A Letter To Russell Wilson

Dear Russell Mr. Wilson,

I don't usually do this. On an imagined level, I too know what it's like to be famous and great at what I do. The last thing I want is for a stranger to pen a long letter telling me what I already know: My life is infinitely better than theirs. Despite this, I feel compelled to ruminate on the effect you've had on me, and undoubtedly, thousands of your peers. Like I said, I don't do this sort of thing. I don't elevate athletes to hero-worship status, but I would bow in your presence. I really would.

I'm not going to pretend like I followed your career at NC State, I didn't. ACC football is as foreign to me as emollient-based products and Perfect 10 models. I just knew you were supposed to take my beloved Badgers to new heights and I was skeptical. I doubted the impact one man could have on a group of teammates he was unfamiliar with. I doubted one man's ability to basically reinvent the quarterback position in Madison, showcasing skills we've never seen here before, and capture the imagination of an entire campus -- an entire city. Critics will you say you haven't been challenged yet. Your non-conference schedule was a step below "Cream Puff." The Nebraska game was at home, their defense leaves something to be desired, and Taylor Martinez was forced to throw the ball 22 times. I watched you smoothly step to the side, as if you couldn't be bothered by a defensive lineman's pass rush. I watched as you turned a 10 yard loss into a 15 yard gain. As you rolled out of the pocket countless times to buy a few seconds, and found the open receiver every time. I remain in awe of the way you never take a big hit. You either absorb contact as if it was a natural geologic occurrence or run out bounds. You realize a crushing blow is not worth, in the worst case scenario, your team's season, or simply an extra yard you can easily pick up on second down.

Above all else, there never seems to be a point where you are not in control. I cannot understate this enough. Nothing rattles you. Your demeanor on the playing field is the type of assurance us regular people strive for in our everyday lives.

You probably wouldn't have guessed it, Russell Mr. Wilson, but I played football once, ages ago. I was 11 years old. My brief career was shaped by a set of circumstances largely beyond my control. Before the season started, many of the player's parents were bickering. I had no idea what they were bickering about, but you know how parents get when it comes to sports and their children. This bickering resulted in a mass exodus of most of the best players our town had to offer. They went on to play in an independent Pop Warner League, while my parents, who were as clueless as myself concerning the matter, signed me up for the Park District League. Being part of the Park District team was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing being I had an opportunity to play right away and despite my lack of experience, was already one of the better players on the team. The curse, so to speak, was a very poor team. Our team was composed of a few nominally good players, inexperienced players such as myself, and a bunch of younger kids who were too fat to play within their age group. We won our first game by six points. It was our only win all year.

I was a receiver for the Park District team. Now, I know what you're thinking: Wide receiver, that's a fine position which requires speed, agility, and good hand eye coordination. You should be proud of your ability to step in and play such a demanding position right away. While I appreciate the sentiment Russell Mr. Wilson, do you have any idea how many times we threw the ball per game? Zero. An 11 year-old receiver is nothing more than a glorified offensive lineman. Except where O-Lineman can develop some sort of camaraderie that stems from battling in the trenches side-by-side, I was alone on an island. I charged at defensive backs like a bull, exerting all I had with the knowledge that we were running the ball up the gut anyway. One time, I became so frustrated that I started to make growling noises in the middle of a block. The d-back laughed at me, and mockingly exclaimed, "Ooh, I'm so scared. Gems hit me." The joke was on him however, as I bypassed his hand in the middle of the postgame handshake line.

It was also during this time I began having trouble eating. I had choked on a piece of chicken some months earlier, which resulted in the scarring of the tissue lining my throat. I experienced sharp pains in the area that felt like my throat was swelling up and closing. I became afraid to eat. A meal that would take a normal kid 15 or 20 minutes to eat took me two hours. I grinded away at my food until it had practically dissolved because I was afraid to swallow it. I thought every swallow of food would result in my death. Thanksgiving was hell. Friend's birthdays were even worse. Having to answer questions about why you're breathing so deeply and touching your throat after every swallow were embarrassing. Meals are supposed to be some of the day's most enjoyable moments, but to me they were a reminder of my inability to live a normal life.

I made numerous doctor visits. They all said I was fine, my throat was fully healed. Any thoughts of choking or swelling were purely my mind's creation. The mind is a powerful thing, as you know. I had convinced myself every bite of food was a death wish. For this, I suffered, mostly mentally, but a bit physically. I lost some weight but continued to play football. I was 70 pounds, playing with 95-pounders and dealing with the inevitable: At this rate, there was no way I could play next year against better competition and a 125 pound weight limit.

While my time on offense amounted to little more than playing dress up, I found my calling on the defensive side of the ball. I played defensive back and was able to shed blocks from receivers who would rather be catching passes. Playing defensive back was great because teams rarely threw the ball, meaning I was given plenty of room to improvise. The moment I recognized the ball wasn't going to be thrown, I could play the run. I loved playing the run. There was something about challenging backs, especially ones who outweighed me by 25 pounds, that felt exhilarating. I knew they underestimated me, Russell Mr. Wilson, that was probably it. One game I made over 20 tackles, we lost, but the outcome wasn't so important as long as I was able to hit someone.

It took a year to finally get over my fear of swallowing food. I can't imagine how ridiculous it must be for someone else to read and try to comprehend that sentence. Turns out that even after eating regularly I couldn't put on weight, still can't. High metabolism. So my desire to be a hard-hitting enforcer on the football field was doomed from the start. I didn't sign up for football the next year because of another irrational fear -- I thought my weight disadvantage would be too much to overcome. You know as well as anyone that size doesn't matter. Do you hear the announcers? They're comparing you to Drew Brees. You're pulling off something remarkable.

When I think of my year playing football, I go back to a time when I seemingly had no control of my life. I fell into deep depressions over my inability to eat and grew frustrated over being phased out of the offense. I've watched Chicago Bears quarterbacks my entire life. When I think of football, I think of chaos. I think of a game that an individual could never impose his will on. You're slowly changing my perception of football, Russell Mr. Wilson. For that, I am eternally grateful.

My sincerest regards,

- Joe