I ran the 40-yard dash yesterday.

I also hoisted the bench-press bar, squeezed the squat bar, dominated the leg press and aced the Wonderlic Personnel Test.

I hired an agent, too, because when you’re preparing for the NFL Draft, you need some representation.

Want a sleeper for tomorrow’s draft? I’m narcoleptic.

Want an underdog to root for? I’m the 5-foot-9, 170-pound Jewish kid out of Cleveland.

Want to hear the story of your next NFL superstar? I’m giving it firsthand.

This bright idea dawned on me, oh, Wednesday, when pouring over myriad numbers spewed at us by draftniks. Apparently, Dwight Freeney blazed a 4.38 40-yard dash at Syracuse’s “Pro Day.” They say J.R. Johnson — the 240-pound linebacker — sonic-boomed a 4.32.

Now, Freeney running a 4.48, as he did at the NFL Combine, is certainly feasible. Sub-4.4 times, however, are reserved for turf-churning wide receivers, equally adept cornerbacks and greyhounds.

Freeney and Johnson? They must’ve run the 37.

Yep. That’s it, I figured. The 37-yard dash.

And if they can shave a tenth of a second off their time running the 37, I ought to try it as well, just to see how I compare.

One thing snowballed into another. I was already going to torch the Coyne Field carpet, so what’s the harm in testing my bench press too? Haven’t done that since I was 15. Squatting would be fun. I’ve always wanted to take the Wonderlic, the 50-questions-in-12-minutes exam given to prospective NFL players.

It would happen Thursday.

In the midst of my daydream — “And the captain, No. 24, Je … ” — the phone rang.

“Hi, Jeff,” my grandma said.

“Grandma,” I said. “I’m going to become a football player and get drafted this weekend.”

“OK, Jeff,” she said. “Just don’t get hurt.”

Step one done. Got the family approval. Now I needed someone to help me interpret the minutiae George Young would try to sneak by me when the Giants chose me and tendered me a contract.

I jumped on the cell, with visions of a Mercedes SL500 with platinum rims and Ludacris leaking out of the speakers, and rang my buddy Steve in Jersey.

“Hey. I need an agent.”

“You what?”

“I need an agent. You know how to add?”

“Two plus two is five, right?”

“You’re hired.”

I could envision Art Modell having another heart attack when a team traded up to take me ahead of Baltimore. I could see Dan Snyder firing his entire staff, divorcing his wife and moving to Kandahar when the Redskins put me only second on their big board. I could picture Al Davis, a Syracuse grad, giving up his draft picks through 2013 for my rights.

Whoa. Serious biz. I needed to start training.

Advanced tennis class every week certainly wasn’t enough. A walk from main campus to Kimmel sufficed. It was time to carbo load, too, get the energy for Thursday’s workout.

Baked ziti from Sbarro? Check. Hamburger and medium fries from BK? Check. Beef taco from Taco Bell? Check. Large water? Check.

Somehow I finished the baked ziti, which might’ve been the most horrendous thing I’d ever eaten. But I needed to be tough, show grit, character, determination. Give 110 percent. Take it one game at a time. Spew cliches.

I was a football player.

A good night’s sleep followed, and I woke up yesterday morning energized. It occurred to me I’d never played a down of organized football, save my three-touchdown, two-interception quarterbacking in flag football last season. My arm makes Troy Nunes’ look positively McNabb-esque, so signal-calling was out of the question.

As a matter of fact, so was locking into any other position. I’d create a new one — athlete. I could play anywhere, do anything. Line up at defensive end, roam at middle linebacker. Juke at running back, cut at wide receiver. Get water, fetch towels. Versatility, Steve the Agent preached to NFL general managers, would make me invaluable.

Three o’clock snuck up. Time to take the Wonderlic. The Wonderlic company only would give me 15 sample questions, but I managed to procure an actual copy of the test from a nice lady in Arizona.

The average score of someone at the NFL Combine is 19. Chemists average 31, computer programmers 29, newswriters 26.

Freeney scored a 35, one of the highest this year among prospects.

I scored a 41.

NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue floated above my head: “With the second pick in the 2002 NFL Draft, the Carolina Panthers select … .”

Brimming with confidence, I headed to Coyne with Eli Saslow and Darryl Slater, my official statkeepers. They’d time me, measure the distance of my jumps, keep track of my heavy lifting. They’d also be part of my posse — I get a posse! — riding in my Escalade with PlayStation2 in the back.

I lined up at the 40-yard line. Eli’s hand dropped and I was off. Clydesdales couldn’t catch me, let alone some scrub NFL cornerback. I chugged through the line, looked back and awaited my destiny.

“What’d I get?”

“5.74.”

“Sure that’s not a second and a half fast?”

“Yeah.”

Clerical error. Had to be. Let’s try again.

“I was awesome. Definitely 4.4.”

“5.68.”

The wind was blowing against me. One more time.

“Call me Deion!”

“5.56.”

And that was the best I did.

So 6-foot-8, 343-pound tackle Bryant McKinnie runs a 5.13. Yeah … well … he only scored a 24 on the Wonderlic.

Disappointed but not deterred, I headed to the gym to show off my brute strength.

I benched 125 pounds one time. I leg pressed 350 pounds 14 times. And I squatted 235 pounds seven times. On the eighth, Darryl screamed, “You’re going to be the next Cleveland Brown!”

My legs folded like origami.

And just like that, so did my first-round status.

But I’m still confident. The second round isn’t out of reach. No way.

“My numbers don’t look too good,” I told Steve after my workout, “but I don’t think it’s a stretch to go to Houston with the first pick in the second round. I can still buy my cars, sport a posse. I’m second-round material, right?”

“Two plus two is five, isn’t it?”

Published on April 18, 2002 at 12:00 pm