Anthony Dilweg, QB—Green Bay Packers, 1991-92
His luck changed in 1992. A strong workout with the Los Angeles Raiders led to a contract. In the process, he got a glimpse of how he was viewed by the NFL establishment. Al Davis, the unpredictable owner of the Raiders, spelled it out the way he saw it.
“The word on you is you’re either half empty or half full,” Davis told him. “No one really knows.” In order to find out, the Raiders allocated Dilweg to the World League of American Football, the NFL’s developmental league. But after two games with the Montreal Machine, he hurt his knee. Told that he had a torn meniscus, he rehabbed the knee and got ready for Oakland’s training camp.
At first, he earned plenty of practice reps. But after the first week, he found himself watching Jay Schroeder, Vince Evans and Todd Marinovich divvy up all the snaps in practice. He remained a bystander through the first couple exhibition games. Finally, he went to Davis and pressed the issue. Dilweg wanted playing time.
“I don’t make the decisions,” Davis told him. “You have to talk to Art Shell.” Shell, the head coach, completed the runaround. He blamed Davis.
It was clear the Raiders had no intention of letting him show off his arm during the preseason. So Dilweg came up with an air attack of his own. During an exhibition game, he chartered a plane to fly over the stadium with a message banner: “AL DAVIS, GIVE ME A CHANCE. DILWEG.”
“That was just my mind trying to be creative and have fun with it,” he says. “All the coaches were pulling for me. I had nothing to lose. What was the worst thing they could do, cut me?”
USA Today ran a photo of the plane, trailing its clever plea. While the stunt scored points with readers and fans, it failed to tickle the organization’s funny bone. The Raiders released Dilweg, adding a third strike against him after an injury and a year out of football. “I’m like the plague now,” Dilweg says.
Rick Lancellotti, OF—SD Padres (1982), SF Giants (1986), Boston Red Sox (1990)
When Lancellotti arrived in San Diego’s clubhouse the next day, Padres manager Dick Williams told him he was penciled into the lineup that night at first base. “This is like yesterday,” Lancellotti says, recalling those first hours in the majors. “I was standing in the on deck circle. I’ve got my San Diego Padres uni on. I’m in the big leagues. I’m 26 years old. I’m looking out at everything. I’m trying to take this all in. I closed my eyes and thought, If I die right now, I’m OK. I died a big leaguer.”
For his first at bat against St. Louis pitcher Joaquin Andujar, Lancellotti kept his objective simple. Whatever you do, he told himself, don’t you dare strike out. “So I’ve got two strikes on me, and I’m digging in, and I strike out. I walk back to the bench and I’m fuming. And a guy’s going, ‘Rick, don’t worry about it. It’s just your first at bat.’ And I go, ‘That’s the problem! It’s my first at bat, and I have to tell my grandkids their grandfather struck out his first time up!’”
Saddled with a messy 0-for-4 after his first game, Lancellotti found his groove in his second start. With the bases loaded, he drove an outside fastball to left-center for a bases-clearing double. “I round first, my helmet flies off. I’m standing at second. (St. Louis manager) Whitey Herzog comes to the mound, pulls Ken Forsch. The place is going crazy. They got my name in lights—Rick Lancellotti’s first major league hit. I’m like, Oh my God, shoot me now!”
Brian Rowsom, F—Indiana Pacers (1987), Charlotte Hornets (1988-90)
Rowsom made two mop-up appearances to start the season before facing the ultimate test in a November game at Utah. Jazz star Karl Malone, the gold standard among power forwards, was putting on a clinic against Wayman Tisdale and center Herb Williams. Pacers coach Jack Ramsey turned to the kid, looking for someone who could slow down Malone. “I was shaking in my pants,” he says. “But of course, I’m on the court with him and I’ve got to show everybody that I can play with this guy supposedly.”
All night, Utah had torched Indiana with long passes to Malone for easy baskets. Nothing changed when Rowsom checked into the lineup. “They would throw the ball down court every time and Malone would score. He made it look easy. It was just like a man against a boy out there. It seemed like an hour.” In reality, his go-round with The Mailman lasted just seven minutes of game action. When he returned to the bench, Rowsom plunged his head into his hands.
“I just thought, Wow, I can’t do this! I cannot play at this level against these guys. I remember specifically thinking that. If you lose your confidence as an athlete, you’re shot. Other teams are going to prey on that.”
Over the next few weeks, he struggled to regain his edge. Even practicing against his teammates did not come easily. “By then, I had been destroyed. It’s like Mike Tyson when he fought Buster Douglas and lost. He was never quite as confident after that. That’s how it was with me in Indiana that first year.”
The Pacers waived Rowsom a few weeks later when a player returned from the injured list. “You learn quickly that it’s a political business. My contract was not guaranteed. It’s easier to cut me than someone who is making $300,000 at the time.” His Indiana career lasted four games. He played just 16 minutes, not nearly enough time to make a strong impression. “You need 16 minutes per game to demonstrate what you can do as a player,” he says.
Pete LeBoutillier, RW—Anaheim Mighty Ducks (1996-98)
In the offseason, Anaheim traded for enforcer Stu Grimson, leaving little opportunity for LeBoutillier. He was stuck fighting opponents on the undercard in Cincinnati, and he struggled to accept that his career had stalled. “When I was 21 or 22, I never thought I deserved to play in the NHL. And now when I’m back in the minors, I’m thinking, Why in the hell am I not playing in the NHL? How could I play at 22 and not at 24? What’s going on? And you get this bitter feeling. That’s the thing I regret the most about playing hockey.
“I remember driving to the rink one night in Cincinnati, and I didn’t want to go to the game. I was like, I’m done. It didn’t matter if I got in a fight or I didn’t.”
But he still had to show up and go through the motions. The job description was the same, whether he dropped his gloves for Anaheim or Cincinnati. And just because there was less at stake in the minors didn’t mean the punches hurt any less or the fear went away. “I still didn’t sleep the night before. I didn’t feel better until I got in a fight because then I knew it was over.”
As far as LeBoutillier was concerned, a fighter’s life had its rewards in the NHL. But if he was going to face a steady diet of fear, sickness and sleepless nights, he did not want to do it for $70,000 in the AHL. Suddenly, hockey didn’t feel so good. With each passing day in the minors, his chances of getting back to the NHL faded. When he thought about life after hockey, a new set of fears set in. “I don’t have any education. What else can I do?” he asked himself.
“I was terrified. I was thinking, I’ve got to play hockey, but I’m not going to make it. And if I stop playing, now I have a wife I have to take care of. There’s so many things you think about."
