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Summary
Summary
Ex-NFL player, gentleman scholar, and Fox Sports personality Marcellus Wiley sucks you into a world of inner-city violence, Ivy League intrigue, and pro-football escapades that's one part touching, one part hilarious, and all parts impossible to put down.
Marcellus Wiley has never had a problem expressing his opinion, whether it was growing up in Compton with a football tucked under his arm, or going to college at Columbia University, where he learned to survive Advanced Calculus and self-important pseudo-intellectuals. Or making it to the NFL against all odds, where he put together a ten-year career of massive paydays, massive painkillers, and massive sacks of everyone from Steve Young to Peyton Manning.
Now, in Never Shut Up , Fox Sports' hottest rising persona doesn't hold back as he goes off on everything that's controversial with the game today, from concussions to political protests to inherent violence that's worse than the hood he grew up in. Not because he hates football, but because he wants to save it.
Marcellus has never held back, even when a lot of people wanted him to. Now, he's letting it all hang out--right there on each page. Way more than just another book about the latest NFL scandals, this warm, moving, and genuinely funny story of awkward transitions, family loyalty, fame, fortune, and failure will make you fall in love with Marcellus--and football--all over again.
In Never Shut Up , Marcellus will take you on a truly unique journey from Crenshaw to Broadway to the Buffalo Bills and back again, sometimes making you laugh, sometimes making you cry, but always leaving you entertained.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Former All-Pro NFL star Wiley shares his rags-to-riches story in this powerful memoir, beginning with his childhood in gang-ruled South Central L.A., where he felt surrounded by violence and people with "low ambition." A late bloomer, he bulked up physically playing high school football and, in 1992, was accepted to and attended Columbia University and studied sociology, choosing quality of education over a college football program. From there, Wiley writes of his post-graduation career as he joined the NFL as the 52nd pick of the second round of the 1997 draft for the Buffalo Bills, then shuffled between the San Diego Chargers, Dallas Cowboys, and Jacksonville Jaguars as a defensive end. Following his retirement in 2006, he landed a cohost spot on ESPN's SportsNation before leaving for Fox Sports in 2018. Throughout, he is vocal on the mental and physical health of post-NFL players, the financial future of the athletes, the debate over players kneeling during the national anthem, and his pain-filled days after leaving the gridiron ("By the time I retired from pro football, I was like Pablo Escobar with all the dope I had stored up," he writes upon discovering old bottles of painkillers). Bold, chatty, and irreverent, Wiley's memoir is an excellent look at life during and after pro football. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
NFL veteran and sportscaster Wiley holds forth on the world.You might not guess it by looking at him, but the author was bullied as a kid. The opening episode of his memoir finds him in South Central Los Angeles in 1982, when he was 7, dealing with a rough moment over a game of tetherballless innocent than it sounds, perhaps, given the fierce war between Crips and Bloods and the general fear of the place and time. He discovered a favored coping mechanism early on: "I'd turn on my heel and run like hell. Lucky for me, I was fast as shit, even at a really young age, so it almost always worked." It didn't always work, of course, but he went on to earn a scholarship to Columbia University, where a kid who was living not long before on food stamps ("almost shelter-level poor") was suddenly a star on campus and taking a greater part in shaping his own fate. "The more time I spent among the scholarly wolves," he writes meaningfully, "the more I learned how not to be a sheep." When he joined the Buffalo Bills, Wiley learned more, especially how to manage the money and celebrity that came with being a tough defensive end on a marquee team. A few years of playing and a few teams later, and the author was better-known and wealthier still, but he was also realizing that he didn't enjoy hitting and getting hit as much as he used toand that the fistfuls of painkillers he was taking weren't doing much good. "It was like the car engine was dead," he writes, "I couldn't even gun the engine, you know?" His wife-to-be helped him clean out his medicine cabinet and his life, he writes, even as he wrestled with the damage wrought by his years on the gridiron ("Pedialyte will always be my best friend").An effective sports memoir, inspiring, good-natured, and sometimes rueful. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
Wiley had a solid, if unspectacular, 10-year career in the NFL. What makes this memoir memorable, however, isn't his on-field performance, but his recounting of how he plotted each step of his journey. Wiley was born in Compton, Califronia, a difficult place to grow up, offering many opportunities to take the wrong path. Wiley describes a stable childhood in which he had two loving, caring parents. It made all the difference. As his football prowess increased, he had the chance to attend a college with a top football program, but he instead chose Columbia University, thinking that an Ivy League degree would give him the best chance at a successful career if pro football didn't work out. How many 18-year-old athletes make that decision? Well, the pro-football thing worked out just fine, but he focuses equally on what happened afterward, including his smooth transition into sports media (he is currently on the staff at Fox Sports). There are plenty of football anecdotes and insider observations here to please fans, but Wiley's book will also appeal to anyone who values self-awareness, determination, and hard work.--Wes Lukowsky Copyright 2018 Booklist
Library Journal Review
From the streets of Los Angeles to the Ivy League gridiron and National Football League (NFL), Wiley has lived and played football with his heart firmly on his sleeve. A tight-knit family, burning inner drive, and undeniable athletic talent led him from Compton to Columbia University, where he met social and academic challenges head-on, followed by a successful ten-year NFL career. Wiley's conversational narrative has an unabashed honesty, taking readers through the agony of waiting to hear his name called in the NFL draft to dealing with injuries, the ups and downs of a season, and the weight of expectations. A poignant exploration of how he feels about his own son playing football is characteristic of Wiley's thoughtful approach to the obstacles he's faced. VERDICT A candid, thoroughly appealing autobiography from an NFL player-turned-television personality who has crossed boundaries and achieved success at every level. Wiley's engaging voice makes this a solid choice for public library sports collections.-Janet Davis, Darien P.L., CT © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
INTRODUCTION THE CAMERA CREW got to our apartment at six in the morning that Saturday. A whole team from CNN--sound, makeup, producers, the whole deal--squeezed into my tiny childhood home in South Central, there to broadcast live during the 1997 draft. This was the same place I had grown up. Sharing a room with my sister that wasn't even a room, just a nook with a sheet hung up for privacy. Listening to NWA songs about shootings and drugs and gangs, about things I saw every day on the streets. Sitting on the floor my freshman year of high school, staring into space as I iced my aching, inflamed knees, wondering if I'd ever achieve my NFL dreams and get my family out of the hood. Now, after all those years, all those struggles, here was a CNN camera crew right in our living room to watch as I finally got chosen by some team, any team, to play in the League. Of course, first they had to figure out how to fit all their shit into the damn place. By the time they unloaded all their gear, all their equipment, all their mics and cameras, we looked around and realized there was nowhere left for any actual people to sit! The CNN guys took a look around, scratched their heads, and promptly got rid of half their stuff, making barely enough room for me and my family to watch my fate unfold on TV. A lot of the potential first‑round picks were actually attending the draft, which was in New York City, but I didn't get a formal invite. I'd flown myself home for the weekend, using some of the money from my agent's advance. Besides, I wanted the world to see my roots, see where I was from, a background I was both proud of and fought every day to improve on. I also wanted to be around plenty of my friends and family--to help me through both potential "oh shit" moments. That's "Oh shit, I just got picked in the first round and let's party" or "Oh shit, it's the seventh round and are these people ever gonna call my damn name?" I was projected to go somewhere in the first couple rounds, but that's the thing about draft projections. No matter what Mel Kiper might say, he wasn't the one signing the contracts. It all came down to the teams, and no one--no one--could predict exactly what they'd do. I settled in with Mama, my dad, Grandma, my sister, Tiki, and my best friend, Jabari, and every other uncle, second cousin, and halfway former acquaintance from down the block who could cram into our place. When a kid from the block was about to make it big, everyone wanted a piece. Because we were on the West Coast, three hours behind the New York broadcast, it was early as hell, but I was so pumped my eyes were peeled wide open. I knew there was no way I'd get chosen in the first few picks--those spots were reserved for college superstars, not standouts like me from Columbia University, an Ivy League school with a notorious history of awful football teams. But I didn't care, I was still listening to those announcements with every cell of my ear canal. I wasn't even waiting for my name, a syllable or two would've been enough to set me off. Mmmaaaa-- Mmmmmaaaaarrrrr-- Mmmmmmmaaaaarrrrcelllll-- Give me a sound, baby! That's all I need! I'm begging you! But no. Pick one came, and the name I heard didn't start with an "M." "Orlando Pace, of Ohio State!" Oh yeah, I forgot that everyone in the world knew number one was gonna be Pace. Shit, I needed to chill! Okay, fuck that, time to focus on number two. "Darrell Russell, of USC!" Okay, alright. I knew Russell would be up there too, that made sense. Just had to look at three. "Shawn Springs, of Ohio State!" Fine, fine! So I wasn't gonna be three. No one even thought I would be three, whatever. On to the next one. And the next, and the next. What really killed me, though, wasn't even the names that were popping out. It was the wait between each announcement. That wait had always seemed easy in past years, when I had been watching for fun--minutes upon minutes spent interviewing the most recent pick, talking to the usual sports prognosticators, and, of course, giving the teams time for all their backroom deals and machinations--but now? When I was an actual prospect? When it was my life on the line? That wait felt interminable. Finally, right around pick fifteen, I started hearing those magic "Marcellus" syllables. Hold up, hold up--not because I was actually chosen , nothing that good. But because Mel and all the other talking heads thought I was finally in range. One of the top five or six best available prospects, who could get picked literally any minute. Alright, cool, I thought. So I can be top twenty. I'm good with that, totally chill. All while sitting on the edge of my seat and gritting my teeth down to the damn roots. Shit! There went number twenty. And before I knew it, twenty-four. And then twenty‑eight. By now, my name was at the very top of Mel's list of dudes who hadn't been selected yet. Fine, I thought. Second round it is. Every now and then CNN would check in on me, ask me how I was doing. I'd give them my usual big smile, admit that I was feeling nervous--both because I was and because I knew that's what they wanted to hear, what made for a good story. But deep down, at the bottom of my soul, I still felt good, still felt confident about everything. See, I was playing with house money. No one-- no one-- had expected me to get this far. I had grown up with so many guys who played college ball at the big, flashy schools, the USCs, the Notre Dames, the Florida States. But where were they now? None of them were projected to go as high as I was in the draft. Hell, none of them even got invited to the combine! They had faced huge expectations and hadn't lived up to any of them, despite all the advantages, despite doing exactly what they were supposed to do. I, on the other hand, had made my own path. I had always strived to be true to myself. To embrace my individuality and never follow the herd. To do everything I could to help my family in my own unique way. I could've gone to a major football program in a premier conference if I had wanted to. But I chose to put my education first instead, to get an Ivy League degree as my safety net in case football didn't work out. So I went to a school no one in my neighborhood had ever even heard of, and now, here I was, on the cusp of making it to the NFL. Did I want to go high up? Of course. The higher you went, the more guaranteed money you were likely to get in your contract. But as long as I got in, as long as I made it into the League, I'd be happy no matter what the round. I had made my own path in the past, and I could do it again. As the names and the minutes passed by, I started to zone out. All the emotional swings, all the anticipation and waiting, not to mention that early‑ass morning, were taking a toll. For hours I had been watching the TV, then suddenly it felt like the TV was watching me. I closed my eyes, just for a little, I told myself. Not to fall asleep, just to take a rest. Just to relax for a couple quick minutes. "Alright!" My peace was shattered by that single word from my dad, a man of very few words who generally only expressed happiness when Emmitt Smith and his beloved Cowboys did something amazing on the field. But this time, this word was for me. "ALRIGHT!" I opened my eyes, shook my head until the fog cleared from my mind, and it hit me--I just got drafted. The next thing I was aware of was simply screaming. My daddy was screaming, my mama was screaming, everyone was screaming. I looked at the TV and saw my name next to a big blue‑and‑red logo. I was the fifty‑second pick of the draft, selected in the second round by the Buffalo Bills. "Bruce Smith!" was the very first sound that came out of my mouth. Followed very closely by "Marv Levy!" At this point, the Bills of that era are remembered more for losing four Super Bowls in a row than anything else. But remember--to lose those Super Bowls, they had to get there first. They were a good fucking team, starring Bruce Smith, the greatest defensive end to ever put on a helmet. To me, it felt like the universe had put me in the ideal situation. D‑end was my position too. I was physically gifted, yes--that's why the Bills were taking a gamble on me--but I was also incredibly raw. I only had two years' experience playing my position, something almost unheard of for a second‑round NFL draftee. And here I was about to play alongside the best D‑end in the business. That wasn't intimidating--that was a chance to learn, to grow, to hone my technique. "ALRIGHT THEN!" My dad was officially setting a record for word count. The phone rang, and if shit wasn't already real, it got even realer. "Hi, Marcellus," the voice on the other end said. "Congratulations!" It was John Butler, the Bills general manager--a man I had never met who was now officially my favorite person in the world. "Are you ready to be a Buffalo Bill?" "Yessir," I said. "Hold on, I want to let you talk to your coach." He put Coach Levy on, and I barely remember a word he said. All I could think was, I'm sitting in my tiny apartment off Slauson Avenue in South Central LA, surrounded by my family, my friends, and a CNN camera crew, and I'm on the phone with Marv Levy of the Buffalo Bills . My crazy‑ass life had gotten even crazier. And it was just getting started. Excerpted from Never Shut Up: The Life, Opinions, and Unexpected Adventures of an NFL Outlier by Marcellus Wiley All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.Table of Contents
Introduction | p. 1 |
Chapter 1 Finding My Own Path, And Getting My Ass Beat Along the Way | p. 9 |
Chapter 2 One More Rep For Janet Jackson | p. 34 |
Chapter 3 The Game Within The Game At Columbia U | p. 54 |
Chapter 4 Bwaaa! All the Way to the NFL | p. 80 |
Chapter 5 "Wild Style" and the Story of Bruce Smith's Shoes | p. 106 |
Chapter 6 At The Top Looking Down | p. 132 |
Chapter 7 Dat Dude Goes To SM Diego | p. 160 |
Chapter 8 What's Your word? | p. 183 |
Chapter 9 The Reverend Of Jacksonville | p. 198 |
Chapter 10 Exactly Me | p. 218 |
Chapter 11 A Real Hydration Situation | p. 236 |
Chapter 12 Bigger Than Me | p. 256 |
Acknowledgments | p. 273 |