Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [39]
I went back to Phoenix and started recovery training. Lots of rehab—massage work, lifting weights, all sorts of exercises.
I couldn’t do any directional movement, because I could hardly walk due to how badly my groin was pulled. I was in so much pain at the time that I couldn’t even run in a straight line. No pro-day for me.
Three weeks went by, and my times and weight numbers were picking up, although my groin was healing a lot slower than I would have liked. But just when I was starting to think I had missed my shot at football, the Minnesota Vikings called. They wanted me to come up and work out for them. There was no way I was going to pass up this chance.
I was up front with the Vikings, and told them about my accident. When I worked out for them, they knew I could have done much better if I hadn’t been hurt, and they decided to give me another month to heal, and then they were going to look at me again right before training camp. My injuries were so severe that there was no way I was going to get through an eight-week NFL training camp, but Luke really helped me get back into the best shape I could be in, all things considered.
Once I got to the training camp, it was right back to the Vicodin and anti-inflammatories. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true, and I’m not going to sugarcoat or bullshit anyone in this book. I got through that training camp, and I was probably three-quarters of the man I should’ve been and maybe even less than that. Maybe I was only half the man I should have or could have been—but I was still the last guy cut from the squad.
I was proud of myself. There were guys who trained their whole lives to get to the NFL, and who were superstars for major college football teams, and they got cut. I played a little high school football, jumped on and off the WWE train, worked out with Luke for a few weeks, crashed my bike, busted myself up pretty good, and almost made it.
I know some people didn’t believe me at the time, but getting cut wasn’t a huge deal for me. I never thought of myself as a football player. I was just trying to do anything but pro wrestling. I just wanted to change everything about my life. I went pretty damn far during my little flirtation with the NFL, but when it didn’t work out for me, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was unemployed, and I had a noncompete agreement that said I couldn’t earn a living by being associated with, or appearing for, any wrestling or fighting organization in the world. Except, of course, the one owned by Vince McMahon.
I swallowed my pride, and had David Olsen get in touch with WWE for me. They said that Vince didn’t want me back.
THE SWORD
All of a sudden my problems were mounting. I missed the NFL by an inch. IRS problems. A legal battle over my visitation rights regarding my daughter, Mya. No money coming in, and not that many options left because I signed that stupid noncompete clause with WWE. I had no one to blame but myself. My lawyers warned me not to sign that noncompete agreement, but I was in such a rush to get out of there, I got impatient and put my signature on that piece of paper.
That cost me a lot of time and money. I guess this is where I’m supposed to say “you live and learn,” but it still burns me to this day how much money I lost because they knew I was miserable and wanted to break away from their company.
With all these pressures piling up, one on top of the other, I was depressed. Every day, I was drinking more and more vodka, chasing down more and more Vicodins. This was exactly where I was in WWE, except now I wasn’t pulling in big money anymore. I was quickly burning through what money I had, and I had no clue what I was going to do next. I had walked away from my wrestling career, so that door was shut. Thanks to the noncompete clause, so was every other door, too.
I was angry. I was drunk. I was pilled up. I was going to do damage to someone or something. My first victim? Myself!
I ended up at a biker bar in Phoenix, right next door to which—and this may come as