Combine Testing (2)

#. March 3, 2023

#-1. Indianapolis, Indiana, USA

#-2. Lucas Oil Stadium

The biggest winner of the previous day's defensive line athletic testing had been Byron Young, the edge rusher out of Tennessee. It started with an 11-foot broad jump (roughly 335 cm), the third-best mark at the position since 2013, and he went on to leave a heavy impression in every category — the 40-yard dash, the 10-yard split, the vertical.

Thanks to that, Byron Young, once projected as a day-three pick, had transformed overnight into a day-two talent.

And today, the 2023 draft's quarterbacks stepped onto the stage of the physical testing that directly shaped draft stock.

"6-6."

"Oh—"

"That's not 6-5 1/2."

"It wasn't 6-5 either."

At one side of the Lucas Oil Stadium field, where all the hottest attention of the year had gathered, the quarterbacks stood in a line and began their body measurements. Of the 331 participants in the 2023 draft, sixteen were quarterbacks, each wearing official apparel printed with the two letters of their position — QB — alongside a hyphenated number.

Among them, Dwayne Moi Stone had been handed the jersey reading QB-4, assigned in order of registration on the first day.

The ideal quarterback height in the eyes of NFL experts runs from 6-3 (about 190 cm) to 6-6 (about 198 cm). Any shorter, and reading receivers' movements beyond the line of scrimmage becomes difficult; any taller, and the perception sets in that a player is sluggish, stiff, and injury-prone.

In fact, a height of 6-6 ranks somewhere inside the top thirty in NFL history, so standing 6-6 barefoot was very, very big indeed.

The NFL Network split its screen in two — the smaller window showing another quarterback's height measurement, the larger tracking Dwayne Moi Stone as he moved into position for his arm-length measurement. Unlike the NBA, which measures wingspan with both arms spread wide, the NFL checks only the pure length of the arms, torso excluded.

"Oh, shit."

"Is this for real?"

The measurements of the quarterback draft hopefuls were being broadcast in real time to the jumbotron and to the tablets held by every team in the building.

35.5 inches.

Roughly 90.2 centimeters.

"What was Josh's number again?"

"33 1/4. Same as Mahomes."

"Damn— that's genuinely insane."

"Isn't that the best ever?"

"Probably."

The longest arms in NFL history belonged to Jonathan Cecil Harris, who debuted in 1997. He was a defensive end, and his arms measured a staggering 38 1/2 inches (97.8 cm).

Drafted 25th overall by Philadelphia amid enormous expectations, he never adjusted to the professional game, wandered through six teams' uniforms over six years, and retired at a young age. It was precisely because of Jon Harris's record that the claim — that long arms actually weakened a defender's tackling — began to gain credibility among league insiders.

Beyond him, 58 players in NFL history had recorded arm lengths over 36 inches. Not a single one had been a quarterback.

Soon the NFL Network itself flashed a graphic declaring it the greatest length of all time, and the excitement of Chris Rose and everyone else in the booth climbed even higher.

But one number still remained.

Hand size — the measurement that had drawn buzz around Dwayne Moi Stone from the very beginning.

And then—

The stadium shook one more time.

Just as with arm length, the width of a quarterback's hand is regarded as a critical factor in delivering accurate, powerful passes.

To throw the peculiarly shaped football dead straight, you must impart a consistent spin along one axis — and to generate that spin, you need to grip the ball across as much surface area as possible.

Crack ten inches, and you enter the top sixty in NFL history. Before today, exactly one player had ever recorded a hand size of eleven inches or more.

That man was Jim Druckenmiller, who posted an astonishing 11.5-inch hand measurement at the Combine and was selected by San Francisco in 1997 with the evaluation — "a lottery ticket worth scratching."

Like Jon Harris, his professional career was modest, but he remains the textbook example of a prospect once rated in rounds three or four who got drafted in the first round on the strength of his hands alone.

For reference, as of 2023, the largest hands in the league belong to Dak Prescott of the Dallas Cowboys. His measure 10.88 inches, while Patrick Mahomes sits at 9.25 — dead average for the modern football quarterback.

Later, C.J. Stroud would post a 10.00 at the hand measurement, but because Moi had already put up eleven inches, it never drew the spotlight anyone expected. Only the handful of teams with a realistic shot at drafting Stroud chose to read the result favorably.

The quarterback's Combine is usually thought of as a battle fought alone, but in my case I had a friend along, which made it a little easier.

Stetson Bennett.

Granted, he'd had to leave Georgia and transfer because of me, but in the end he'd come away with far more opportunities, and he was now projected to come off the board somewhere in the middle-to-late rounds of the draft.

"Monster of a human being."

"The way you say it, it actually sounds real."

"It is real."

"Can't help how you were born, I guess."

"What the hell is even in your bloodline?"

Hmm.

I couldn't say for sure, but according to Mom, someone in the family had competed in a sport something like Korean sumo. I couldn't remember the name, which is the only reason I had to put it that way — if Grandma or Mom were standing next to me right now, I'd have taken a smack across the back for it.

Beyond that, I'd heard there were people on my mother's side who'd done sports, or who were locally famous for their sheer builds.

My father's side was the Huamatu clan.

My grandfather in particular was something else.

I was told that if not for being cast out of the family over his courtship of my grandmother, he'd have made it big in football and then some.

And in fact, among my more distant cousins there was Chris Fuamatu-Ma'afala, who spent a good six years or so in the NFL.

His position was running back.

Ah.

Now that I think about it.

He was drafted by Pittsburgh in 1998, too.

A low pick, if I remember right.

"Everyone's got that much going for them, man."

"You think?"

"Even if you're a Freak."

"Call me a Mutant, if anything."

"Like the X-Men?"

"Yup."

"Damn— didn't know you were a Marvel guy."

"I am an X-Men guy."

"Huh?"

"Fuck, Stet. You're joking, right? Disney swallowed Fox back in 2018. Which means X-Men have basically been Marvel ever since. Anyway — I'd rather be called a Mutant than a Freak."

Honestly, it felt like six of one, half a dozen of the other, but the nickname Freak had been slapped on so many people in so many places that I didn't much want it. Even Hawaiian Freak, the tag the media had pinned on me early on, had died out because I made a point of openly hating it.

"Next—!"

"Oh, that's me. Here we go."

"See you in a bit."

After the hand measurement came the vertical jump and the broad jump — two events whose purpose, frankly, I'd never understood.

For wide receivers, running backs, and rushers, they might serve as important indicators of explosiveness and jumping ability, but making a quarterback do this stuff was beyond my comprehension.

Still, if only for pride's sake, I wanted a good number. I stood straight beneath the apparatus and reached both hands up.

"Reached as high as you can, right?"

"Yes, sir."

With my starting point marked, I took the first of my two attempts.

Boing!

Didn't feel bad.

Or did it?

It seemed a touch lower than usual.

A staff member came over with the tall pole-like measuring device and pressed it into place, and soon I could hear my number.

"38.5."

"Ah— that came out low."

"That's low?"

"Yes, sir. I normally clear a full meter. Mind if I loosen up for a second? I've been standing still this whole time — the body's not warmed up."

Back at Butts-Mehre, this reading should have been a good inch higher.

I stepped aside, bent and straightened my knees a few times, stretched out, shook the stiffness loose, then returned to the mark. Finished my setup, coiled for maximum rebound, and exploded straight up with everything I had.

Come on. Come on.

Let my fingertips catch something.

The device had been bent down at my previous mark — if I didn't feel contact, then it was guaranteed to be below 38.5.

Clack.

Rattle-rattle—

Oh—

Got it!

After landing, I pointed a finger skyward and flashed the crowd a did-you-see-that gesture.

Then my number came through.

"39.5."

"YES!!"

Thank God — I'd jumped my usual height after all.

I threw a gesture toward Stetson.

He wore the expression of a man with a splitting headache.

After the vertical jump I moved off to the side for the broad jump, and after a short wait spent chatting with Stetson, my name was called and I walked to the starting line.

Two attempts here as well — and this one I was a little more confident about.

From the time I was little, I'd occasionally gone hiking with my grandfather and my father, and the two of them simply flew up those trails.

They told me the Stone family carried the spring of a gazelle, and to grow into men who would never be ashamed of it.

"Whew—"

Feet planted, body swaying rhythmically back and forth, I readied myself to leap as far as I possibly could.

One. Two.

And three.

The instant I drove off the ground with everything I had, my body lifted weightlessly into the air, and drawing fully on my track-and-field days from childhood, I carried the movement through to a flawless landing.

And the number?

With body measurements and the simplest athletic tests behind us, four more drills remained — the mobility tests headlined by the 40-yard dash.

The schedule had started at one o'clock, and more than an hour had already slipped by. Once this portion was done, we'd take a short break, then run the on-field test from 4:30 to 8:00.

The tight ends and wide receivers would be out there together then — a real audition stage for them, too.

Anyway.

With the broad jump finished, I headed for the venue of the event I'd been looking forward to most today: the 40-yard dash.

Partway there, an eruption of cheers burst out around the vertical jump station — Anthony Richardson of Florida, it seemed, had broken my number.

40.5 inches, was it?

"Damn— that kid's legit."

Had it been my broad jump, my pride would have taken a serious wound. But since it was the vertical, I was fine.

We Stones, you see, were a bloodline better built for leaping far and running fast than jumping high.

That said, I hadn't expected it to get snapped so easily, and heading into the 40, it made for excellent motivation.

Like every test before it, the 40-yard dash granted two attempts.

The first of them.

The fastest 40-yard time ever recorded by a quarterback was Michael Vick's 4.33, set in 2001. Reggie McNeal's 4.40 in 2006 stood second, with Robert Griffin III right behind at 4.41 in 2012.

Among active players, Lamar Jackson was said to have run an unofficial 4.34 after his own Combine, and Justin Fields had clocked 4.46 at the 2021 Combine.

Nothing else mattered.

Only 4.33 existed.

I set up in the same stance I'd used on the track.

There was no starting signal — the moment your hand left the sensor line, the clock simply began ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to run, so all I had to do was think about running.

"Whoo—"

I loaded the unofficial time I'd recorded on campus into my head, fixed on the thought of shattering it, and lifted my hand off the sensor line.

Then I just ran.

Mind blank.

A few seconds later I crossed the 40-yard mark and immediately turned my head to the right to check the board.

Primary goal — cleared.

Secondary goal — not reached.

It was true that with my frame having grown this large, I didn't accelerate quite the way I used to. In fact, I'd run faster than this as a high school freshman — back then, my 40 had been a 4.19.

But wanting that now was pure greed, so I'd accepted the fact that my feet had slowed.

Even so.

I wanted to do better than that.

"Shiiit. You seriously flew, man."

"I can do better than that."

"No cap. How much more are you planning to make the rest of us look pathetic?"

"I'm serious. My junior-year records still haven't been broken."

"Shiiiit. You Beat All of Us Niggas' Asses."

"Lock it in tight."

The friend talking to me now was a guy from UCLA named Dorian Thompson-Robinson. Over the course of the Combine we'd crossed paths several times and gotten to talking — he'd been the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one to approach first, and nothing about him struck me as a bad dude, so I'd decided to claim him as a friend.

A little later, Dorian took his turn at the 40 and, sprinting with everything he had, posted a 4.56 — a very respectable mark.

The average 40-yard dash time for quarterbacks at the Combine over the past ten years was a 4.8 flat.

"Yo! Take it easy out there!"

"I'm all warmed up now!"

"Everybody watch out! D-Train is coming through!"

At a Combine where everyone else was treating everything with dead seriousness, it seemed Dorian and I were the only two actually enjoying the stage.

Being serious didn't automatically mean performing your best, after all.

You could give your absolute all and enjoy yourself doing it.

"Whoo—"

The second 40-yard dash.

I took off at full throttle once again.

※ Dwayne Moi Stone — Official Measurements

-> MockDrafttable.com