When I moved up to Las Vegas in 1977, I had been offered a partial academic-athletic scholarship to play soccer and attend the University of Nevada-Las Vegas. Thanks to some European influences, the team was starting to grow a strong following.
One of the coaches was Thomas Heinz from Stuttgart, Germany, and an ex-Bundesliga (top flight) professional soccer player. He knew of me and our youth soccer team in England back in 1968.
So I moved up there, not knowing anyone and landed in a sleazy hotel on the ‘Strip called imaginatively enough, the Strip Hotel.
It was painted white.
Everywhere. Even the colors were white.
Everything was white.
In spite of this sanitary appearance, inside were several unsanitary characters and their “ladies.”
Here I was, little college dumbass living with all these pimps, hookers, and thieves. I would end up befriending all of them and that was just the start of my Vegas years.
So I head down Maryland Parkway to go to the college campus on my professional Italian racing bike I had traded a pound of Mexican weed for. My girlfriend had our car and was finishing up her job before joining me in a month. That would give me time to get into school, get a place, and a job.
The school was tiny.
I thought Notre Dame was small.
I check into the Athletic Department and found coach Heinz.
“You look like shit. No way can you play college soccer.”
“Hi coach. Nice to see you too.”
Coach gave me a big bear hug and sat back down.
“You look like shit,” he began again.
“I know, coach. But I’ve been getting back into shape,” I lied.
Giving me another once-over, he said “Back into shape from what?”
This did not look promising I thought as I started to regret every single beer, shot, joint, hash hit, Quaalude, tab of acid, snort of coke, and anything else antithetical to college athletics.
School did not start for three weeks, so I had two weeks to prepare for the first walk-thru practice of the new season.
I was so far out of shape that no amount of Rocky music or chicken-chasing was going to reverse my last four years of hedonism, so what did I do?
My scholarship was contingent on making the team, so I thought I would easily be one of the best 20 players that would be selected.
I know, it was quite possibly the dumbest move I could make, but I thought I would turn back the clock back to my fourteen-year old self and get myself in shape for the next two weeks.
I got up early, 3 or 4 am.
That’s when it was the coolest part of day. I would ride my bike for fifty miles, swim 200 laps in the pool, stretch and lift the rest of the day, collapsing in a heap in my cheap hotel room as hookers, johns, and pimps did their thing.
I used to go to the Rexall Drug store on the north end of the strip and I would get enough food to feed a family in the form of breakfast.
Huge plates.
Huge portions.
A chicken-fried steak the size of a manhole cover, literally swimming in heart-clogging sausage gravy, four eggs, a mountain of fried potatoes, and if that wasn’t enough, an order of Texas Toast and an 8” stack of pancakes afloat in sugary-sweet diabetes-inducing syrup and more heart clogging butter.
And I used to eat every last piece of food and delicious heart-clogging gravy. (says the guy with eight stents in his chest keeping blood flowing)
Now, I had to wake up to Orange juice and smoked salmon bagels.
I started running in the high heat of the desert in the second week and even started carrying 20-lb weights in both hands.
I really thought I was going to be able to pull it off and I was soon going to be a Runnin’ Rebel wearing red and gray.
I showed up at the soccer practice field situated just behind the football field. There must have been a hundred guys there!
The team was not only drawing national press, but recruits were responding.
I was nine years removed from European soccer, but I actually recognized a couple guys, one German and one Swede.
We line up for our forty-yard dash times.
Coach used a little different technique to determine who his “speed” player were.
Instead of timing the flat-out forty-yard dash sprint, he would have you run a fifty-yard dash and he timed you in the first thirty yards, and again at fifty to time your breakaway and closing speed.
I lined up next to some Guatemalan kid who looked fifteen-years old.
Whistle blows and off we go.
Snap!
Achilles tendon.
Season over.
No scholarship.
Maddogg goes the chef route…
Stay well.
