THE MIDDLE MEN

You walk to the line of scrimmage, 10 pounds of equipment strapped on for protection and 300 pounds of Eric Swann waiting when you get there.

Several sets of inquisitive eyes peer at you, searching for a sign of weakness or tip-off of timidity. If they find it, you’re a beaten man. If you’re beaten regularly, your team probably will be, too and you’ll be out of a job.

This is the NFL and centers are at ground zero.

The thousands in the $40 seats and $50,000 luxury suites, the millions in living rooms or neighborhood taverns are preoccupied with the Elways, Favres and Deions, rather than the Dawsons, Everitts and Glovers in the trenches.

Only a mistake makes you a household name.

“You’re like a traffic cop--everybody is depending on you, and everything breaks down if you do,” says the Steelers’ Dermontti Dawson, the best center in football.

Quarterback of the offensive line may be more accurate.

As the play clock ticks down, you must study the defense, recognize it and analyze the blocking scheme, amending it if necessary. Meanwhile, the man with his hands pressed against your rear is doing the same and the thinking must be synchronized.

Ever seen Mike Webster’s hands? He’s a Hall of Famer, maybe the greatest center ever, but his hands are as crooked as a West Virginia country road. Few have ever played the game as intelligently or forcefully as the Dolphins’ Dwight Stephenson, but his legs could stand the punishment for only eight years.

And those are success stories. Think about the failures and . . . well, you don’t dare think about them.

“If I ever thought about those things, I’d probably retire,” says Steve Everitt of the Philadelphia Eagles.

The play starts.

The nose tackle is lined up inches from your face. Will he come alone or will there be a double team designed to occupy you while a linebacker or safety blows by?

You locate the linebackers and watch for a quick stare at an open lane, a telltale weight shift, or a foot movement indicating a drop into pass coverage. You try to ignore the noise, because a split-second of lost concentration can lead to a penalty or a total breakdown.

“The large majority is mental,” says the Bills’ Dusty Zeigler. “You really have to know your Xs and Os. If you’re a confused player, you can’t be an aggressive player.”

That safety who has just lined up beside the defensive end: Is he a decoy who will drop back into coverage as soon as the ball is snapped? Or will he try to whiz by your left tackle, soon to be alone in open space.

Yet you never asked for this job--nobody ever does. Maybe some assistant coach in high school or college liked your attitude, intelligence or foot speed, so here you are.

“I never wanted to be a center, and I don’t know many that did,” Dawson says. “You know how I found out I was a center? (Former Steelers coach) Chuck Noll walked up to me in a hallway and said he wanted me to switch from guard. From that moment on, I was a center.”

Others tell similar tales, of aborted careers at guard, tackle or even fullback. Most have long since reconciled themselves to never scoring a touchdown or having their own Nike commercial.

Then there’s the pain.

Centers are experts at it--they often spend 11 months a year hurting.

A running back or wide receiver may get hit once every three or four plays, but a center is pummeled, pushed, poked and punished every play, every game, every season. As a result, many don’t walk away from football--they limp.

Many of today’s centers are so familiar with the whirlpools or Jacuzzis in their homes, they could deliver sales pitches for them.