angels dancing while chocolate is coming from the heavens on a nice Sunday morning.” It may be the most important sack dance in history, because I helped jump-start the baby boom in Seattle. Now my wife won’t let me do the dance anymore. Not because it was attracting too many admirers, but because it was costing us too much money: tens of thousands of dollars in fines. I tried reducing it from three pumps to two to see if the league would go easier on me. The life lesson for all you young players is this: two pumps gets you a baby. Three pumps gets you a fine.

They call the NFL the “No Fun League”—my brother has called it “Niggas For Lease”—and that’s the most brutally honest thing I’ve ever heard. There are aspects of playing that I love. I love my teammates—the brotherhood that the locker room brings together. I love coming out of the tunnel when we get introduced at home. I love winning the Super Bowl. I love the fans in Seattle. I love hating quarterbacks. I love making enough money so I can help my family and my community. But the league itself, the violence you put your body through to play, is not fun. And as soon as you’re done, you’re gone. There’s a quote from a boxer, Buster Mathis Jr., who asked his father if he should box or play football. His dad said, “Son, play football because nobody ‘plays boxing.’” This needs to be amended. Nobody “plays” football, not anymore.

I should have gotten a clue at the NFL combine. At the time, just out of Texas A&M, I didn’t really understand, and not even Martellus could prepare me. I felt the importance of it all: knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make money and provide for my family. I thought it would be like a job interview with a Fortune 500 company, but then I walked into a room filled with a lot of older men, where it felt like Bill Cosby was trying to get me to drink a special cocktail. They gawked at me in a way I’d never been stared at in my life. I finally knew what it felt like to be objectified, the way so many women are. It was also clearly on me to impress them, to act like I was cool with the poking and prodding. I felt like they were Kardashians and I was an NBA starting center.

The best word for it is “awkward.” I wish