Junior Year Box Set

I drew the line at running the 40 for them. I had proven my time at every camp I’d gone to over the summer. I was willing to throw for them and told them so.

“Hey, David. We like to get our own measurements and times. How about you run the forty for us?” Coach Jackson asked.

“Wait a minute. I ran the forty at Elite 11 in front of all their coaches, the other players, Nike and ESPN. If you go watch the episode on your DVR, you can get my time.”

I usually was pretty laid back, but I wanted to get on with it. Between Stanford showing up late, Tami inviting herself on the trip, and my parents’ situation, I was not a happy camper. The not showing up on time bit was a power play. I’d made the effort and met my commitment.

“Are you normally this confrontational?” asked Coach Jackson.

I just gave him the Dawson stare and decided: screw it!

“Are you always late?” I shot back.

“I had some matters I needed to deal with,” Coach Jackson started.

“And those matters were more important than making a good impression on a recruit who was courteous enough to keep his commitment, on a weekend he was visiting ANOTHER school. I understand that you personally might have had commitments. I count four other coaches, four other players, and two support people. Are you telling me that not one of them could have come and met with us?” I asked.

Inside my head, I was screaming at myself to shut up. This was where my mom came through, and I sometimes said too much. That was why I was better with the Dawson stare and keeping my mouth shut. It was also why I warned people that if I went quiet, they should give me some time to get my temper under control so I wouldn’t react as I just did. Brandon did the smart thing and ran up, grabbed me around the waist, and pulled me away from Coach Jackson. I was told later it looked like the two of us were about to come to blows.

Brandon sent me to go calm down while he tried to smooth everything over. He found me ten minutes later running on the track. I noticed Coach Pichette had come to watch me run.

“You ready to throw for them?” Brandon asked.

I just nodded and jogged to where everyone waited. Coach Pichette smiled at me, and I kept my stone face but winked at him to let him know I was okay. Every opponent that had ever pissed me off had found that it was a mistake. I found the zone where I simply blocked everything else out and played at my best. What Stanford saw that afternoon was a textbook session on how to throw the football. From the first throw, I could tell I was on. My footwork had me gliding and in position for each throw. I showed them everything I had over the next hour.

Halfway through, several more players showed up, and we ran seven-on-seven drills. Everyone had warned me that college ball was much faster, and you had to be decisive because the window for a play was much smaller. It didn’t matter. I had a chip on my shoulder, and no one was going to beat me.

Coaches Pichette and Bloomberg dropped right into coaching mode and helped me. I might have been pissed, but I have always prided myself on being coachable. That didn’t mean that I didn’t challenge them on a few things. Some of the best had coached me. Those included both Bo Harrington and Bud Mason. I didn’t pull a prima donna and think I knew what was best. My questioning did make them aware that I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t an expert yet, but I did have a thirst for knowledge of the game, and if I’d been told to do it another way, I wanted to understand why Stanford did it differently.

The whole time Coach Jackson just stood back and observed the goings on. He finally called a halt when I burned their defense on one of my teardrop bombs that turned a fifty-fifty ball into one where only my receiver could catch it.

I ran downfield to congratulate John and Terrance.

“Thanks, guys. You made me look good out there,” I said.

“That was a lot of fun. I wish my high school quarterback could have thrown like you did today,” Terrance said.

“You don’t realize what a compliment that is. His high school quarterback was Connor Cook,” John said.

Connor Cook was the starting quarterback for Michigan State. He was a near lock as a first-round draft choice and would be in the running for All-American and the Heisman.

“You can stop blowing smoke up my ass,” I teased them. “Next you will be saying I’m better than Tom Brady. Connor Cook, yeah, right.”

“We were instructed to be nice to you,” Terrance confided.

“Do you give all the recruits that line of bull?” I asked.

“No. We heard the hype before we got here, and you did the best I’ve seen at one of these tryouts.”