Eggs for Breakfast

The Miami Dolphins held public, open tryouts this past year. Anyone from anywhere could participate. Nobody was guaranteed a spot on the team, but there was at least the opportunity to wow the coaching staff. I had to go. This was my shot to show everyone how talented I really was. In 8th grade I was on the Wilbur Wright Middle School Munster Mustang Football team. I wore #94 and was the backup left defensive tackle. In my first game I had a fumble recovery and ran it back to the 5 yard line. (Editor's Note: That part is true.)

That was the last time I played organized football. But what the hell, I thought, maybe I can make the team. When I arrived at the practice facility, I was wearing black sweatpants and an old yellow t-shirt with the word "Louisiana" on the front and the words "Hot Sauce" on the back. It was the only clean shirt I had.

When all the potential-Dolphins gathered for the first drill, there was so much adrenaline running through me. I was jumping up and down, sweating profusely, ready for anything. I had chugged 2 five hour energy drinks and eaten 4 raw eggs that morning. "LET'S DO THIS!" I screamed. People gave me funny looks. I ignored them. I was the new face of the Miami Dolphins. I was William Wallace, I was Ironman, I was Justin Timberlake. Screw everyone else. I had to concentrate, I had to perform.

During that first drill I got tackled and hit the ground hard. When I got up I had a big fat red mark on my right forearm. Before I knew it, I was crying. A fellow tryer-outer came up to me and said, "Suck it up, man. Don't let them see you cry." I kicked him in the shin and said, "Leave me alone you big jerk!"

That ended my glorious football career. I have no regrets.