Wednesday, 06/21/06

Sunny In San Diego

I have been in San Diego for a month now, and have yet to find a single fault with the situation that I am in. The sunshine is always reliable even though it may take until noon to break through the early morning fog, the relaxed atmosphere of the city can be seen in the palm trees that bask in the late afternoon breeze, and the thing that I love the most about San Diego is the Charger organization as a whole.

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Monday, 04/24/06

Guess who's back

Guess who's back
Back again
Shady's back
Tell a friend
-Eminem

While my return is not as triumphant and as anticipated as B-Rabbit's, it is nice to know that one person has missed my absence.

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Thursday, 03/23/06

Five flat

It's a mere one-hundred and twenty feet, or for the readers in Canada, thirty-six thousand five hundred and seventy-six millimeters. But for me it feels like the entire bank of the Grand Canyon. It can mean a difference of millions of dollars for some. For others, it can determine whether they will have the opportunity to continue a dream. The importance of the forty-yard sprint is the single greatest enigma in sports. To the casual sports observer, it makes no sense. My mother, whom I consider to be beyond a casual sports fan, is incredulous about the relevance of this one test. Her opinion, of course, was expressed in defense of her baby boy after I had run a pathetic 5.16 on Friday at Portland State's pro day.

I documented my inability to work out at Oregon State, but I failed to mention that I was granted the opportunity to work out at Portland State. This was finally the opportunity I had been waiting for: my chance to show the scouts, once and for all, that I was capable of being an NFL-caliber player. I felt very comfortable with my reputation as a heady quarterback with a strong arm, who could make all of the necessary throws. The throwing and mental part of the quarterback equation was under control. The speed element needed to be addressed. This is where the all-important forty-yard dash comes in. For some odd reason, back when leather helmets and single bar face masks were in vouge, a couple of football big wigs came up with the solution of testing a player's speed by measuring how fast he can travel forty-yards. Why they chose forty, I have no idea. I doubt that these men had any ill-will in mind when they created their invention, but for every action there is a reaction (I knew my tenth grade physics class would come in handy someday) and the reaction in this case is the deteriorating mental state of a player who's haunted by a short distance of turf. Despite my mother's objections to this measurement of one's football potential, the reality is that it is simply the nature of the beast. No amount of griping will lessen the stock that scouts put in this test. By running a 5.16, I had just failed my first major examination.

When I failed an exam in college, my first course of action was to attempt to cajole the teacher into allowing for a re-take of the exam. This plea was generally to no avail, so the next procedure was to simply wait for the next test to improve my standing in the class. Fortunately, the forty yard dash testers do acquiesce to a re-take. Last Wednesday, Casey and I traveled to McMinnville for our second and final attempt to post more respectable times. The goal at the beginning of this entire process was to run a sub 5.0 second time. During practice trials (god, this sounds more like I am training for the Olympics rather than for the NFL Draft), the best time I had run was a 4.98. Granted, my paid trainers were the ones with the stop watches, but I had made them promise me at the beginning that there would be no charity involved. All truth, no lies. That is what I appreciate about not only them but my agent, Steve Baker, as well. He gives it to me straight, with the BS kept on the sidelines. Occasionally, it's not what I want to hear, but at least I can be certain that everything he is telling me is true. In the long run that will be more beneficial than filling my head with false hope. I apologize for that tangent, but I felt that it was a necessary one. Back to the forty. Because of my sub 5.0 practice runs I felt that I had a legitimate shot at recording a similar time when it mattered. After the Portland State pro-day, the validity of my very important "no charity" rule with my Velocity trainers was in question.

I was not going to throw at the pro-day at Linfield, because the scout there had already seen what I could do in the air. He was more concerned with what I could do on the ground. Toeing the forty-yard line on Maxwell Field, in my father's blue spandex tights, a calming wave of indifference fell over me. That relaxing calm quickly turned to a pissed off rage. Why had I let this simple run take over my mind for three months? I cursed at myself a couple of times as I knelt down and then I was off. I have witnessed a lot of athletes run over the past three months, and when they do there is often an elegant grace to their stride. It appears as if there is no real exertion or effort expended at all. When I run, I do not envision this grace, nor do the viewers watching on the side. It's more of an awkward lumber that represents my obvious omission from a track team. But that day, I didn't care if I was elegant or graceful, I was going to get under 5.0 seconds. After I had crossed the finish line, I did not want to even know what my time was. It's like when you take a scantron test without knowing a single answer. It's just abacdddbaccccb... When the teacher is handing back the exams the next day, you just stuff it in your backpack without even looking at it because you don't want to end any false hope that maybe you in some miraculous way guessed the correct answer every time. That is how I felt. If I wasn't informed of the time then I could always imagine that somehow on that one day I ran a 4.56. But we all know that once you get back to your dorm, that overwhelming sense of curiosity will take over and the inevitable poor score will surface. "Five flat", my trainer Raul informed me. I was one-hundredth of a second off of my goal. I would try twice more to crack the elusive five second barrier, but it would be to no avail. Am I happy with the time? Very. After Portland State's 5.16, 5.0 looked like a solid A.

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Wednesday, 03/08/06

Driving on

I should have known when I missed the Corvallis exit on Tuesday that my day was was doomed. I'm not a believer in signs or fate, for I believe that a person creates their own success or failure, but if I were a man of fate I would have just kept on going to California. In retrospect the extra fifteen miles I drove on I-5 southbound until I finally reached another exit and was able to turn around, were like my journey to the NFL. Every time a little progress is made, a hindrance occurs that impedes my quest.

Forty-five minutes after the missed exit, Casey (my Linfield teammate) and I arrived in Corvallis eager to acclimate ourselves to the indoor facility at Oregon State. The plan for the day was to work out with Mike Haas, in preparation for the March 15 pro day at Oregon State. The minute my Bronco pulled into the Reser Stadium parking lot my cell phone rang. It was Linfield Coach Jay Locey calling to inform me that we would no longer be able to work out at Oregon State, due to a new Pac-10 conference rule. I don't know the specifics of the rule, but I do know it has to do with liability issues. Liability? How in the world can the Pac-10 conference be held responsible for an injury that I incur? If there was a worry about liability shouldn't it be Oregon State's? And, I am more than willing to sign any kind of medical waiver that is put in front of me. The workout at Oregon State is a win-win situation for everyone involved. Mike Haas needs a quarterback, Casey and I need a venue and scouts can save their hard earned cash by traveling to only one campus. There doesn't appear to be any loser in this arrangement at all, yet it appears that we won't be able to attend the workout.

The day was not all a loss. I had a productive throwing session with Mike and Casey and met some really genuine people on the Oregon State staff who were just as incredulous that we won't be allowed to work out there on Pro Day

The forty yard dash is becoming more elusive every day. A few months ago that would have been nice to hear, but I am sick of waiting. I am ready to roll, baby. And for once I just want things to go as planned. First it was the lack of an invitation to the combine, then our pro day rescheduled and finally this. Walking into the Velocity training complex this morning was actually somewhat humorous. Informing the trainers that the date for my forty will be pushed back again and hearing their colorful thoughts on it, I have to admit, was mildly amusing.

One silver lining in the past few days is the call I received from the St. Louis Rams quarterback coach. Originally I was going to drive down to the University of Oregon and work out in their indoor facility, but thanks to the Pac-10, that was nixed. Fortunately, he is willing to make the trip to Linfield and the work out will be held there, and because of the wonderful Oregon weather, most likely in the field house on campus. It isn't the ideal arena for a workout but at this point in time I will take anything.

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Wednesday, 03/01/06

Waiting is the hardest part

I begin this article with an offer to any of my readers, (or maybe to be more accurate, an offer to you, Dad). I have put a bounty on the heads of all pop-up creators who are making writing this nearly impossible. How do these people live with themselves, knowing that they cause misery in thousands of lives everyday? Do they go home and proudly proclaim to their spouses and children that they interrupted a record one hundred thousand people’s daily routines? Due to my current employment situation (which is nothing), the reward for dropping one of these pop-up senders at my door is a hefty one dollar. One more thing, I want them alive, so I can pull a Jack Bauer and torture them until they divulge the reason for their pain-causing ways.
With that off my chest, I can feel the weight of looming pro-workout days starting to bear down on me. I am anxious to travel to Oregon State and to prove to the scouts that I am quite capable of throwing more than screen passes. (Thanks, Bob Davie, for claiming on national television during the Hula Bowl that that is all I ever threw for two years at Linfield, even though you never saw one of my games.) My receiver, Casey Allen, and I had a workout day scheduled for tomorrow at Linfield, but we had to reschedule it due to “weather complications” – a euphemism for the probability of no scouts showing up. The make up date for this is March 22, and the weather forecast looks to be sunny with partial cloud cover.
Tom Petty, who I place with Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Elton John, Paul Simon and my father in the top six song writers of all time, nailed my sentiments regarding my situation when he wrote the lyrics “Waiting is the hardest part.” That is my life these days -- waiting. I feel like one of those male Antarctic Emperor penguins in the movie March of the Penguins, who do nothing but wait for three months protecting their egg, while their baby’s mama goes and gets food. Sure, I work out everyday in preparation for these pro days, but one can only run so many simulated forty yard dashes and throw so many twelve yard speed outs. The running, lifting and throwing are usually completed by three o’clock, leaving the rest of the afternoon and night to ponder what may come of my future. Video games and movies were nice distractions for a short time period, but their entertainment lifespan is about as long as a Vladimir Guerrero at bat. March 15 is the date of the Oregon State pro day, and, after all of this waiting, one can be sure that “I won’t back down.”

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Wednesday, 02/22/06

NFL Draft Diary: Hello and Welcome

I grew up in a family similar to the Brady Bunch. Four brothers, one sister and two loving parents are how the Elliotts are constructed. We didn’t do any dancing or singing routines, and we didn’t have a little sister with an annoying lisp, but our family was television sitcom normal.

Raised in Lake Oswego, Oregon, I have lived in the same house for my entire life. My mom, Leila, grew up in Los Angeles as a hippie Beatles fan. Dennis is my dad. My parents met while he was at Lewis and Clark Law School. He had three kids from a previous marriage, setting up our Brady-like existence.

My mom is a non-practicing tax attorney who recently graduated from Linfield Nursing School in Portland. In fact, we walked together at graduation in December. Mom is a converted sports fan who has three stepsons, and two of her own. And there is my sister Jessica, who is 25. She is at law school at Lewis and Clark. My oldest brother is 33 (Jackson), then Travis (31), Tyler (30). I have a younger brother named Matthew, a 19-year-old who is a fisherman-skier in Montana.

Athletics were a big part of our lives, especially mine. Hours upon hours were spent in my backyard or on my Sport Court shooting the basketball and throwing the football pretending to be my favorite teams and players. This is no different than what a lot of 10-year-old American boys do, but what separates me from the norm is that I was detailed in my commentary.

Newspapers and box scores were brought out with me so as not to confuse who played the previous night. During these imaginary games, my passion for athletics formed. I fell in love with the simplicity of a game where one can completely lose oneself.

Whatever the problem may be, I could always zone out on the court or in the field. Bad grade on a test? “Now starting at guard, six-six, from the University of North Carolina…!” Sports were my escape into comfort, and now it has emerged as a love.

The courtship between football and me began in Pop Warner and carried on through high school, one university and another small liberal arts college. It has endured four offensive coordinators in five years, a broken wrist and thumb, a transfer, and finally came to bliss when a National Championship trophy was hoisted in 2004.

My journey throughout this game is unique in many ways, but the part I am most proud of is that my love for the game has never wavered. I have had my setbacks but never have I strayed from football.

My high school team in Lake Oswego was not a powerhouse by any means. We made it to the second round of the playoffs my senior year as I threw for 3,200 yards and 32 touchdowns. While we were disappointed when we lost, the season was more success than failure.

After the season I was offered the opportunity to attend either Oregon State or Utah. I wanted to get out of the state and chose the beauty of the Salt Lake Valley. I spent two and a half years on the bench in Utah before I finally received my chance to start.

That season finished out well for us, we won our last three games, yet our heroic coach Ron McBride was fired. Coach McBride had taken a struggling Utes program and moved it to the next level, getting bowl invites. We were 2-6 at one point and the rumors started. We finished 5-6, but the program was looking to take it up another level.

Then the “Urban” era began. What the Utah Utes had previously thought was intense big-time Division I football was nothing compared to coach Urban Meyer’s vision of the program. He came in and turned our team around.

I was fortunate enough to start the first two games of the 2003 season. And then we went to College Station to face Texas A&M. We fell behind 21-0, but mounted a comeback. On one of the touchdowns, we missed an extra point, so, when I threw a TD pass in the final minute, we had to go for two.

The play was a sprint pass-run option. I didn’t see a receiver open and took off for the goal line. I dove and was smashed by the Aggies, doing a John Elway helicopter spin while falling. I came up short and knew right away that something was wrong with my left wrist. Coach Dan Mullen told me we would get the onsides kick and throw a Hail Mary. I told him I didn’t think I could catch the snap.

That was my last down played at Utah. The following week against Cal a skinny sophomore directed the team to an upset win on national television. His name was Alex Smith.

This is when my love for the game was proven. I couldn’t sit on the sideline my final two seasons as a football player waiting for Alex, a good friend of mine, to get hurt or struggle. Later in the season, we played against Oregon in a Friday night game. I had been so excited about this game because everyone back home would be watching my chance to show the Ducks, who hadn’t recruited me. Instead, it was the low point of my career as I stood sidelined with a broken left wrist. It was time to transfer.

I had to play. I decided to return home to finish out my career. I got a tip from the dad of my roommate, Tommy Hackenbruck, a linebacker who went to Utah with me. He was friends with the Jay Locey coach at Linfield College, a D-III school in McMinnville, Oregon.

I spent two seasons at Linfield and in that time we went 23-1 and captured the school’s first NCAA National Championship in 2004. My junior year we went undefeated and I threw an All-Division NCAA record 61 TD passes and 4,600 yards. The impact was immediate. We played D-II Western Oregon in our opener and I threw for 370 yards and 5 TDs in the first half.

My senior year the numbers and touchdowns continued as we went through another undefeated season. We then played the No. 2 team in country, Wisconsin-Whitewater, and lost 44-41 in the quarterfinals despite my throwing for 500 yards.

Now with my college career behind me, I can’t bear the thought of never strapping on the pads again, so I am going to pursue football professionally. Where my path in football is headed, I have no idea. But I can guarantee one thing; my love for the game will never change.

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