Chapter 2: Football Is Life

Chapter Two:  Football is Life

Trick Patterson, whose given name was actually Patrick Patterson, was just finishing up his senior year at The University of Montana. He learned to love Montana after transferring to the U three and a half years ago in 2004 from Butte Community College in Oroville, California. Trick had aspirations of being a football player growing up in Sacramento but was told he was too small to play at a Division One school so he spent two years at Butte and when the scouts didn’t come knocking from the big universities, he settled on Montana.

            Trick arrived on campus at the University, six-feet three-inches tall and weighing in at 224 pounds. He played tight end for Butte but at that weight, defensive ends, even in the Big Sky Conference, would eat him up. On the field, he played mean and never let his size be an obstacle. Off the field, he was a Teddy bear. Regardless of his attitude or his fearless play, however, Trick new he was going to have to put on some weight to compete.

            That first year in Missoula, Trick took a part-time job at a Perkin’s Restaurant. His parents had some money, but they weren’t rich by any means. Trick worked for everything he got and wasn’t relying on them to pave his way. It wasn’t so much out of defiance but more pride for being able to take care of himself. He was more of a giver than receiver and just liked the idea of being self-reliant.

            While working at Perkin’s, he met Mike Morley, an ex-con and newly born-again Christian. Mike had gotten into bodybuilding while in prison in Deer Lodge, Montana. He was sent away for a combined burglary and aggravated assault charge in Anaconda five years prior to Trick coming to Montana.

Mike was coming down from an opioid high and was desperate for his next fix and didn’t know the owner of the Georgetown Lake cottage would be home. He was a victim of the second wave of opioid abuse to hit the States where doctors started prescribing pain meds like Vicodin for non-surgical and non-cancer pain relief. He was working on a home in Bozeman and fell off the roof and cracked a vertebra in his lower-lumbar. A couple doses a day turned into a dozen and when the pills ran out, he had to find another way to relieve himself--not from the pain, but from the intense hangovers and withdrawals as the drug left his body. Mike turned to heroine. He wasn’t able to build houses anymore, so he started ‘finding’ ways to come up with the money to support his addiction.

To be fair, “cottage” doesn’t really represent what this home was. It was 3200 square foot house on the lake that was probably worth more than the total of all the homes combined on the block in Anaconda where Mike’s parents lived. Mike was staying with them while he was trying to get back on his feet.  

Mike entered the home in the afternoon on an October day in 2000. He was looking for items he could turn quick in order to make some money for his next high. He knew the guy who owned the home was into music and had a number of guitars sitting out on stands that were worth some money. Just looking through the windows into the guy’s den, Mike could see an old Martin D-18 and an original American Strat. He had cased the house a few days ago and was doing the math in his head. He figured he could get around $2,800 combined for the two.

            What Mike didn’t know is this guy was an author and was back at the home to do some writing. It’s a pretty common theme in this area. The lake is gorgeous and rich folk come from all over the country to be inspired. With the advent of the internet, a successful executive or author could work remotely at any time of the day or night and send their work off to their teams back in Silicon Valley or publishers in New York. It was quickly becoming a trend for out-of-staters to buy up properties like this on George Town Lake to build lavish get-aways and mountain retreats. 

            The owner of the home heard Mike break one of the windowpanes out of the French doors leading into the den. He was in the bathroom just off the master suite.  He grabbed whatever he had available to him, which happened to be one of the guitar stands for another guitar he had on display in the bedroom—not the stoutest of weapons. When the owner confronted Mike and swung the stand at him, Mike had no problem blocking the attack and turning the inferior weapon back on him.

            Mike broke the stand over the owner’s head and then proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. Mike was desperate and scared and out of control. He only stopped beating the man once the man’s body went limp and could no longer defend himself or his property. Mike didn’t even know if the man was still alive when he fled the scene with the Fender American Strat in hand.

Desperate people looking for a fix don’t usually make very good decisions. Mike made the mistake of trying to sell the guitar on the Craig’s List a couple days later and was arrested within a week. He was sent to Deer Lodge, where he found rehab, then Jesus, then weightlifting.

             That was four years ago at this point and Mike was trying to make amends. He had gone through the twelve steps. He had even apologized to the homeowner. When he met Trick, he saw a person he might have something he could give something to. Mike was in good shape, although not to the bodybuilding level he had gotten to while in prison. He was still jacked though and knew Trick needed help putting on weight. One day in the breakroom at Perkin’s, Mike confronted Trick.

            “You play for the Griz,” Mike asked, trying to open the door for a conversation.

            “Well, ‘play’ is a little generous,” answered Trick. “I transferred here this fall from a community college in California. I’m trying to make the team.”  

            “Position?”

            “Tight-end,” Trick answered with a slight hint of trepidation.

            “It’s your size, isn’t it?” Mike asked, cocking his head to the side and looking out of the bottom corners of his eyes.

            Mike had this way about him. He was kind of eccentric, which one could imagine came from the drugs and maybe being institutionalized but this was more childlike and enduring. His laugh was a bit over-the-top. When he laughed, which was often, he did that thing where he would cock his head and look out of the corners of his eyes. His teeth were perfectly straight and when he smiled, his lips would open wide so those teeth were on full-on display. Then he would let out a whiny little chuckle as sort of a bookend to his laugh trailing off into that sideways look. He was right out of a comic book like the Joker or Penguin or a combination of the two but much less sinister.

            At first, Trick didn’t know how to take Mike. What was his game? What did he want? He was uncomfortable with the question and how Mike was opening himself up almost playfully. Was he playing a game? Was he needling?

            “I could help out with that,” Mike said.

            Thinking the worst, like maybe Mike was offering steroids or something Trick replied with a, “nah, I’m good.”

            “It’s all legit,” Mike pushed. “No tricks, no gimmicks. Just a lot of ass-kicking weights and diet.”

            Mike was persistent and the more Trick got to know him, the less uncomfortable the interactions with Mike became. In fact, Trick felt himself being drawn in--actually even seeking out those interactions. Mike was funny. He had a good heart. He made everyone around him laugh. He was the opposite of the small child, who would take on adult traits that would make the parent’s friends laugh. Mike was a full-on adult and a large one at that but had the innocent demeanor of a child. With all he’d been through, Mike exuded a joyfulness that Trick just wanted to be around. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He just worked his ass off and spent much of the time laughing while he did.

            That winter, Trick took Mike up on his offer. As a red-shirt transfer student, Trick flew under the radar of coaches and could pretty much train however he wanted and with whomever he wanted. It was up to him to take the necessary strides to make the team.

            Mike was true to his word. He worked with Trick four days a week. They spent all their time in the weight-room changing things up and tricking his body into building mass. Mike didn’t believe in supplements. He believed in eating, which was perfect as they had endless supplies of protein working for the restaurant. In 4 months, Trick put on 22 pounds and showed up to camp weighing 246 pounds with a body-fat index of 4.7%. He was ripped.

            Trick’s second year at Montana, he was taken off the red-shirt list and started seeing significant playing time. He was able to take on defensive ends in blocking assignments and had the hands to become a serious offensive weapon. His final year at Montana, he was on-track to set all the Big Sky Conference, tight-end records for total yards and scoring until he was injured mid-season while playing their biggest in-state rival, the Bobcats.  

            The injury was far from career ending. It was more of a tweak as his ankle was rolled up on by their half-back while Trick was sealing the edge on a sweep. It was more of a nuisance but lingered throughout the rest of the season until the Griz made the play-offs and Trick was able to contribute again.

            Between the first 6 games of the season and those final play-off games, Trick was able to turn the heads of a lot of scouts for the NFL. There was even talk that he might be drafted somewhere in the first three rounds, which is amazing when you consider all the talent coming out of the D-1 schools.

            Trick was invited to the NFL Combine in the winter of 2008. He was still on the small side for tight-ends in the NFL but he showed he had the heart and the attitude to put the work in and be a leader. Coaches liked him. He had talent and he had the right work ethic and he was on the rise. With the right training regimen, scouts and coaches believed Trick could put on a little more weight and become the tight end they needed.

               As a break from the training that first year in Missoula, Mike and Trick would go fly-fishing. Trick had never been, but Mike had learned from his grandpa when he was very young. It was a way to supplement the physical training with learning the life lessons that fly-fishing had to offer. It kept Trick’s mind in the right place when things got tough. It also helped Mike stay on his path to recovery. Mike would remember the lessons his grandpa would teach him through fly-fishing and felt like he could pass that along to Trick now.

            It was in that first late winter that Trick and Mike started working out together when Mike brought up this idea of control and what we all can control and what we should be focused on. It was a particularly challenging time for Trick. All through high school and the first two years at Butte Community College, he was a starter. He never had to worry about being beaten out for a position. It’s not as if he didn’t work hard, but he just never had anyone really challenge him for his spot on the team. At Missoula, that all changed because the talent was so much better than where he came from. It wasn’t something he was familiar with and it was causing a lot of stress and doubt for him.

            They were fishing one day on the Bitterroot near Missoula. Trick was still in the learning stage of even getting his line out into the river far enough to where a trout wouldn’t come up to his fly and turn tail as it saw his shadow, refusing the imitation. But he was getting it. He was learning to be patient on his back cast, letting his rod load, and “painting the ceiling.”

            Trick couldn’t remember how many times he heard Mike say, “It’s not chopping wood, it’s painting the ceiling.”

            The shape of the cast was a mystery to Trick. How could Mike work so effortlessly, even into the wind, to lay out 30 or 40 feet of line like it was nothing?

            “Paint the ceiling….” It was always in Trick’s head even though he couldn’t fully execute it.

            Inevitably, Trick would get frustrated and try harder and harder with more might than finesse and his cast would fall shorter and shorter in a bigger and bigger pile. The harder he would throw his line, the worse it got and then he would hear Mike shout at him from across the river, “Paint the ceiling!”

            The idea is if you chop wood with your casting motion, you are creating an open loop with your fly-line whereas all the momentum is lost at the top of your cast. By painting the ceiling, you are using a motion that keeps the rod-tip on plane right up until the end of the cast, building momentum as the rod-tip moves forward. It compresses the loop and generates power, rolling the fly-line through the air and wind.

            It was skwala time on the Bitterroot when the cast finally started coming together for Trick. Skwalas are fairly large stoneflies that hatch in late winter on the freestones in Montana. The Bitterroot was known for this skwala hatch, which brings people from all over the country to fish it. The river can get pretty busy during this time because of how epic the hatch can be and what it can do to bring lethargic fish to the surface. But with all the anglers coming to the river, finding an opening in the river to fish where a dozen boats hadn’t already gone through is just as much a part of the game as matching these big bugs.

            Mike had got word that the hatch was on from another buddy in Missoula. The weather for early March was going to be gorgeous with some sun and temps in the mid 50’s, so he called up Trick to go out for an afternoon. The plan was to drive up to Darby to a fishing access site and wade upstream. That would get them into water where boats had yet to roll through as they would be putting in at Darby and floating down. They would have a few hours to fish before the boats from the upstream access site would come through.

            It was about 1 o’clock when they saw the first skwala. The two were fishing a riffle with little to no success when a bug that resembled a helicopter came fluttering out of the sky to settle on the water. As the big bug touched the water a small cutthroat rose with a vengeance, coming clear out of the water to inhale it. When it missed, another trout tried to crush the skwala and then other until finally, the big bug disappeared as a final, more prolific trout finally snatched it down.

            “Did you see that?” Mike yelled as he laughed and did his ‘Joker’ little chuckle. “They’re comin!”

            Trick was amazed. They had been fishing this riffle with prince nymphs and Royal Wulff’s for the past hour and hadn’t seen or touched a fish. Now this bug hits the water and the entire riffle lights up with fish busting out, trying to beat their cohorts to the punch. One bug and the feeding frenzy exploded.

            “Here! Throw this out there!” Mike says with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old as he ties a big dry-fly onto Trick’s leader.

            Trick takes a cast but with the excitement, he’s too quick on the back cast and the fly and line falls in a big mess, well short of the riffle.

            “You knitting sweaters?” Mike asks. “Wait on your back-cast.”

            Mike untangles the mess and says, “Throw it again.”

            This time, Trick threw his line into his back-cast, paused for a moment, letting the line straighten out behind him and while painting the ceiling, laid the fly-line out across the riffle letting the big skwala imitation land softly on the water. As it drifted down through the riffle, the anticipation of a trout smashing it built in both of them. They watched as the fly tumbled down the riffle. Nothing.

            As the fly drifted to the length of line Trick had fed out; now swinging downstream, Mike said, “Throw it again.”

            Trick stripped in the excess line, picked up the fly, took two false-casts, and sent the bug back into the riffle. Again, the two watched the fly float through the riffle with anticipation of one of those aggressive little cutties crushing it. That didn’t happen. What did happen was much more subtle as the nose of a trout slowly poked through the surface of the water and gulped the fly down.

            “Oh! Get ‘em!” Yelled Mike.

            As Trick came tight on this monster of a cutthroat, all hell broke loose and panic ensued. This fish was bigger than anything either one of them was expecting. It rolled and head-shaked and then took a run upstream, right through the riffle.

            As the trout ran, Trick put a death grip on the cork of his rod and the fly-line. His rod-tip came down to the water, straightening out, putting all the pressure of that fish on the tippet material and with a snap, his rod-tip popped back up above his head and his fly-line went limp. There wasn’t even a fly left; just the leader dangling in the water, getting swept back down through the riffle. The monster cutty was gone.

            “Let ‘em run!” Mike shouted but it was too late.

            “Fuck an A!” Trick blurted out. “Did you fucking see that thing?”

            “All right. So, here’s the deal.” Mike cut in. “There are only two things you can control while fighting a trout; the rod-tip and your fly-line. You can’t play tug-a-war with the fish because they’re always going to win. Control what you can control. Get ahold of that fly-line and keep a bend in the rod. If your rod is up and it straightens out, you need to put more pressure on him. But if that rod tip comes down and it straightens out, you’re holding way too tight. You just gotta let ‘em run. Put just enough pressure on him to keep tight and eventually, you’ll win the battle but you can’t force it. You can’t make that trout do something before he’s ready. Control what you can control and don’t worry so much about what that trout is doing or how big that trout is…or, was in your case.”

            Mike laughs and gives Trick a shove. “It’s fishing, Tricky, Trick. It’s just fishing.”

            That was a profound lesson for Trick and it set him up for the next few years at the University of Montana. He realized it wasn’t just his battle with that trout where this idea of control applied. It was also on the playing field or in the locker room or the weight-room. Trick needed to put on weight, which he could do. What he couldn’t do is worry about what other players were doing or who was getting playing time or being moved off the red-shirt list. He just needed to work his ass off and he did and because of that, Trick had set himself up to make a career out of football. He was invited to the 2008 NFL Combine and was sure to be drafted. He had the world in front of him.

            Mike’s life had turned around as well. He was engaged to a girl he met at the nondenominational church he was attending in Missoula. Her name was Sara Rossi, a 28-year-old Italian girl from the Yaak Valley in Northwestern Montana. With her rich auburn hair, she was gorgeous and a thinker; graduating from Missoula with a master’s degree in psychology. She wanted to save the world and often spent her time volunteering with organizations like The Boys and Girls Club and Montana Food Share. 

Rehab for Mike had gone well, with no relapses and no missed appointments with his parole officer. He had gotten his life back on track and was set to get married in the fall of 2008. He was also back to building houses, which between his job and his fiancé’s position as a crisis counselor in the ER, they were able to scrape enough money together to put a down payment on an old miner’s house up Rattlesnake Creek just outside of Missoula.   

 Life got busy for both Mike and Trick, but they remained close friends. They fished together on occasion, although not nearly as much as they would like. They hung out almost every Sunday afternoon to watch football in the fall and lunches with Sara when there wasn’t football. As much as Sara hated the ego and bravado that usually came with jocks she knew from the University, she saw Trick as being different than “those” guys. She respected Trick and valued the friendship he and Mike shared. She also saw that Mike benefited just as much from the lessons he was sharing with Trick as Trick was. Mike was proud of Trick and proud of himself for being able to help. He felt valued and that kept him on his road to recovery.

 Trick was on the path he had always dreamt of as well. It wasn’t a given that he would make a team in the NFL but barring any major catastrophe, he was going to get his chance. He was nervous and

excited all at the same time. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy but he had his chance. He was going to make the most of it.