Just Now, Stretching Awake
Before stepping out of the dorm, I stood in front of the small whiteboard hanging on the door and picked up the eraser.
Then I wiped away what was written there.
And filled in a new number.
D-24.
It marked the number of days remaining until the first Mat Drill of the off-season began.
The NCAA currently caps spring practice at fifteen days, which isn't nearly enough to build a great season — so every single session is run at a brutal, punishing intensity.
In college football, this is called the Mat Drill, and it's been a rite of passage for spring football since the 1980s.
Until that day arrives.
Every workout is personal.
"Hey~"
"Hi."
A girl jogging across campus tossed me a greeting, and I answered with a quick nod before walking on toward Butts-Mehre.
The frigid January had passed and February was underway, and the temperature in Athens was climbing fast — but Coach had warned me not to let my guard down, saying Georgia's winter always comes back at least three times.
Everyone else who knew how much I hated the cold had told me the exact same thing.
If December and January were the first winter.
The second one arrived around mid-March.
And the third around late April.
I guess that's when I'd finally put away the heavy blankets.
Beep—
I pressed my fingerprint at the door and stepped into Butts-Mehre, heading straight for the locker room.
After setting my bag down, I peeled off my hoodie.
Then I pulled my sneakers out of the drawer and laced them up.
5:20 in the morning.
Nobody else was here yet.
"Alright. Let's go."
The winner at Raymond James Stadium last weekend hadn't been Patrick Mahomes. It had been Tom Brady.
With that victory, he claimed his seventh Super Bowl trophy — a personal record, yes, but also one that leapfrogged the six-championship marks held by both the New England Patriots and the Pittsburgh Steelers, the most in NFL history.
Wasn't that genuinely staggering?
A single individual in a major sport now owned more titles than the most decorated franchise in his own league.
On top of that, he'd won his fifth Super Bowl MVP.
Which was, of course, also an NFL record.
Mahomes, meanwhile, had seen his smooth road since entering the NFL snap clean in two — and the absence of his starting O-linemen had been the fatal blow.
Tampa's already-stingy defense tore through Kansas City's makeshift O-line again and again, burying Mahomes in pressure all night long. And even through all that, he kept pulling off one impossible escape after another, drawing gasps from everyone watching.
He didn't throw a single touchdown pass, and all of Kansas City's points came from three field goals — but Mahomes had still shown everyone exactly what class he belonged to.
In the sideline audio ESPN released after Super Bowl LV, the Buccaneers' own players could be heard marveling at him, over and over.
But still.
The winner was Tom Brady.
Did that day's memory fuel me?
Absolutely.
"Hup—"
Clank.
"Hup—"
Clank.
Adding weight, rep after rep.
I kept squatting.
Thirty minutes in, Zamir showed up. A little while later, Darnell's face appeared too.
"How long you been here?"
"Forty minutes, maybe?"
"Shiiit. You're not even tired?"
"Gotta plant the seeds early."
"Damn it. You make it impossible to argue with you."
Across every popular professional sport.
Few have a season as short as football's.
That's why football's critics like to say, "They barely work and rake in the money" — but it's an ignorant remark from people who know nothing, so you just let it roll off your back.
Baseball's preparation period is roughly two months.
Basketball is about the same — right around two.
Soccer? One?
Those sports can deliver strong performances with that much prep. Football, though — football runs from February all the way through August.
The reason the preparation is so much longer despite so drastically fewer games is that the physical and mental energy burned in a football game is almost impossible to compare to anything else.
It's easier to understand if you think of the prep period as expanding the size of your fuel tank.
"Hoo—"
Fifty minutes of weight training.
Thirty minutes of all-out sprint intervals on the bike.
By the time it's over, every inch of me is soaked in sweat.
Then it's into the spa — a quick rinse under the shower first, then cycling between the cold tub and the hot tub.
After that, one more wash, and fresh clothes.
All told, it was a little past 7 a.m. when I finished.
Grrrowl—
My stomach clock rang right on schedule, as always.
Everything I'd eaten so far was the omelet and cereal I'd made for myself after waking at 4:40.
I needed real fuel now.
My choice: something heavy.
Chick-fil-A.
Ding-a-ling—
"He-ey. Moy. Good morning."
"Hey, Christina."
"The usual?"
"Yes, Sir."
Morning routine: start at Butts-Mehre, finish at Chick-fil-A.
And now, class.
#. February 12, 2021
#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA
#-2. Younghoe Koo's Home
Younghoe Koo of the Atlanta Falcons had leapt to the very top tier of NFL placekickers over the past season.
He'd taken home the Pro Bowl honors at the position, and with 144 points, he'd claimed the league's scoring crown as well.
Of course, in the NFL, a kicker piling up points usually means the team's offense has no answers — but a 94.8% season field goal percentage on 37 made field goals was historic by any standard.
Koo and I had been in touch for a long time now. Our connection went all the way back to Hawaii.
The day after my first game at Kahuku, he'd sent me a DM, and we'd been trading messages regularly ever since.
And today.
I'd been invited to his home in Atlanta.
"Hello."
"Oh my~ What a surprise! Your Korean is so good!"
"I've spoken it a lot at home since I was little."
"Cold out, isn't it? Come on in, quick."
The person greeting me so warmly was
Younghoe Koo's mother.
Born in Seoul, Koo had immigrated to New Jersey with his mother as an elementary schooler. He'd originally played soccer, but after coming to America he switched to football.
Then, after committing to Georgia Southern in the Sun Belt, he developed into one of the finest kickers in college football.
But kicker is the least job-secure position in the sport, and he went undrafted — signing with the Los Angeles Chargers as an undrafted free agent.
What followed was a string of hardships.
"Atlanta just feels right for me."
"Haha. You've been saying that for a while now."
"I have."
Sitting in the living room beside a kitchen that smelled absolutely divine, I traded conversation with Koo.
"You know you make more money than me, right?"
"That's an uncomfortable thing to say. Oh — here, this is for you."
"Hm?"
I'd heard he loved hats.
So I'd brought a gift in advance.
It was a luxury brand, but a hat alone wasn't outrageously priced, and I figured it would look great on him.
"What do you think? Good?"
"It's awesome."
"Wow— and I didn't prepare anything. What do I do?"
"I'll settle for a great meal."
"Haha. That's Mom's department, not mine."
"Which is exactly why I brought a separate gift."
I'd guessed it the moment I caught the smell from the entryway.
The menu was, sure enough, Korean food.
Since leaving Hawaii, I'd had almost no chance to eat proper Korean cuisine, so the moment I sat down at the table, my mood lifted instantly.
Korean food is my soul food too.
"So, tell me about your family situation."
"Just my grandfather is Samoan."
"Oh my~ and everyone else is Korean?"
"Yes."
"Well then, you're basically Korean. But how on earth did you get this big? Your grandfather must be something else, huh?"
He was indeed something else.
There were plenty of stories that sounded like outright lies.
Even my dad — whenever Maui held an athletic festival, he'd dominate the field like a man from some entirely different world.
If the two of them had played football.
They'd have made quite a name for themselves.
"We might actually end up tanking."
"Sorry?"
"Just — the rumor's going around. That we might tank next year and the year after. You know Matt Ryan, right? Word is the team's already penciled you in as his replacement. No telling what the future holds, but if we ever get to play together, that'd be something."
Wait.
These people.
Already?
Football grinds through at least twenty percent of its roster every single year, which makes looking two years ahead all but impossible.
That's why tanking declarations normally don't surface until mid-October or November — yet here they were, talking tanking with two years and two months still left before the 2023 NFL Draft.
Flattering, of course.
But what on earth are they thinking?
Huh?
If a team tanks for two years just to stockpile draft picks, there won't be a single blade of grass left by the time I arrive.
Sure, high-round picks might produce right away — but you still need some kind of hill to fight from before you can attempt anything at all.
Just look at the Super Bowl we watched the other day.
It wasn't even the starting quarterback who went down — Kansas City lost two O-linemen, and the entire offense did absolutely nothing.
"Moy?"
"Hm? Yes?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing, sorry. I'm just stuffed."
"Haha. Mom's going to pack you some food for the road."
"Now that I like."
The reality I'd been stubbornly avoiding.
Whoa. My.
My early NFL years might actually be rough?
And yet, somehow.
I found myself smacking my lips.
No hill to fight from at all, you say?
Fine.
Then I'll just build the hill myself.
Come to think of it.
That might actually be
pretty fun.
#. March 1, 2021
#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA
#-2. Icebox Cryotherapy Midtown
After wiring $10 million to Mom, the very first thing I did with what remained was sign a contract with this place.
"Phew— okay. Let's go."
"Yes. Opening the door for you now."
"AAAAGH—!!"
This machine, known as a cryo chamber, can drop its temperature all the way down to 130 degrees below zero, and it's known to be especially effective for easing muscle soreness and restoring physical function.
In this life, NBA star LeBron James had made it famous; in my previous one, plenty of athletes had relied on it too.
Some people claim this extreme cold therapy reduces stress, boosts collagen production, and even helps with weight loss — but that's one hundred percent sales talk. Don't buy it.
The real effect is pain reduction.
That, and that alone.
"Hoo— hoo—"
Inside this machine.
Three minutes feels exactly like three hours.
It was just past the two-minute mark when I started seriously wondering whether I might freeze to death.
This was my third session.
Why does that never change?
Beeeep—
At last, the sealed door swung open.
And I shot out of it shivering head to toe.
"Damn it. Gonna freeze to death."
Alongside the cryotherapy, this place currently offered me massages, oxygen tank sessions, and other recovery services.
The whole regimen was designed to flush out the week's accumulated fatigue and ease my aches, so I could show up to the practice facility in Monday condition.
"I'll prepay for next month too."
"Oh— renewing gets you ten percent off."
"Then that'd be $540?"
"Yes."
"Nice. Gas money earned."
"Haha. One moment."
My package here ran $150 a session.
"All set. Payment's through."
"Thanks. See you next week."
"Take care, Moy."
As long as this place stays in business.
I'll be here every Sunday.
I got into my car parked out front of the facility, started it up, and stopped at a gas station along the way to fill the tank.
The man pumping gas next to me recognized me and came over, so I left the nozzle in its cradle, took a photo with him, and signed an autograph.
"Thank you. Huge fan."
"Yes, Sir."
"Take care."
"You too."
Tap.
COVID precautions had loosened up lately.
After last November's election put the Democrats in power, and Joe Biden showed serious commitment to public health measures, the Republicans seemed to be doing the exact opposite out of pure spite.
Georgia, which had had a Republican governor throughout the 2000s, was dismantling its pandemic guidelines one by one.
Granted, the Democrats had swept the January Senate runoff elections — but the governor's mansion was still red, and as of today, the mask mandate was lifted.
I, of course, was still wearing mine.
COVID aside.
It just made life a little less annoying.
Bzzzt—
"…."
My destination was a hotel called the St. Regis — a five-star property running north of a thousand dollars a night.
I'd met a girl named Alexis Ren at the Super Bowl, and we'd been trading DMs ever since — increasingly suggestive ones — until today, when we'd agreed to meet for a day.
She'd described herself as a "size queen," so I'd replied that made me a size king — and she'd immediately fired back a DM saying she'd make the time and come to me first.
Later I found out she'd actually posted the size queen thing on her own Twitter. Apparently she'd been in a pretty hot relationship up until last year.
Her boyfriend had been an actor, if I remembered right.
I parked the car in a lot near the hotel, added a cap and sunglasses, and changed into something more casual.
Getting recognized would do me no good.
Then I walked toward the hotel.
In the COVID era, this getup didn't draw so much as a second glance. I slipped through the lobby without trouble, boarded the elevator, and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.
And there, in front of Room 1422.
Knock knock knock.
"…."
I was still glancing warily up and down the hallway when I heard footsteps, followed by the rattle of a lock.
Click.
The door opened.
And there stood Alexis in a robe.
"Hey."
The moment she said it.
Alexis gripped my chest with those slender arms of hers and hauled — and I feigned helplessness against her strength, letting myself be pulled inside.
Alexis pressed me up against the door.
And melted into me.
Some time later.
"You were right."
"About what?"
"You really are a size king."
"Haha. Told you."
"Mm. Can we go again in a bit?"
"Of course."
Alexis rose from the bed, bare, and walked toward the window.
Damn—!
She was too beautiful to find a single word for.
#. March 8, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. House of Payne
The House of Payne, today.
Became the House of Pain.
Day one of the Mat Drills.
Everyone's lungs were burning, breath scraping the bottom of their throats.
Sweat hit the floor in streams, like shower water.
But.
There was still so much left.
"Hurry Up! Hurry Up!!"
Some people genuinely wonder whether this kind of high-intensity Mat Drill actually helps you play football.
And my answer?
Hell no.
It doesn't help at all.
In terms of technique, that is.
But physically and mentally?
HELL YES.
Nothing helps more.
The Mat Drill drives our physical and mental stress to the absolute limit, until we grow accustomed to living there.
During a football season, we experience that kind of extreme physical and mental strain in every single game — and if we haven't prepared for it thoroughly, we can't respond to it the right way.
Autumn and winter matter most to us.
When, on the field, should you finally get tired?
The fourth quarter?
The third?
Wrong.
You get tired after the game is over.
And the starting point that decides all of it is the spring semester's Mat Drill. The Muscle Men sessions I ran back in high school were, in their own way, a kind of Mat Drill.
"Hrrgh! AAAARGH—!!"
"AAAAHH!!"
Yells of strangled effort exploded from every direction, and the coaches roared alongside us, driving us on with everything they had.
"Get up, Nolan! That all you've got?!"
"SIR!!"
"That's it!! Move!! Faster!!"
And another thing — the Mat Drill forges bonds.
Bonds born of surviving brutal training together.
Sports psychology holds that the more stress you endure side by side, the deeper those bonds grow.
Beyond that.
"Up!! Get up!!"
"Can't… I can't…"
"JALEN!!"
The Mat Drill also exposes who can't compete.
Which is why it matters who you choose to stand beside.
Unlike the usual position-group drills, the Mat Drill throws quarterbacks and kickers into the same punishing work the linemen and receivers grind through.
And in turn, the linemen and receivers have to attack drills completely foreign to them.
A few players work hard when competing against their own position group, but fold the instant a drill feels like it has nothing to do with them.
Those guys, generally.
Never make it in the NFL.
Because they don't know what sacrifice means.
The Mat Drill period also reveals who will lead the team that year. Nobody here was leaping into the NFL Draft this time around, so the captain's roles sat nearly empty.
The ones standing out right now were Lewis Cine and Travon Walker, with Sedrick Van Pran-Granger working hard as well.
I was doing my part too, rallying my teammates at every turn.
Because next year, I want my influence to be even greater.
"You've got this, Tate! Let's Go!"
Two months of rest, give or take, after the football season.
And now — just now — we were stretching awake.