It's hard to sleep — it was for me, at least. As tired as I was and as good as the week of preparation had been, I still had a hard time drifting off, knowing what was waiting when the sun came up: game day at Empower Field at Mile High.
Eventually, I did fall asleep, but around 4 or 5 in the morning. I'd be up every hour looking at the clock until my alarm finally went off at 8 a.m. I'd pop out of bed and throw open the hotel curtains and look out on the light of a beautiful day in Denver, Colorado. Each ray of sunshine, I convinced myself, was shining a light on my destiny later that day, in front of 76,000 faithful Broncos fans screaming from a sea of roiling orange.
After splashing some water on my face and putting on my clothes, I'd zip up my bag and head downstairs to breakfast. Every player has his own game-day schedule, down to the minute, so I always saw the same handful of guys in the meal room at the same time, pushing around the same meal on the same plate.
Mine was always scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, oatmeal and fruit. I was never very hungry the morning of a game, but I knew I had to eat something. We sat around the table and didn't talk about the game — the conversation was more often centered around the Pay-Per-View selection in the room, and who watched what movie. This was before everyone simply scrolled Instagram. We used to actually watch movies.
From the hotel, where we were required to stay the night before the game, I'd head home for a few minutes to relax and change clothes before getting back on I-25 and going north to the stadium. Once I hit the freeway, I began to enter the zone — my zone. The CD I was playing was curated to inspire my performance. The songs were the soundtrack to my transformation to the superhero I was convincing myself I was — the superhero I must believe I am if I stand a chance out there against the best in the world.
As Empower Field at Mile High came into view, my heart would start racing. A trickle of sweat ran down my side as I exited the freeway and looped around underneath, passing tailgaters and ticket scalpers, banners waving and smoke in the air. The smell of game day in Denver filled my nose as I rolled down my window to show the security guard my parking pass. He'd usher me by and I'd pull into the players lot, exit my vehicle and begin the walk into the locker room, past the legion of fans who are lining the metal barricade to offer us their final thoughts as we entered the stadium.
"Cell Phones Off" said a sign on the wall as I walked into the locker room, and a staffer would reiterate it.
"Cell phone off?" he'd ask as I walked in.
"Yep," I'd say, knowing that if it rang in the locker room, I'd be fined. I headed to my locker and put my bag down, looking up to see my game-day jersey pulled tightly over my pads and my helmet hung up on the hook. I'd change out of my clothes and into some warm-up gear and head out onto the field early to get my body moving. All alone, with my headphones on, this was me time. Still playing that superhero soundtrack, I could breathe deep and take it all in. The stadium was almost empty; soon it would be full and the action would commence. At the point, there would be no time for nostalgia or sentiment, no time to reflect on the journey or to consider how incredible it was to be able to play this beautiful game, in this stadium, for this team, in front of this incredible crowd. If there was a better fate in life, I couldn't think of it.
But as I walked back into the locker room, took off my headphones and began to interact with my teammates, I was no longer reflecting on the journey — I was back on the wave, and riding it required my total focus. With each piece of protective gear I pulled on my body, I further disassociated from anything sentimental or thoughtful, and became only a man possessed by the moment, preparing to run out of that tunnel, elbow to elbow with my brothers, the helmet covering my face — an anonymous donor to the task at hand — victory at Empower Field at Mile High.
As we all ran out of the horse's mouth and between the two lines of cheerleaders crinkling their pom-poms in the afternoon sun, the deafening roar of the crowd signaled the end of the work week, and the beginning of the game we had worked all week to get to, together, as one unit.
Now, it was time to have some fun. Now, it was time to play the game we knew how to play. Now, it was time to win — and with Broncos Country on our side, there was no better feeling in the world.
About the Author: Former NFL wide receiver and tight end Nate Jackson played six seasons for the Broncos and is the author of the New York Times Best Selling book "Slow Getting Up."
