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Dude's smart. So's Alan Grant.

[Ed.'s note: Longtime Mag contributor Alan Grant's a smart guy. Dude went to Stanford, after all. He also spent five years in the NFL as a defensive back and special teams' guy. He'll use that mix of brain and brawn to write about the NFL for us each week. Here is his introductory piece.]

The first guy in the NFL to call me a nerd was O'Brien Alston.

I was a rookie with the Indianapolis Colts at training camp. After the third day of practice, I was seated on the floor outside the defensive backs] meeting room. Like any rookie, paranoia, fear and a guilty conscience dictated that any moment of free time should be spent poring over the playbook. As I digested coverages, offensive formations and terminology, Alston, a linebacker who everybody called O.B., came walking down the hall.

He was tall, 6-6, with very long arms. A year earlier, his season had ended after the Jets' Freeman McNeil, while blocking him, hit him low and destroyed his left knee. The story had made the rounds because after he made contact with O¹Brien, after he heard that awful sound, McNeil was distraught. He even briefly removed himself from the game. Afterwards McNeil apologized to Alston and O.B. told him he had no reason to apologize. That made O'Brien Alston an even bigger man. Now Alston walked with a slight limp. But that limp wasn't his defining characteristic. O.B. was loud. He had a big, booming voice with a rough, bass-laden timbre, which was buttressed by a perpetual scowl. Every team has one guy who naturally intimidates and I had seen the secondary coach look visibly nervous when O.B. came into our meeting room the day before.

I wasn't about to show any fear. For a bookish black man to have any chance of surviving with his dignity and/or sanity intact in any realm of this world, athletic or otherwise backing down is not an option. Whatever space you occupy, you've got to make it your own. During the three previous days, I thought I had shown the appropriate fortitude, that I belonged here. But it was still early. So as O.B. approached, I prepared to stand my ground. He stopped right in front of me. Over the binding of my book, I could see his size 13 Nikes. I put the book down to meet his glare. "What's up man?" I said. He didn't answer. He just looked down at me for about three seconds.

He finally spoke. "You a nerd, ain't you?" I shrugged, searching for the right response. Smart? Witty? Insulting? I wasn't quite sure. Before I could respond, he answered for me. "Yeah, you a nerd." His voice bounced off the dirty linoleum floor and echoing down the long, empty hallway. "But you got some balls about you."

I said the only thing you can say in that situation: "Thanks." He looked down at me for another second before concluding with his assessment. "You alright with me." With that he walked off towards the linebackers' meeting room. O.B. got released before the end of training camp. I never saw him again. But I never forgot him or his endorsement. After that I had a brief, but enlightening career in pro football. Entering the NFL, I didn't blow you away on paper. I wasn't 6-2, 215 pounds, clocking the 40 in 4-flat with bare feet. I was 5-10, 185 pounds, 4.6, maybe 4.5 on a good day. I lasted five years in the league because of brains and, you know, balls.

Football and the written word have very little in common. But there is one constant—my personality hasn't changed from my days as an athlete. I still roll with brains and balls. Try to, anyway. This season I'll be taking on the issues of the league every week. I'll ask folks in the business—players, coaches and front office-types to weigh in. Maybe we'll agree, maybe we won't. But one thing's for sure: I'll always think it through and I won't hesitate to call it like I see it, even if my view isn't the most popular or "comfortable" one. See you next week.

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