Solomon Jones: Jeremiah Trotter: My inspiration
WHEN I HEARD that the Philadelphia Eagles had brought back retired linebacker Jeremiah Trotter for a workout, I thought they were desperate. Then I thought that Omar Gaither - the guy who's been playing middle linebacker since starter Stewart Bradley went down - must be terrible. Finally, I told myself that if Trotter can try to come back and play on bad knees, then I can make a comeback of my own.
WHEN I HEARD that the Philadelphia Eagles had brought back retired linebacker Jeremiah Trotter for a workout, I thought they were desperate. Then I thought that Omar Gaither - the guy who's been playing middle linebacker since starter Stewart Bradley went down - must be terrible. Finally, I told myself that if Trotter can try to come back and play on bad knees, then I can make a comeback of my own.
Granted, I can't do all the things I used to do physically, but just like Trotter, I can make up for that with an uncanny knowledge of the game. That's why I'm going to follow Trotter's example and do something I'm way too old to do.
I'm going back to high school.
This isn't an education thing. I graduated nearly 25 years ago. I just want to give youngsters what Trotter can provide for the Eagles - leadership, insight and a peek into the future.
This time around, I won't be attending Northeast High as a real 17-year-old who's broke and weighs 145 pounds. Nope. I'm gonna be a fake 17-year-old with a job, a gut and the freedom to do what no self-respecting teen would ever do - consistently tell the truth.
Here's how I envision my first day back.
7:30 a.m.
I pull into the parking lot in my new Mercedes 500S - rented, of course. I get out with low-slung jeans and exposed designer boxers, texting on a borrowed iPhone.
"Excuse me," a curvy high school girl says as I pass.
I turn around, poised to reject the attention I never got from girls when I was a skinny adolescent with a TransPass.
"Wuddup?" I say, trying to sound cool.
"You dropped your license, sir. It must have slipped out of your back pocket because your pants are so low."
"My name ain't Sir. It's, um . . . 'S-Money.' "
"Sorry, Mr. Money . . . sir. I was just trying to help. I know older people can be forgetful sometimes."
Angry that my cover is blown, I lean in and whisper the ugly truth. "In 20 years you'll be fat. Now beat it. I've got a kid your age."
8:15 a.m.
First period. A nerd is answering every question in biology class. A jock lobs pieces of paper at him as a girl in a cheerleader outfit laughs. I stop texting and raise my hand.
"Yes, S-Money?" the teacher says.
"I just wanted to tell the class that T.O. back there won't make it to the NFL. In five years he'll be working security at a clothing store and Miss Boom-Boom will be the cashier. So instead of laughing at Poindexter for answering all the questions, they need to be nice to him."
"Why?" T.O. yells out. "Is he gonna be our co-worker?"
"Nope. He's gonna own the store."
11:30 a.m.
I walk into the lunchroom carrying an iPod, a GPS, and a DS. Kids part like the Red Sea as I make my way to the lunch lady, who adjusts her hairnet and bats her eyelashes.
"What can I get for you . . .
S-Money?" she says in a flirty, smoky voice.
A hush falls over the room.
"Ditch the hockey pucks, baby," I say, referring to the Salisbury steaks served in lunchrooms everywhere. "I've got 50 pizzas and a Pepsi truck on the way. I figure the kids should eat it now. In 20 years, the cholesterol won't let them."
Cheers erupt as I hand the lunch lady a roll of lunch tickets. "Keep the change."
3 p.m.
Fifty kids are waiting by my Benz when I walk to the parking lot. The nerd from biology emerges from the crowd and speaks for them all.
"S-Money, how can you predict our futures the way you do?"
I pull up my jeans, look at him and smile. "I'm like that old linebacker named Jeremiah Trotter. I know the game, kid. I know the game."
Solomon Jones' column appears every Saturday. He can be reached at