The Wonderlic Test

February 4, 2023.

Athens, Georgia. University of Georgia campus. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall. The Quarterback Room.

Nine people from the Pittsburgh Steelers had come to the UGA campus today.

That was nearly double the usual interview party of four or five, because it included men whose positions would never normally call for them to tag along on a visit like this.

After presenting Kirby Smart — who had greeted them warmly in the early morning — with gifts, the Pittsburgh delegation went straight to meet Dwayne Moi Stone.

About fifty minutes had passed since then.

"I'm done."

"Hm? Already?"

"Yes, Sir. I checked my answers twice."

"…You checked them twice?"

College quarterbacks entering the draft are put through a battery of evaluations, but the most famous of them all is the Wonderlic Test — developed in 1930 by Al Wonderlic, a Northwestern graduate student, and first administered to NFL Draft prospects in 1970.

A cognitive assessment consisting of fifty multiple-choice questions, it can usually be finished in about twelve minutes.

The man supervising the one-on-one exam with Dwayne Moi Stone in the Quarterback Room of Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall checked his watch.

8 minutes, 3 seconds.

They'd chatted for a bit before he started, which meant the kid had cleared all fifty questions in just over seven minutes.

"…Give me a moment, please."

"Yes, Sir."

Mark Sadoski picked up the answer sheet sitting in front of Dwayne Moi Stone and carried it back to where the grading materials were.

While the basic framework of the Wonderlic stays the same, all fifty questions are replaced every year — and the version Dwayne Moi Stone had just taken was the one used at the 2022 Draft.

For reference, the average score on the Wonderlic over the past forty-odd years has hovered between 17 and 26, with quarterbacks and offensive tackles consistently posting the highest marks of any position.

Covering abstract, verbal, and mathematical reasoning along with general knowledge bordering on trivia, the test is all but an IQ exam.

"…"

Mark Sadoski's hand moved without hesitation as he flipped between the answer key and Moi's test.

Circle.

Circle.

Another circle.

Having blown past the 10-point benchmark — the line that separates functional literacy from its absence — in the blink of an eye, Dwayne Moi Stone's score kept climbing without so much as a stumble.

15.

20.

30.

For reference, CEOs, accountants, programmers, chemists, and engineers who take the same test average in the high twenties to low thirties.

Having marked nothing but circles all the way to the end, Sadoski wondered if he'd made a mistake somewhere — and started grading the whole thing over again.

This is impossible.

To be fair, a good Wonderlic score doesn't guarantee success in the NFL.

If anything, the test has some serious blind spots.

Pat McNally, the only perfect scorer in NFL history, spent his entire career largely on special teams, and the case of Mike Mamula — who scored 49 — became a cautionary tale about blind faith in workout numbers.

But that didn't mean the test ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could simply be dismissed, either.

Ryan Fitzpatrick, the highest-scoring quarterback ever tested, fell well short of greatness on the field — yet he was the ideal backup quarterback every NFL team coveted.

His mind was so sharp that Tom Brady once told him, "If you retire right now and go into business, you'll be a millionaire within three years."

Every NFL team came to the same conclusion about him, and from 2005 he played quarterback for an astonishing nine teams across sixteen years.

He is also the only quarterback in history to start games and throw touchdowns for eight different franchises, the only player ever to record 400+ passing yards in three consecutive games, and one of the few to surpass 30,000 career passing yards.

That same Fitzpatrick was also famous for finishing the Wonderlic in a mere nine minutes.

And yet.

"A perfect score?"

"Yes. And he finished it eight minutes ago."

"That's insane."

"It's ridiculous, right?"

"…"

Say it again: the Wonderlic doesn't guarantee NFL success.

Tom Brady, the greatest quarterback in NFL history, scored a 33 — high, certainly. Patrick Mahomes posted a 24, a touch below average, and Brett Favre a 22.

'Big Ben' Ben Roethlisberger, the man who carried Pittsburgh for so many years, scored a 25 on the Wonderlic.

But one thing was certain.

An abnormally low Wonderlic score is a red flag for a learning disability — and of the top college quarterbacks, every single one who scored 10 or below had washed out of the NFL.

The most notorious example is Oscar Davenport out of North Carolina, whose potential had been highly regarded until he scored a 6 on the Wonderlic and found himself ignored by every NFL team.

Indeed, a North Carolina coach later admitted that teaching Oscar Davenport had been a struggle.

"Moi."

"Yes?"

"Sorry, but would you mind taking it one more time?"

"The same version?"

"We'd give you the 2021 questions."

"Yes, Sir. I'll be quick."

Omar Khan, unable to believe the sub-eight-minute time and the perfect score, prepared the 2021 Wonderlic.

Dwayne Moi Stone's attitude through the process was impressive in its own right — it was still an exam, one he could reasonably have bristled at being made to retake, yet he simply accepted it and took his seat without complaint.

And a short while later.

Having printed the 2021 questions off one of Butts-Mehre's computers, Mark Sadoski collected the finished test after 6 minutes and 51 seconds, held it up before the group, and said:

"Perfect score."

"…"

"…"

Why had the Steelers chosen the 2021 version?

Because of a score — kept out of the public eye at the player's own request — that Trevor Lawrence was reported to have received on that very test, roughly two years ago.

16.

Moi had scored more than three times that.

Twenty minutes later. House of Payne.

When I finished the Wonderlic and stepped out into the hallway, an unexpected face was waiting there, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I'd been a little puzzled not to see a receiver among the Pittsburgh crowd visiting the school — as it turned out, George Pickens had missed his flight by showing up late and arrived after everyone else.

As he grumbled about having to buy his own plane ticket, I told him it was his own damn fault.

Right now, we were just shooting the breeze.

Pickens was showing off his necklace.

"You see this? This is a twenty-thousand-dollar piece."

"Not bad. Going with the G was the perfect choice."

"Right? 'GP' just didn't hit the same."

Talking with George like this inside the House of Payne, it felt like I'd been thrown back two years in time.

Before long, the Pittsburgh staff finished their preparations and came over, telling us to loosen up — the field test would start in twenty minutes.

George gave a nod and jogged off to warm up with that familiar gait of his, leaving five Pittsburgh men at my side, Mike Tomlin among them.

General Manager Omar Khan.

Scouting Director Mark Sadoski.

Dan Rooney Jr., the man who'd sent me that letter.

Quarterbacks coach Mike Sullivan.

And Assistant OC David Corley Jr.

"Moi. One question."

"Yes, Sir."

"1-1, single set. You're wiping Z and making X your primary target. How do you get there?"

All day long, Mike Tomlin had been tossing questions at me, one at a time, out of nowhere.

I'd face similar questions in the formal interview later, of course, but what he really seemed to want was to see how I handled being put on the spot at an unexpected moment.

Calling the Steelers' play book to mind — I'd already memorized it cover to cover — I ran through every scheme I could convert into an audible.

"Mule 40. Java Chip. X-Corn—"

"…Not bad."

"Thank You, Sir."

From then on, questions rained down on me from every direction the whole time I was warming up.

"Why do you want to be the best?"

"The apocalypse arrives tomorrow morning. What's the first thing you do?"

"Your house is on fire. How do you get out?"

"You're late to practice. What's your plan?"

"You just lost. What do you say in the interview?"

An outsider might ask why they couldn't just let me stretch in peace instead of scrambling my brain like that — but every bit of it served a purpose.

What these men were watching wasn't just my answers. It was how I prepared under pressure coming at me from all sides, and whether that pressure threw me off or didn't.

I knew, because I used to sit in their chairs.

Having been on this end of it now — sorry about that, guys.

Back in my head-coaching days, I was a man who applied considerable pressure. My bar was high, and I disappointed quickly, lost interest quickly.

It was necessary work, and history proved it was the right call in the end — but now that I'd actually been on the receiving end, I couldn't help thinking I should have been a little warmer to my players back then.

"Let's Roll, Buddy. You ready?"

"I know I am — you're the one I'm worried about. You didn't catch a single decent pass all season. One year ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠without my balls and you're gonna drop them? Coaches are watching, Bro. In a way, you're being evaluated too."

"…Get lost."

"Kukukukuku."

The field test had finally begun.

I was ready. Completely ready.

Ninety minutes later. Bones Dining.

The workout, which had run a little over an hour, came to an end, and after showering we all headed to the dining hall together for lunch.

For today's visit, the school had opened Bones Dining — the facility used by the football team — planning to serve exactly twenty portions at the lunch hour before closing it back down for the day.

From the university's perspective, a day like this was a golden chance to show off its prestige and the quality of its program, and it showed: they'd clearly gone to real lengths with the preparations.

The food was a notch better than usual.

"Mmm — now this."

"Missed it, huh?"

"Yeah — it's, uh… what's the word?"

"Nostalgia?"

"Yeah. That. It hits it."

Getting to run routes with George again after so long was, for me personally, a delightfully bittersweet pleasure.

In terms of focus in the end zone, he was about even with Jordan — but when it came to hauling in passes dropped over the shoulder, George was a clear step or two above.

For a wide receiver to handle that kind of pass so effortlessly is exactly what lets a quarterback throw without hesitation.

No hesitation means faster timing, faster releases — and in fact, that exact play had drawn more than a few audible gasps out of the Pittsburgh staff today.

Right now, George and I had a table to ourselves.

The Pittsburgh contingent had gathered a little ways off, deep in earnest conversation.

Must be a lot to talk about.

Their mouths never stop moving.

Their food's barely been touched, though.

"I need you there, man."

"Hm?"

"Last year I nearly died out there. Shiiit. Even when I fought my way open, the quarterbacks still have to actually throw you the ball. What's the point of getting separation if there's never anything coming?"

I didn't want to trash any particular quarterback, but there was no question Pittsburgh's receivers had suffered last year.

Their number-one receiver, Diontae Johnson, managed barely 480 receiving yards; George was second on the team with a dismal 417.

After that came the tight ends.

For perspective on how bad that was: even the Chicago Bears — a team with a dual-threat quarterback — had one receiver who cracked 500 receiving yards.

The most productive offensive position on last year's Steelers was running back. Alabama's Najee Harris.

"Once you go pro, college means nothing. Trust me."

"Playing the veteran already?"

"Just looking out for you."

"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up and eat your meat."

"Shiit. Some things never change."

George seemed quietly glad that I hadn't changed one bit from our days here together.

After he got drafted by Pittsburgh, I'd heard a few rumors — that he'd been running around with a crowd of pretty rotten friends — and I'd been a little worried about him ever since.

The classic toxic flavor of Brotherhood culture, you could call it.

The kind of hangers-on who latch onto a rookie once his signing bonus lands, leeching off him while dragging his football down with them.

"You've got to be in the right place, man. Around the right people."

"Jeez. Here we go again."

"I'm serious. You keep good people close, and you walk toward good people yourself. You already know someone isn't a good person just because he only tells you what you want to hear. Dude — we can have our careers dead in four years. Ball out through year three, fall apart in year four, and the contract gets ripped up. You know that."

"…That part's true, I'll give you that."

I didn't enjoy lecturing a grown professional, but it was a habit. Couldn't help it.

Once our plates were cleared and we'd chewed the fat a while longer, Mike Tomlin came over and suggested we hold one last meeting.

There would be all kinds of questions, he said, and a few more quick tests. When we walked into the quarterback room and I saw the whiteboard already set up, I nodded to myself — of course.

The interview with Pittsburgh.

We were finally entering the endgame.

9:41 P.M. Athens, Georgia. Athens-Ben Epps Airport.

Like the many veteran head coaches and scouts across the NFL, Mike Tomlin and Mark Sadoski had conducted countless interviews in their careers.

Every year they'd sat down with at least three to five first-round-caliber prospects — but never once had they experienced a day as astonishing, as staggering, as today.

A perfect Wonderlic score.

A field test without a single flaw to be found.

And a final interview that drove the point home like a nail.

Everything. Perfect.

"It's decided, then."

"There's no reason on earth to pass on the kid."

Plenty of process remained ahead, but with today, Pittsburgh had hardened its resolve to hold onto the number one pick beyond any reconsideration.

Where the odds had stood at roughly 98 percent before, they'd simply moved to 99.99 — short of tearing the franchise's cornerstone out by the roots and handing it over, no trade was going to happen.

The medical testing they'd run after the interview, driving over to Atlanta, had confirmed there were no issues there either.

Omar Khan, deep in conversation with the others, quietly turned to Mike Tomlin, who had been sitting in silence.

"Mike?"

"…"

Mike Tomlin, who had looked lost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in private thought, straightened in his seat and began to speak.

"Forgive me. I'm just having a hard time wrapping my head around it."

"Around what, exactly?"

It was an official setting, and both men observed the courtesies. In answer to Omar Khan's polite question, Mike Tomlin laid out what was on his mind.

"He never hesitated. Not once."

"What do you mean?"

"Every question, every curveball we threw — he answered as if he'd already seen it coming. By the afternoon I was asking him things that aren't even in our play book. Things I haven't spoken to a soul about… schemes we've been preparing to roll out starting this May."

Last season — the first losing season of his head coaching career — Mike Tomlin had spent the whole year sketching out the 2023/24 campaign.

With the salary cap suffocating the roster, there was no realistic way to upgrade the team beyond the draft, which meant he could assume the big picture would barely change — and that assumption made the planning possible.

The offense, especially, had gotten the bulk of his attention.

Ben Roethlisberger's absence had been a wrenching lesson, and whether it was Dwayne Moi Stone or some other quarterback, one truth stood clear: the offense had to get better.

Fortunately, the team was rich in weapons.

Najee Harris, once the finest running back in all of college football, had ground out 1,183 rushing yards despite constant stacked boxes born of their nightmarish quarterback play — his second straight 1,000-yard season.

George Pickens and Diontae Johnson were receivers who could comfortably handle second-option duties on any roster, and Jaylen Warren and Pat Freiermuth were versatile hybrids in their own right.

Granted, none of them had ever approached the level of a Tyreek Hill, a Justin Jefferson, or an Amon-Ra St. Brown — but a receiver's true quality is defined by his quarterback.

It's the very reason people say there's almost no real difference between players graded in the 80s and 90s by PFF.

Seen through that lens, when Mike Tomlin evaluated Dwayne Moi Stone, the Georgia quarterback was a man who could turn a 70 into a 90.

Quarterbacks in the 70s are, for the most part, players who never cracked their shells or whose performance swings wildly depending on their circumstances — which makes their quality as a quarterback matter far more than even an 80-grade player's.

Assessing a team's talent objectively and building a plan around it is the most fundamental duty of any head coach hoping for a good season.

And now —

"It appears I'll be canceling my vacation."

"Will you be all right?"

"I'll have to sell it to the family. But they'll understand."

Mike Tomlin had arrived at a realization: with Dwayne Moi Stone in the fold, he would need to re-evaluate the team's entire talent base from scratch.

That was why he'd gone quiet.

To think he could reduce Mike to this.

Watching the team's head coach sink back into thought, Omar Khan — half amused, half delighted — turned his gaze out the window of the plane already beginning to roll.

A runway awash in nothing but airport lights.

From here, the plane carrying Pittsburgh's men takes flight.