[19:30 PM, 27 July 2000, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY]
The entire roster gathered in the Hofstra dining hall for a catered team dinner—grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, and protein shakes provided by the nutrition staff. The rookies and walk-ons sat together at one long table, while the veterans claimed their usual spots scattered throughout the room. Most sat with their friends whom they had made, and it naturally turned out that they sat with their positional partners.
In one section, Thomas sat between Laveranues Coles and Windrell Hayes, listening as both were deep in conversation about their rookie checks. "You know it's crazy, suddenly having so much money, like a couple months ago I was a broke college student," Coles was saying, gesturing with his fork. "I bought my mama a house with my first check. We've been renting since my grandad's generation."
Windrell Hayes nodded. "Man, when the wire hit my bank account, I swear I hit the boogie. It just felt real when receiving money for the dream I had been chasing as a kid."
Thomas stayed quiet, pushing rice around his plate. His signing bonus as a sixth-rounder had been modest by NFL standards—about $38,000—enough to help his parents with some bills and buy a decent used car, but nothing life-changing. Not yet, anyway, but he would make sure that it would become much more in the future.
"What about you, Brady?" Coles asked, turning toward him. "What'd you do with your money?"
"Paid off some of my student loans," Thomas said simply. "Helped my parents with the mortgage. Bought a car."
Hayes laughed. "A Car? What care you get, BMW, Mercedes, or let me guess, you got a Ford?"
"I got a used Hyundai Accent from my uncle," Thomas admitted.
Both receivers stopped eating, staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "A Hyundai?" Coles repeated slowly.
"A used Hyundai?" Hayes added, his tone caught between disbelief and amusement.
"It runs," Thomas said defensively. "Gets good gas mileage."
"Man," Hayes said, shaking his head with a grin, "you are the most un-NFL quarterback I've ever met. Next, you're gonna tell us you clip coupons."
"I do, actually, sixth-rounders' paycheck is basically a regular job's salary," Thomas said, completely serious. Both receivers burst out laughing. Even Thomas cracked a smile.
Across the room, at the veterans' table, Curtis Martin sat with Vinny Testaverde, Mo Lewis, and the newly acquired Willie McGinest. The mood there was more subdued as this was just another part of their routine. For the organisation's vets, the training camp had been somewhat different with a larger emphasis on sports science, but it didn't bother them too much.
In the end, they could see some improvements to their game, though not a large improvement; as long as it helped, they put up with it. Still, they felt restricted by all the stricter rules this present camp had, especially with the training camp bubble. In the past, since they all lived nearby, they could go home and return each day, but this year they lived in university dorms that the team had booked.
The rooms were high-end, but even for players who lived in mansions, this couldn't compare. "What do you think of the rooks?" Mo Lewis asked, nodding toward the rookies' table.
"Urlacher's a freak," McGinest said immediately. "Kid moves like a safety in a linebacker's body. Gonna be special once he grows into his own, can't believe he dropped in the draft."
"Abraham too," Vinny added, cutting into his chicken. "Pass rush like that doesn't come around often. Peterson's solid. Those three might actually make a difference this year."
"And the quarterback?" Mo asked, glancing at Thomas, who was still being roasted by his receivers.
Vinny followed his gaze, studying the lanky kid with the easy smile. "Brady? Honestly, he's a hit or miss. He's got a good brain, but his mechanics are inconsistent, his arm strength is adequate at best, and he's slow as hell. He's gonna need some work to become a decent QB in this league."
"Guess that puts less pressure on you to keep your positions, unlike us in defence," Mo responded with a light sigh as he glanced at McGinest. "They just loaded up on Defensive options, and from what I'm hearing, they will pick up some more walk-ons."
"Yeah, you guys have it tough this year," Vinny chuckled. "As long as they pick up some more attacking options, it's not my problem. I'm here to win games, not babysit sixth-rounders."
At another table, the defensive line was holding court. John Abraham sat with Kabeer Gbaja-Biamila, Adalius Thomas, and a handful of veteran linemen. The conversation had devolved into trash talk about who had the best moves.
"I'm telling you," Abraham said, demonstrating with his hands, "the swim move is undefeated. Offensive tackle reaches, you swim over the top, and it's a free run at QB1."
"Nah, nah, that's some baralina shyd," KGB countered. "Real men just use power and rush through the tackle, collapse the pocket. Make them pay tax for every inch."
"Y'all are both wrong," Adalius Thomas interjected. "Speed rush to the edge, force the quarterback to step up, then loop back inside. That's how you get ten sacks a season."
"None of you are getting ten sacks," one of the veterans said with a laugh. "Not on this team."
"Watch me," Abraham said, completely serious. "I'm strong, fast and nimble. Oh, mama, I'm mean."
The room buzzed with dozens of similar conversations as, for two hours, the Tigers' roster felt less like ninety individuals competing for fifty-three jobs and more like a team. But that illusion would shatter soon enough as the first round of cuts was coming. Preseason was two days away, and the coaches would only keep 65 players.
~~~
[22:15 PM – Outside Hofstra Dormitories]
Curfew was 11 PM, lights out by midnight; those were the rules, which is why, at 10:15 PM, a group of veterans gathered in the parking lot outside the dormitories, car keys in hand. Mo Lewis stood at the centre, arms crossed, surveying the assembled group. About fifteen guys total—a mix of second and third-year players, a couple of rookies who'd been invited, and one very nervous-looking Thomas Brady.
"Alright, listen up," Mo said, his voice low but commanding. "We're heading into the city—Club Miami on the West Side. A couple of the boys know the owner, so we're on the list. We're back by 3 AM, shower, and in bed before anyone notices we're gone."
"What if someone notices?" one of the rookies asked.
"Then you take the heat alone," Mo said flatly. "This is optional. Anyone who doesn't want to risk it can go back inside right now. No judgment."
Nobody moved. "Good," Mo said, grinning now. "Rooks ride with the vets. Brady, you're with Curtis and me. Let's roll."
Thomas hesitated for half a second—this was a terrible idea, precisely the kind of thing that could get him cut before ever playing a snap. But Curtis Martin was already holding open the passenger door of a black Escalade, and Mo was climbing into the driver's seat. He also wanted to belong with these guys and just threw caution to the wind, thinking, 'When in Rome,' and climbed into the back.
The convoy of 12 cars quickly pulled away under the watchful gaze of someone in the fourth-floor window of the Tigers HQ.
Mo's Escalade led the way, followed by a BMW, Ford Explorer... Ford Mustang and a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. The moment they pulled out onto the freeway, music thumped from the speakers, laughter echoed through the vehicles, melting the pressure away as the Long Island lights blurred past the window.
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To Be Continued...