Seeing as how the holdout of Browns first-round pick Braylon Edwards is getting more ridiculous than even last year's Kellen Winslow Jr. circus, I started to wonder how Braylon passes the days. Biting his nails, no doubt, hanging on the edge of his BarcoLounger, wondering when that phone is going to ring, when he's going to hear those magic words:
"Large pepperoni for Edwards? I'm in the lobby."
A day in the life of Braylon Edwards: August 9, 2005.
12:30 p.m.: "Wake up. No Cocoa Puffs left in the cupboard, so have to settle for Lucky Charms. Too many of those little marshmallows make my teeth hurt."
1:24 p.m.: "Shower for approximately 45 minutes. Watch 'Pimp My Ride' on the cable-ready shower TV my high-school coach bought me as draft present. Draw fake play diagrams on the shower door condensation. Always a pass play to yours truly, of course."
2:20 p.m.: "Get dressed, which basically consists of throwing on a new t-shirt and basketball shorts. A least I think they're new. They smell kind of rank. I pulled them out of pile at the base of my dresser, so I really have no idea if they're clean or not. Every article of lounge and workout clothing I own is gray, maize and blue, so it makes discerning dirty from clean kind of hard. I miss the days when I could go home and have Mom do my laundry."
2:22 p.m.: "Resume watching TV. Sip on a bottle of Arctic Shock Gatorade (the kind that turns your tongue blue). Soap opera. Soap opera. "The View." "Real World" (seen that one about a hundred times already.) SportsCenter. Another first-round pick signed. Can't watch it. ESPN Classic has some wack tennis highlights on."
3:40 p.m.: "Lunch consists of cold pizza, Doritos and more Gatorade. Afterward, I can hear my conditioning coach from U of M telepathically yelling at me for my poor eating choices, so I appease him by eating an orange."
4:05 p.m.: "Daily phone conversation with agent. Nothing new on the contract front, but he assures me I am still the best player taken in the draft, and we won't settle for anything less than best-player money. Tells me the Browns are nothing without me. I'm the franchise, he says. I'm the future. I'm already the best receiver on the team simply by virtue of being drafted. As he keeps talking, I realize I have an itch in the spot on my back where I can't reach. After several seconds of contorting myself, I get up and scratch against a doorway. Relief. Now what was he saying?"
4:30 p.m.: "Daily workout. Every athlete needs to keep training. I have a neighborhood kid fling me some passes. After six reps, I'm done. Don't want to go too hard. I have a whole season ahead of me."
4:35 p.m.: "Homies come over. Spend next six hours playing Xbox and blasting hip-hop tunes from my sick new speaker system. Dinner is pizza for the 10th straight night."
11 p.m.: "Head out to the clubs. Homies get hammered. I'm the designated driver. Can't drink because I don't want to do something stupid and wind up on the police blotter. My agent called it the 'Kellen Winslow rule,' whatever that means."
2:56 a.m.: "Arrive back home. Dog tired. Hit the sack. Life as an NFL rookie sure is hard."
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