Sidelines
Pro Bowl players deal
with the other side of fameSO you want to be an NFL superstar?
No. No, you don't.
"Troy!"
"Troooy!"
"Over here!"
"Hey, come on, one more! One more!"
"Please!"
"Pleeeeeaaase!
"PLEEEAAAASE!"
The horde jostles and surges and even stuck behind a railing, somehow, it seems to edge closer, arms pressing forward like a never-ending octopus.
"The tattoo! Look at the tattoo! Look at the tattoo!"
The young man has decided to brand his body with the team logo in permanent ink. For this, you owe him.
You don't need this.
Ted Washington doesn't need this. The Chicago Bears defensive tackle has it figured out. He is not a superstar, and doesn't want to be. He is merely a pretty good player, and henceforth, he figures he can hustle into the locker room and out of the limelight.
"Urlacher's outside," he huffs, doing his best to ooze patience while wearing a "why are you talking to me?" look.
Urlacher is outside, still outside, still writing, still signing, still slowly going down the line, scribbling his name on everything shoved in front of him. The cacophony is constant, squawks from all directions. They shout his name and beg and plead, and somehow, in the middle of it all, Brian Urlacher is serene.
He is big, in more ways than one. Everybody wants something. Everybody needs a piece of him and isn't afraid to ask. A few minutes, just a minute, a second! He looks into the camera and reads what they tell him to read. Again. And again.
"You told me one," he says, and summons another smile. Just one more. Please.
He's been on magazine covers and spreads and in national news, the Midway's new monster, football's new defensive splash, middle linebacker of the Chicago Bears and a genuine NFL superstar.
"Me?" he says.
Yes, you. Even a 4.5-second 40 can't outrun fame, and at the first Pro Bowl practice, Urlacher is Elvis. "This is like Chicago all the time," he says. "People in Chicago are crazy about football."
But Urlacher is patient, and receptive, and he gives, a signature, a smile, a second. He doesn't seem to mind. Not much. Not yet.
"This is something you have to get used to, and I think my wife and I have done a good job of getting used to it," he says.
Jeff Garcia, the San Francisco quarterback, obliges the outstretched arms, over and over. "Somebody tell Garcia he doesn't have to sign every single one," a security guard says, looking at his watch. But Garcia tries.
"I'm the type of person who feels bad if I don't get everybody out there, if I don't give everybody a chance to get something signed," he says. "We wouldn't be around if we didn't have the support of the fans and we wouldn't be earning the living that we have without their support."
We love to hear athletes say things like this. It's perfect. And nice. And Garcia seems sincere. But Garcia is in only his third NFL season, new to stardom, full of patience, having come down from Canada, where he was popular -- but admittedly, no hockey player.
Washington is an 11-year vet. Maybe the prodding, pleading, shocking zoo-like intensity of some in the autograph line is something to escape now, the fame game has grown old. And even if this is wrong, and Garcia is right, you can't quite blame him, not after watching it up close.
This is the price they pay, for the money, for their dreams.
I don't know if I'd want to.
Some players come back out of the locker room, and sign a couple more before running for the bus. It's never enough. It can't be, and people howl with dismay when they leave.
But one man is happy, as Pittsburgh's Kordell Stewart finally shrugs his shoulders and breaks away. The man jumps and bellows in triumph, letdown all around him. All his yelling had been rewarded. He clutches his prize, the Steelers quarterback's last autograph of the day. "Yeah! Yeaaaah! Thank you, Kordell! Thank you, Kordell!"
He had on a Raiders hat.
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com