[17th July 2000 – 6:45 AM, Tigers Training Grounds, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY]
The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the practice fields were already buzzing with activity. Groundskeepers dragged hoses across the turf, training staff set up cones and agility ladders, and the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with the humid Long Island air. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle shrieked—sharp, insistent, unwelcome at this ungodly hour.
Thomas stumbled out of the dormitory building along with a dozen other rookies, all of them moving with the stiff-legged gait of men whose bodies hadn't yet recovered from yesterday's punishment. Three days into rookie camp, and every muscle Tom didn't know he had was screaming.
"Morning, ladies!" Rex Ryan's voice boomed across the field, far too cheerful for 6:45 AM. The defensive coordinator stood near the fifty-yard line, coffee cup in one hand, clipboard in the other, grinning like a man who genuinely enjoyed watching people suffer. "Hope you got your beauty sleep, 'cause today we're separating the men from the boys!"
"Pretty sure we're all dying equally," muttered Kabeer Gbaja-Biamila, the second-round defensive end, as he limped past Tom toward the defensive group. His ProQuant vest was already on, the sensor blinking faintly in the predawn light.
Tom pulled his own vest over his compression shirt, feeling the familiar snugness settle around his torso. The thing had become a second skin over the past months—tracking every movement, every moment of effort. Somewhere in a trailer parked near the facility, Dr Maria van der Meer and her team were probably already analysing yesterday's data, finding new ways to torture them today.
"Quarterbacks, over here!" Josh McDaniels called out, waving toward the far end of the field where a passing net and ball rack had been set up. "Let's go, gentlemen. Balls in hand, let's warm up those arms."
Tom jogged over—slowly, because his hamstrings were still protesting from yesterday's cone drills—and grabbed a football from the rack. Around him, six other signal-callers were doing the same: Giovanni Carmazzi, the third-rounder from Hofstra who San Francisco had drafted before being cut in training camp negotiations and picked up by the Tigers; Spergon Wynn, an undrafted free agent from Southwest Texas State; and four camp arms whose names Tom was still trying to remember.
"Alright, boys," McDaniels said, hands on his hips as he surveyed the group. "Three days in, and I've seen some encouraging things. I've also seen some things that make me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Today, we're going to focus on footwork and release mechanics. No seven-step drops yet, no NFL timing routes—just fundamentals."
He pointed at Tom. "Brady, you're up first. Three-step drop, plant, fire. Ball goes into the net at chest height. Go."
Tom stepped to the line, football in hand, and ran through the drill. Three quick steps back—left, right, left—plant on the back foot, rotate the hips, snap the elbow through. The ball spiralled into the net with a satisfying thwack.
"Again," McDaniels said. "Faster this time. In a game, you've got two-point-five seconds before someone's trying to separate your head from your shoulders." Tom reset and went again. Faster. Sharper. The ball hit the net harder this time.
"Better," McDaniels grunted. "But your front shoulder's opening too early. You're telegraphing the throw. Defensive backs will read that and jump the route."
Tom nodded, resetting. Again. Again. Again. By the fifteenth rep, his shoulder was burning, but he was starting to get into rhythm as the motion felt more natural. "Carmazzi, you're up," McDaniels called, and Tom stepped aside, chest heaving.
Across the field, the defensive rookies were going through their own version of hell. Rex Ryan had them in a circle, running Oklahoma drills—one-on-one tackling between a ball carrier and a defender in a narrow lane marked by cones. It was brutal, physical, and exactly the kind of thing Rex loved.
"Urlacher!" Rex bellowed. "Let's see what you got!"
Brian Urlacher, the first-round linebacker whose draft-day drama had made national headlines, stepped into the lane. He was 6'4", 258 pounds of lean muscle, and when he moved, it was like watching an athletic Rihno who pulled off moves that didn't seem possible for someone his size.
The running back—an undrafted free agent from TCU—took the handoff and charged forward. Urlacher met him at the line with a thud that echoed across the field. The back went down hard, and the other rookies whooped and hollered.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Rex shouted, pumping his fist. "Show me why you belong here! Defenders be Physical, nasty, make 'em regret waking up this morning!"
Julian Peterson, the first-round outside linebacker from Michigan State, was next. He took down his man with similar violence, earning another roar of approval from Rex. "Defence wins championships!" Rex hollered. "But I don't think you're mean enough for the big leagues; they will tear you apart up there!"
~~~
[9:30 AM – Strength and Conditioning Session]
If the morning practice had been intense, the strength and conditioning session was medieval torture disguised as athletic training. Dr. Maria van der Meer stood at the front of the weight room, arms crossed, watching as her assistant coaches put the rookies through a circuit that seemed specifically designed to break the human body.
Squats, deadlifts, bench press, sledge pushes, tyre flips, battle ropes, box jumps—one after another, no rest, just constant movement until muscles screamed and lungs burned. The trainers had a clipboard listing what each player could handle, and wouldn't let them go beyond that. Tom was midway through a set of Romanian deadlifts when Maria appeared beside him, clipboard in hand, her expression unreadable.
"Your form is sloppy," she said flatly. "Lower back is rounding. You keep doing that, you'll herniate a disc before the season starts."
He immediately adjusted, straightening his spine and engaging his core, as she'd drilled into him during their summer sessions. "Better," she said, already moving on to the next player. "But your hip hinge is still weak. We'll address that tomorrow."
He wanted to point out that *everything* was weak right now because he was three days into the most physically demanding week of his life, but he kept his mouth shut and finished the set. Across the room, John Abraham—the first-round defensive end from South Carolina—was attacking a tyre flip with ferocity that made it look easy. He flipped the 400-pound tyre three times in rapid succession, barely breathing hard.
"Show-off," muttered Laveranues Coles, the third-round receiver from Florida State, who was struggling through his own set of sledge pushes.
"You could do it too if you stopped complaining and started working," Maria said without looking up from her clipboard.
Coles muttered something under his breath but pushed harder. By the time the session ended an hour later, every single player was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and seriously questioning their life choices.
"Good work today," Maria said as they staggered toward the water station. "Tomorrow we increase the intensity."
A collective groan rose from the group. "I'm serious," Maria continued, ignoring the protests. "Your ProQuant data shows me exactly where each of you is underperforming. We have two weeks before the veterans arrive, and I intend to use every second to get you ready." She turned and walked away, leaving forty-eight rookies contemplating whether professional football was worth this level of suffering.
~~~
[20th July 2000 – 4:30 PM, Film Room]
By the end of the first week, the rookies had settled into a brutal routine: morning practice at 7 AM, strength and conditioning at 9:30, position meetings at 11, lunch at 12:30, afternoon practice at 2, film study at 4:30, dinner at 6, and collapse into bed by 9 PM.
Tom sat in the quarterbacks' film room—a small space with a projector screen, twelve chairs, and the faint smell of stale coffee—alongside the other signal-callers. Josh McDaniels stood at the front, remote control in hand, cycling through footage of defensive coverages.
"This is Cover 2," McDaniels said, pausing the video. "Two safeties deep, corners playing flat, linebackers dropping into the middle zones. What's the weakness?"
"Seems," Tom said immediately. "Between the corner and safety, and down the middle between the safeties."
"Correct," McDaniels said, advancing the film. "Now watch how Peyton Manning attacks it." The screen showed Manning in the pocket, surveying the defence, then hitting Marvin Harrison on a seam route for twenty-five yards.
"See how he manipulates the safety with his eyes?" McDaniels said. "Looks left, safety cheats left, then he snaps it back right and delivers. That's NFL quarterbacking, gentlemen. It's not just about arm strength—it's about processing information faster than the defence can react."
Tom scribbled notes furiously, his hand cramping from all the writing he'd done this week. Around him, the other quarterbacks were doing the same, though Carmazzi looked half-asleep, and one of the camp arms was openly dozing.
"Brady, Carmazzi—you two stay after," McDaniels said as the session ended. "Everyone else, get out." The other quarterbacks filed out, leaving Tom and Giovanni alone with the coach.
McDaniels crossed his arms. "You two are the only quarterbacks on this roster with legitimate shots at making the fifty-three-man roster. Vinny Testaverde's the starter—that's not changing. But we need a competent backup, and right now, neither of you is it." Tom's stomach sank slightly, but he kept his expression neutral.
"Carmazzi," McDaniels continued, "you've got a better arm than Brady. You can make throws he can't. But you're sloppy with your footwork, and you panic under pressure. I've seen it in drills all week." Giovanni nodded, his jaw tight.
"Brady," McDaniels turned to Tom, "you're the opposite. Your footwork is clean, you don't panic, and you process information quickly. But your arm strength is average at best, and your deep ball needs serious work."
"Here's the deal," McDaniels said. "You've got three weeks until roster cuts. Whoever shows me they can run this offence without blowing up the game plan gets the backup job. The other one gets cut or sent to the practice squad. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Tom and Giovanni said in unison.
"Good. Now get out of here and study your playbooks. I'm testing you both tomorrow on third-down situationals, and if either of you screws it up, we're running until you puke."
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To Be Continued...