It was a warm day in Miami. I had just walked into the office of Jeff Ireland, the man ready to give me a job. Cautiously optimistic, I eyed the middle aged man who approached me. Sporting a receding hairline and a gaudy suit, glasses drooped over his pig-like nose, he shook my hand, and eyed me from head to toe. An uncomfortable silence lingered in the air after the forced pleasantries, and Ireland, or "Jeffy" as he insisted I call him, began what would turn into the interview of a lifetime. Peppering me with questions about my physical skills, I answered each with a feigned enthusiasm, constantly eying the clock, waiting for an excuse to escape. I had a cab driver waiting outside, and in exchange for a picture of me and Deion Sanders, he wouldn't drive away with my suitcase in the trunk.
Ireland: So tell me, Dez, how would you like to be a Miami Dolphin?
Me: It'd be an honor sir.
Of course, with the teeming flies hovering in the stinking Miami office, coupled with the fact that my cab driver spoke solely Spanish, made me wonder if I could ever live in such a quagmire of despair.
Ireland: How'd you end up being suspended, Dez Boy?
Me: Don't call me Dez Boy.
Ireland concealed a snicker, and said with a snide grin,
Ireland: I've dealt with your type before. Just relax.
I stifled a gulp, and watched through the window as Pepé the cabbie went through my clothes and drove away. It was going to be a long day.
Rather than submit myself to any more of this torture, I decided to tell the truth, for lying had only brought me pain.
Me: Jeff, I'm sorry, but
Ireland: Jeffy.
Me: ....Jeffy, I'm sorry, but my cabbie just drove away with my personal possessions. Can we have this meeting later?
Ireland: Well, sure Dez Boy, but one last thing.
His crooked grin erupted into an excited, disgusting smile.
Ireland: Is your mother....a prostitute?
Staggered, I stared into his cold, soulless eyes, unsure if I had heard him correctly. His panting confirmed my fears. He knew my shameful secret. With misty eyes, I recalled my days as a boy in Lufkin, Texas...
I had overheard Momma talking to the principal of the special school. He had told her over and over again that there was no room for my kind here. Ears burning, I tugged on Momma's skirt. She asked the man if there was anything he could do. He mentioned one thing, though I wasn't sure of what it could be.
Later that night, the Principal came over for dinner. He was eyin' Momma the whole time, and ignored me completely. Later on, Momma told me to go wait on the front porch. After a short while, I could hear a loud noise, like a pig squealin'. I was scared stiff, but I waited outside like Momma said to. In about an hour, the Principal emerged, sweating bullets, and he looked at me as he stormed out.
Principal: Your momma sure cares about your education, boy.
Now at this point, I was mad and tired from waitin' outside all this time, and just to spite him, I started makin' squealin noises real loud like I had heard before. This startled the ol' man, and he walked away quickly. I went inside and the next day started life at my new school.
Of course, I would never share that intimate moment with a man like Jeff Ireland. For a person to deserve an honor like that, we need to at least be acquainted for five minutes in a public area, making idle conversation on a park bench. Biting my lip, fighting back tears, I stared with all my might into the scheming face of Jeff Ireland and said, No.
Ireland: Well, perhaps I was misinformed then. Your mommas number wouldn't happen to be this, would it?
He flashed his cellphone at me, and I recognized the number as my mother's. Not wanting to indulge in what were certainly unsavory text messages, I averted my eyes and politely answered.
Me: No, no, of course not.
Ireland: Hm. Then perhaps you aren't the receiver we're looking for.
Was this the route I wanted to take? Denial had only ended my illustrious college career; would it end my future as well? Could the truth, as horrible as it may be, set my caged soul free at last?
Ireland: Well, I know the Cowboys are looking for a receiver. Perhaps they'd take their chances on someone like you.
Tonight...tonight was the night I would finally become an NFL player. I was marooned in Miami, and hoped to God I wouldn't have to stay here any longer. I don't think I stimulated Jeff Ireland enough to be drafted by the Dolphins; truly, his sick, perverted, accurate insight on my mother wouldn't become part of any water-cooler discussions over the next few days. I decided to stay at a friends house in Coral Gables, and tell the ESPN cameraman that was following me around to stick a "Texas" headline on screen, to make it seem like I actually wanted to share this special night with the degenerate hoodlums I call "family." But alas, in order to maintain that oh-so-important public image, I acted the part of "street rat" one last time. Advising my friend's family to gather around and hug me and take pictures in a convincing way, I sat on the couch and waited to be drafted.
When my cellphone finally rang, I looked down and up at everyone in the room, quickly telling them to flip out and hug me as soon as I got off the phone. Nervously, I answered.
Me: yo wassup dis dez bryant
I sighed, knowing this charade couldn't last much longer. The intelligent, passionate Dez Bryant would need to come out one day. But not now.
Jerry Jones: sup dawg dis da big jayjay o'rr in d-town, u wanna cowboy
Confused, I wondered why he was talking in ebonics. I quickly emerged from my stymied state in order to answer.
Me: ya man dat be great tank u tank u tank u
I hung up, and the group of unknown spectators burst into a deafening cheer. One guy, in particular, wouldn't get off my jock; we did more high-five variations that night than I've ever done in my life, ever. Somehow, the ESPN cameraman stopped smoking his blunt long enough to toss me a hat, which I put on with enthusiasm. Despite this odd predicament, my future seemed to be bright.
Stepping off the plane in Dallas was not too different from stepping off the plane in Miami; not only was it hotter than hell outside, but Jeff Ireland was waiting for me.
Ireland: Dez Boy, hey, you're here. Now, just to make sure, this address doesn't belong to your mother right?
I stared at him intently, wondering if he'd ever stop this. Of course it was my mother's address, but I couldn't let him know that.
Me: No, Mr. Ireland, this isnt my-
Ireland: Jeffy. And of course not son, that's all I wanted to hear.
He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a fuzzy purple hat and a jeweled cane, giving me a sly wink before he walked away. While staring at him, completely confused, I was greeted by none other than Michael Irvin.
Irvin: Got any coke?
Shocked, I shook my head no. He let out a string of curses and slapped a nearby child in the face for looking up at him.
Irvin: Just kidding. I'm Michael Irvin, welcome to Dallas.
He seemed to try to laugh, but instead a cold, harsh noise came out.
Me: Hey, yeah I thought I recognized you. You got a little....somethin on your lip there. Is that coke?
Irvin: *wiping his face* Nah man I said I was kidding.
Me: But, it was on your-
Irvin: KIDDING. *****, get in the limo before I have to kill you.
To be continued...
