Their Only Real Shot Is With Dream Team

They are the high school heroes, the undeterred dream chasers, the types who cause receptionists to grab the phone and request security. They show up at NFL team headquarters bearing resumes, homemade videotapes, anything that might get them a tryout. Some are convincing, some are pathetic, and some are, well, mile high.

Just listen to Maeve Drake, who for years has worked the front desk for the Denver Broncos: “One guy came in and insisted he had an appointment with Mike Shanahan. He was very persistent. I called Mike’s secretary, Cindy, because the guy didn’t seem legit. I asked him if he was sure he talked to Mike.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Telepathically.”

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Although there are fewer than 1,700 roster spots in the NFL, the country is full of people who think it’s a short trip from the La-Z-Boy to the limelight. Then again, not everyone can be K.D. Williams. He’s a former airport skycap who now plays linebacker for Green Bay. He was named NFC special teams player of the week for his performance against Carolina two Sundays ago, when he tossed around kick returners the way he used to fling Samsonites.

The Raiders gave Williams a chance three seasons ago, bringing him to training camp as a free agent. He had experience playing in the Canadian Football League, so he didn’t just walk in off the street. But lots of people do. A.J. Smith, director of pro personnel for the San Diego Chargers, has fast-forwarded his way through hundreds of unsolicited audition tapes during his 23 years in the league. Rarely does he see anyone worth a second look.

“Sometimes they’re funny,” he said. “Sometimes I just shake my head and say, ‘Gawd almighty.’ A guy will be standing in his backyard. On the picnic table there are 50 trophies, and he’s talking about what he can do for my team. It splices to a high school field with grass three feet high. You don’t know who’s throwing him the ball--it’s probably his buddy off camera--but the ball is coming end over end. He ends up catching three and dropping three. The sad part is these are legitimate tapes. This is not a joke. These guys are not living in the real world.”

Some are. New Orleans punt returner Michael Lewis made the 53-man roster despite never playing high school, college or regular-season football in the NFL. He’s the fastest player on the team, having run the 40-yard dash in a scorching 4.35 seconds on wet grass.

His former job? Driving a beer truck for Southern Eagle Sales, a Budweiser distributor two blocks from the Saint training facility. He did have some experience as a minor league football player, though, logging time with the New Jersey Red Dogs, New Orleans Thunder, Kenner City Chiefs and Bayou Beasts. He spent last summer in Philadelphia’s training camp but was cut before the regular season started.

“He has better hands than he had last year,” Saint Coach Jim Haslett said. “We’re going to see him when he gets pressed and see if he does some things when people get up and jam him and knock him around.”

For every lightning-quick beer man, there are thousands of beer bellies trying to beat impossible odds.

“We had a guy pull up and park his tractor-trailer right in front of the facility,” said Valarie Wideman, a receptionist for the Baltimore Ravens.

“I thought it was a delivery. Little short guy with a real country accent. He said he ran track and wanted to play wide receiver. It was hard to keep a straight face. I didn’t want to be mean but I said, ‘Are you serious?”’

Better believe it. Those unannounced pop-ins are common.

A fellow who goes by the name “Rambo” hangs around the Chicago Bears every season in hopes of getting his big break. Maybe they don’t see him; he wears only camouflage. Does he look like he can play?

“Years ago, when he first came around, perhaps,” said Rudy Korman, who works the security booth in front of team headquarters. “But as years go by, you can’t fool Mother Nature.”

You can’t fool Gail Warren, either. She has been working the reception desk for the Atlanta Falcons long enough to develop a polite rejection speech that lets the dreamers down easy. If that doesn’t work, she has another line of defense.

“I’ve got the button to unlock the door to get in the rest of the building,” she said. “A lot of them bring their dad or mom with them. To me, that doesn’t help at all. I don’t want to see a player with his mom and dad.”

Dallas Cowboy assistant coach Steve Hoffman understands the burning desire to play. He was a Division III quarterback and punter at Dickinson College in Carlisle, Pa. He desperately wanted a crack as a pro punter, and did everything he could to get one. He used to hang out in team parking lots, essentially stalking special teams coaches. He signed with teams four times but never made it past training camp.

“That’s why I hate turning guys down now,” Hoffman said. “But some guys have no clue about what it takes. If we miss a field goal Sunday, my phone will be ringing off the hook Monday. Agents, players. ‘I’m better than the guy you got. How can you stay with that guy?’ I mean, he missed one field goal.”

On those Mondays, the Cowboy facility might as well be a Blockbuster store, considering how many videotapes are pushed through the mail slot.

“They vary, from guys who were All-Americans at big schools, to small-college guys, to Australians, to guys from England,” he said. “One was from a guy who had just gotten out of prison. It was awful. The first 10 minutes are of him in the weight room getting ready to do squats. He puts two 45s on the bar--a total of 135 pounds--and cinches up his weight belt. Then he does one rep. The next scene, he’s in a park. He’s got one football, he punts it, then runs after it.”

For his finale, the ex-con shanked a punt over a fence and onto a tennis court and cursed in frustration. Another tape from a wannabe punter was even stranger: 10 minutes of him dunking a basketball.

Once, a janitor for the Cincinnati Bengals had no tape, no resume, not a lot working in his favor. Folks around the facility barely noticed him.

“He was a tiny little guy, and kind of slow,” receptionist Teri Moratschek said. “He worked a lot at night, a real nice little guy. Hardly said boo.”

One evening, he worked up the nerve to talk to an assistant coach. He wanted a tryout. So, after everyone else had left, they headed out to the practice field. The coach, the janitor and a stopwatch. There were no surprises, and nothing ever came of the workout.

It meant nothing. And everything.