Monday, June 28, 2010
The first day of physical testing at Mater Dei had arrived.
Andrew woke up early. The tests were scheduled to start at nine, but he was ready long before that.
Cam was waiting for him in the kitchen with breakfast already served: scrambled eggs, toast with peanut butter, chopped fruit, and his protein shake.
"You’re going to need energy today, champ," Cam said enthusiastically, placing the plate in front of him like it was a pre Super Bowl ritual.
"Thanks," Andrew replied with a slight smile as he began to eat.
Mitchell, already dressed in a suit and carrying his briefcase, rushed in from the hallway, but stopped just long enough to place a hand on Andrew’s shoulder.
"Text the mont you’re done," he said with a tense smile. "And tell everything. Absolutely everything."
"You got it, Father," Andrew answered, hiding a small smile. Mitchell was more nervous than he was.
While he ate, his phone buzzed every few minutes.
ssages from Phil, Claire, Haley, Alex, Gloria, and Manny, everyone wishing him luck and reminding him they wanted to know how it went as soon as he finished.
Even Jay, in his dry and blunt style, had written:
[Text when you’re done. I want to see how you broke the weightlifting records.]
The idea of having a family mber accompany him had been on the table, but Andrew had ruled it out.
These were just physical tests, not a playoff ga or a final. Lifting weights, running a few yards, doing agility drills.
Sure, family was allowed to attend, but most of the boys went alone.
There was no need to turn it into a show. And his whole family understood.
With breakfast finished and the last ssages read, Andrew grabbed his stuff, turned his cap backward, and walked out the front door.
Cam followed him with Lily in his arms, walking behind as Andrew headed down the sidewalk toward the striking yellow Camaro parked in the driveway.
The California sun had just started to warm up, and the car glead as if it had just rolled out of the factory.
’My good friend Bumblebee...’ thought Andrew, still not fully used to his new car.
But then he noticed soone walking up the sidewalk in his direction.
"Andrew!" called a familiar voice from the corner.
He turned, surprised, and there was Pippa, wearing denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and a radiant smile that seed even brighter than the Camaro itself.
"What are you doing here?" Andrew asked, smiling as she approached.
"I wanted to wish you luck in person. I couldn’t let you leave without a good luck kiss," Pippa replied, and without waiting, she hugged him and kissed him, soft, warm, as if transferring all her confidence into him.
Andrew welcod the kiss happily, slipping his arm around her waist.
"Thanks, really. Do you want to give you a ride ho?"
"No need. It’s just a ten-minute walk, and I don’t want you wasting ti..." Pippa said, shaking her head. Then she turned and waved to Cam.
"Hi, darling," Cam greeted with a theatrical expression, touched by the romantic scene unfolding in front of him like sothing out of a movie.
Andrew climbed into the Camaro, started the engine, and its deep growl filled the air like a war drum.
Cam, holding Lily, raised his hand in farewell. Pippa did the sa.
Andrew lowered the window, waved goodbye, and drove off down the avenue, the morning sun lighting up the road ahead.
He cruised with his left arm resting on the open window, his right hand tapping the rhythm on the steering wheel to the beat of "What I’ve Done" by Linkin Park, blasting from the Camaro’s speakers.
He humd softly, eyes fixed on the road, gliding through traffic lights and wide streets as the sun rose over Los Angeles.
’If I keep listening to this song so much, I’ll end up hating it,’ Andrew thought.
Exactly thirty-one minutes later, after weaving through familiar streets and turning at the intersection of Edinger and Bristol, the Mater Dei campus rose before him with its imposing brick façade.
He slowed down, turned into the parking lot, and as he looked for a spot, it was obvious, the yellow Camaro stood out imdiately. It wasn’t every day you saw a car like that among pickups and family sedans.
So guys already getting out of their cars gave it a curious look. Others just raised an eyebrow or let out a whistle, recognizing the model.
Andrew parked with surgical precision, pulled the handbrake, lowered the volu, and turned off the engine.
He opened the door and stepped out calmly, backpack slung over one. He checked his phone: 8:55 AM. Exactly five minutes before the scheduled ti. Right on ti.
He crossed the hot asphalt toward the main gym, the one they had shown him during the tour back in February. As he pushed open the double doors of the pavilion, the noise inside hit him all at once.
About forty or fifty players were already inside, chatting, stretching, or just sitting on the long benches against the wall. Many wore sleeveless shirts with the Mater Dei football program logo.
To the left, a table with dical staff and coaches was checking players in and signing attendance sheets. Farther down, an area marked with cones outlined the testing stations: lifting, speed, vertical jump, and core strength.
At the back, the coaching staff was already watching attentively. Andrew imdiately recognized Bruce Rollinson, the legendary head coach, standing beside offensive coordinator Rick, both holding clipboards and wearing the sharp expressions of n who had seen it all.
As the door closed behind him with a dull thud, Andrew scanned the gym quickly, and saw him.
Max Wittek.
Tall, quarterback’s shoulders, chiseled jawline, blond hair slicked back like in a shampoo comrcial, surrounded by several players laughing with him. He looked relaxed, confident, like soone who believed he had already won the ga before it started.
Of course.
Who was going to take the starting spot from him?
So guy from Palisades, from Division 5 and then 4, who threw 60 touchdowns last season. Impressive? Yes. Enough? Theoretically, no.
Theoretically.
Max probably thought his position wasn’t at risk. Not in his senior year. Not when he was already part of the system. And certainly not because of a new recruit, no matter how many records he had...
Or how many millions of YouTube subscribers he brought with him.
Andrew walked straight to the check-in table. Behind it, a young woman in a team visor, holding a tablet, looked up as soon as she noticed his shadow.
"Na?"
But as soon as her eyes got a good look at him, a smile slipped out before he even opened his mouth.
"Andrew Pritchett Tucker, right?" she said, already checking him in on the tablet. "The recruit who threw 60 touchdowns last season and led Palisades to the state title... and the YouTube channel with over two million subscribers. Hard not to recognize you."
"Uh... yeah, that’s ," Andrew replied, a bit surprised to be recognized so quickly.
Of course, it wasn’t like he didn’t expect it. He’d been recognized on the street a few tis because of his YouTube channel, but that didn’t an he’d gotten used to it.
"Well... welco to Mater Dei, star. The gym’s all yours," she said, handing him a wristband with his participant number.
"Thanks," Andrew murmured, taking the band.
As he walked away from the table, tightening it around his wrist, he felt several eyes lock onto him.
So were curious, so assessing, a few skeptical, and a handful clearly unwelcoming.
When he turned, he saw more than a few glances aid his way.
’Damn it,’ he thought, annoyed by the attention.
He didn’t like being the center of attention. And this, this was clearly because of his YouTube channel.
Sure, he loved working on it, uploading videos, editing with help from Howard and Leonard. Thanks to the channel, he’d bought the Camaro.
But that wasn’t what he wanted to define his relationship with his new teammates.
He would’ve preferred to walk in simply as "the new quarterback."
Not "the YouTuber with two million subs, top-tier, almost world-famous."
The problem wasn’t the numbers.
Yes, he’d thrown 72 touchdowns in his first year at Palisades, then 60 in his second. No one had ever done that in the Palisades history or D5 history. His story was impressive.
But in football, context is everything.
And the lower divisions, like D5 and D4, weren’t exactly followed closely by players from big-ti programs. They didn’t read those stats. They didn’t watch those gas.
If it weren’t for his channel and the highlight videos he posted, they probably wouldn’t have known who he was.
Sixty touchdowns was a massive number, yes. But not unheard of.
What made him different was how he’d done it, with a team that had no history, no winning tradition, and him as the cornerstone of a full-blown revolution.
Even so, that was sothing only people who really looked into it would understand.
With the ID band already secured around his wrist, Andrew went to sit on one of the long benches along the wall. He planned to wait calmly for the staff to begin the formal instructions.
But barely thirty seconds had passed when he heard a deep voice next to him.
"You’re Andrew, right?" said a guy with a powerful build.
Andrew looked up. Standing in front of him was an imposing figure: broad fra, column-like arms, sleeveless shirt, and a confident gaze. His brown hair was cut close, and his eyes were dark, steady, but not aggressive.
"Yeah, nice to et you. You’re...?" Andrew replied, standing up to shake his hand.
"Nick Richardson. Eleventh grade," the guy said, returning the handshake firmly, but not forcefully. The kind of grip that didn’t try to prove strength, just friendliness.
Andrew recognized the na. He’d seen it on the gym bulletin boards during his tour months ago. He couldn’t rember the stats, but the na stuck. Star running back of the team, already established since his freshman year, no easy feat.
"I saw you on YouTube, man. Thanks for the diet tips. I’m terrible with that stuff, but a bunch of your recipes saved ," Nick added with a half-smile.
"Seriously?" Andrew chuckled. "Glad they helped."
Nick sat beside him, lacing his fingers together over his knees, classic posture of soone about to share insider info.
"I’m sure you’ve done so digging already, but I’ll give you the rundown with nas and faces anyway. Just so you know who the big dogs are..." he said, lowering his voice like they were discussing sothing not everyone should hear.
"That’s Max over there," he said, motioning with his chin toward a tall guy with dark blond hair, surrounded by a group of teammates.
"Max Wittek. Starting quarterback. He’s Matt Barkley’s heir. Got the arm, the presence, knows how to move... though if you ask , he’s still missing that sothing Matt had. But he’s got tons of talent, and I’m guessing he’ll shine this year."
’He’s not playing this year,’ Andrew thought, but said nothing. He simply nodded with a solemn expression, eyeing the QB who already seed to have his own little entourage.
"The guy next to him, the one with brown-skinned, chains, and movie-star smile, is Victor Blackwell. Number one wide receiver. Fast, smooth. He’s also committed to USC, just like Max. Covering him one-on-one is pretty much impossible."
"And that one," Nick continued, pointing further down, "is Thomas Duarte. The big guy with the Asian features. Weighs over a hundred kilos but runs routes like he’s twenty kilos lighter. They use him as a wideout, sotis as a tight end. And when needed, he’ll play on defense too. Reliable hands, doesn’t shy away from contact. He’s a total weapon."
Andrew looked one by one at the players Nick pointed out. Most of them were seniors (twelfth grade), which was normal on a team like this. Players like Matt (back in the day), who earned the starting spot as freshn, were rare.
"Max’s backup is Dylan Lagarde, a junior like us. Solid guy. Knows the system. Doesn’t do anything crazy, but he gets the job done. If you take the spot, he goes to the bench. He’s your direct competition."
"Got it," said Andrew, nodding with a serious expression, too serious, as if he truly considered Dylan his direct rival.
Nick nodded, satisfied that Andrew was taking his words seriously.
"And that guy with the long hair, looks like a guitarist from a ’90s band that’s Sedric Hill, wide receiver. Also a junior. Quiet, but he’s a starter. He’s got good chemistry with Dylan, so... you know what that ans."
Andrew nodded a few tis.
Nick looked at him with one eyebrow raised, testing the waters. "You must be kind of nervous, huh?"
"Do I look like it?" Andrew replied, not confirming or denying, eyebrow raised and tone neutral.
"Mm, a bit. You’re the flashy recruit with the YouTube channel, millions of views, insane stats, even if they were in lower divisions. But this is Mater Dei. No one’s gonna say it out loud, but everyone here wants to see if you’re the real deal... or just a YouTube phenonon and a lower division phenonon."
Andrew gave a slight nod, understanding his point.
"Today’s the physical testing. We do it every year. Nothing crazy, but everyone watches. There’s always a... competitive vibe. You know how it goes: bench press, 40-yard dash, vertical jump, squat. The basics. Everyone watches, but as long as your numbers aren’t terrible, no one’s gonna ss with you. Just be decent."
"I’ll try to be decent..." Andrew said, with an expression as fake as a last-minute excuse.
He already knew that, physically, he was ahead of every player Nick had pointed out: Max, Victor, even Nick himself.
He’d been training since he was five, gradually and with discipline, with the mind of a teenager who had once played at an elite level in high school football in Texas.
Except for maybe linebackers who looked like they’d escaped from a zoo, he was likely stronger than most. Unless there was another prodigy like him hiding sowhere.
That’s when a voice echoed from the gym speakers, clear and commanding:
"Attention everyone! We’re starting with physical asurents: height, weight, body fat percentage, arm circumference, and other trics. Please make your way to the assessnt area, starting with the new arrivals... Andrew Pritchett-Tucker, please step forward."
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