The result? A half-hour tryout without pads followed by a few long weeks of waiting for a phone call you don't really want to receive.

No, I'm not talking about finally picking up the girl of your dreams in a bar, I'm talking about walking onto the Penn State football team.

Twice a year, about 30 to 70 of us dreamers give it one more shot. Maybe it's love for the game. It could be that we still think we're in high school. Or maybe we've just watched Rudy one too many times.

In my case, I just miss football. It is the only sport in the world where you can literally kill somebody and get rewarded a college scholarship for it.

A 5-foot-6, 160-pound offensive guard, I wasn't very attractive to college scouts. I might have found a place on a Div. III or NAIA team, but when I had to make a decision on what college to attend, I chose Penn State to get an education rather than Muskingum or Hiram to get drunk every night.

Many of the other guys who tried out with me Monday would tell you a similar story.

So, three years and 40 pounds since I last put on a helmet, I made my fourth attempt to walk onto the team that Paterno built. As was the case during my three previous failures, football tryouts at Penn State aren't anything like the one Sean Astin's character went through in Rudy.

It doesn't last three days. We don't wear pads. We don't workout with the rest of the team. JoePa is not walking around in the background.

Basically, when you try out for Penn State, you're told from the beginning that the few guys who make the team are just there to fill locker space. You're told you probably will never be invited to two-a-days, let alone ever get the chance to play in a real game.

So much for encouragement.

Monday, we aspiring student-athletes arrived at Holuba Hall well before the time we were supposed to arrive. However, 40 nervous, jittery guys had to sweat it out for at least 45 minutes while the real team finished a workout.

When we finally got out onto the turf, we loosened up for a few minutes before being split into four groups. Each group was assigned to one of four stations -- 40-yard dash, NFL line test, standing broad jump and some wacky drills where we ran around cones.

My group began with the 40-yard dash. We were told we would only get one shot to run the sprint -- a sprint that could possibly change our lives if we ran it fast enough.

I ran mine in a 5.3. Somehow I got 0.4 seconds slower since the last time I tried out. The rest of my group was unhappy about only getting one shot at the run, and, after some bitching, we got a second chance. Still, I don't think any of us improved off our initial times.

Next up, the goofy drills. I have no idea what these drills were supposed to tell the coaches as the assistant watching us didn't write anything down.

Step three was the NFL line test -- a complex name for a shuttle run. This one must have been important, because the coach conducting this drill actually timed us. He told us that a good time for a 300-pound lineman was 4.8 seconds.

My time? Yep, I sped to a 4.8. To make matters worse, this coach didn't give us a bonus attempt.

Finally, we moved onto the final test -- the standing broad jump. This was the only drill in which I wasn't the worst guy in my group. Still, I could only manage a measly 7.9 feet.

And that was it. I hardly broke a sweat. The coaches got about 30 minutes to decide what kind of football players we were. Everyone around me had the look of disgust on his face.

Then, before we left, one of the coaches told us that locker space was very limited, and even if we had fast times we might not make the team. He said we would get a phone call within two weeks that would let us know if we made the team or not. Don't call us, we'll call you.

He then encouraged us to try out again in the fall if we didn't make it this time.

I could feel the aura of frustration emanating from the guys around me as we left. For these guys, it must have been their first or second tryout. We four-plus timers are used to this.

I was devastated the first time I got the call telling me the team didn't need me. I really thought I could do it. I really thought I could play at Penn State.

I suppose after being disappointed so many times, though, you learn to accept some things. You accept that a team like Penn State doesn't have time to waste developing little guys with big hearts and no talent. You realize just how special the game is and how lucky you were to have gotten the chance to play it. You learn that stories of 1970s heroes like Rudy Ruettiger are as likely in the 1990s as scientific evidence of God being unearthed.

And, as the line in Rudy goes, you learn to accept the fact that God made some of us to be great athletes, and you're not one of them.

But that doesn't mean you have to like it.

And then you wait … dreading that inevitable phone call you don't want to receive.