Ben leaned back, grinning. "So here's my final question for both of you: by the end of this season, are the New York Tigers a playoff team, a mediocre team, or a disaster?"
Ray answered first. "Mediocre. Seven or eight wins. They'll be competitive, but I don't see them making noise yet."
Greg nodded. "I'm slightly more optimistic. I think nine wins are possible if the defence clicks immediately and Testaverde stays healthy. But playoffs? That's a stretch."
"Well," Ben said, turning back to the camera, "we'll find out later today when they take on the Saints in their preseason opener. Gentlemen, thank you for joining me this morning."
"Thanks, Ben," both analysts said in unison.
"And for all you Tigers fans out there," Ben added with a smirk, "enjoy watching your billionaire owner's expensive science experiment. Let's hope it works out better than most of his draft picks.
The camera zoomed in on him, taking in his sharp, blond, blue-eyed features. "We will be back shortly to talk about another new owner making headlines with his spending spree in free agency." He smiled brightly, showcasing his pearly whites. "Jack Snyder spends $100 million to assemble the justice, showcasing what Moneyball can get you." The show cut to a commercial, and Ben leaned back in his chair, grinning.
~~~
[29th July 2000 – 6:45 PM, Giants Stadium, East Rutherford, NJ]
The stadium was maybe half full—38,536 fans scattered across 80,000 seats, their voices resonating in the cavernous space. Preseason openers were Meaningless football, but to the Tigers fans who came out in droves, it meant everything. They had heard various stories about their team since the start of the year, some hopeful, but most negative.
They showed up in mass, occupying 30,000+ seats in hopes of seeing a glimpse of something that would let them believe. Thus, even as the players warmed up, they obediently sat in their seats, soaking in the atmosphere. Song was sung as words of encouragement were shouted to the players, expressing the team's expectations.
The Tigers emerged from the tunnel in their navy blue practice jerseys with silver numbers, helmets gleaming under the stadium lights. Across the field, the New Orleans Saints—also fielding mostly backups and rookies—stretched in their black and gold.
Up in the VIP suite on the thirty-yard line, Maya James sat between her father, Nathan Stewart, and her mother, Elena. Fourteen-year-old Zoe fidgeted in her seat, excitement radiating off her in waves. To Maya's left sat Willy and Amara James, her paternal grandparents, both dressed impeccably despite the casual nature of a preseason game.
"I still can't believe he's not here," Zoe said for the third time, craning her neck as if Xavier might materialise in the suite. "It's his team. How does he miss the first game?"
"He's in Korea," Maya reminded her daughter gently. "He's meeting with the construction companies, too see their final proposal for the stadium and HQ project."
"Still, he's been doing that all summer; we hardly saw him", Zoe muttered, crossing her arms. "He could've come back for one game at least."
Nathan didn't look away from the field, but his voice carried quiet authority. "Your brother is exactly where he needs to be. Finalising the projects is more important than watching second-stringers play a preseason game."
"Plus," Willy added with a slight grin, "he knows we're here. He's got six pairs of eyes watching for him."
Amara leaned forward, studying the field through the glass. "Is that the Brady boy? Number 10?"
Nathan nodded. "Thomas Brady. McDaniels wanted to start him tonight after seeing him in training camp—see what he's got against live competition."
Elena furrowed her eyebrow, her tone sceptical as she voiced her thoughts. "That seems... risky considering how much pressure he must be under because of Xav."
"It's preseason, but it's also the big leagues," Nathan said. "Attention is part of the deal. He just needs to swim or sink back into mediocrity."
Down on the field, Tom Brady stood in the huddle, his white jersey with navy trim making him look smaller than his 6'4" frame suggested. His helmet hid most of his face, but the tension in his shoulders was visible even from the suite.
"He looks nervous," Maya observed.
"He should be," Nathan replied after seeing the worried expression on his daughter. "He's fighting for a job after all."
~~~
[7:02 PM – Kickoff]
The Saints won the coin toss and deferred, meaning the Tigers' offence would start the game. The opening kickoff sailed into the end zone for a touchback, and Thoma Brady jogged onto the field with the second-team offence. The crowd offered polite applause—most fans knew him, but there wasn't much of a following for him. As he stepped onto the field, the PA announcer's voice boomed: "At quarterback, number ten, Thomas Brady!"
In the huddle, Brady's heart galloped a thousand miles a minute, sending palpitations through his system. He felt the air become thinner as he looked at the expectant eyes waiting for instructions. He opened his mouth, but his voice did not sound, no matter how much he tried.
The ground seemed to shake as he felt his knees go weak. (Slap) A firm hand slapped his back, jolting him, bringing some sense of clarity. "Bro, are you good? Just take a breath and enjoy the moment we made it." Laveranues, with whom he had quickly become friends as they practised together, said from the side.
"Y'yeah, you're right," he said, slapping his chest pad, the light stinging, silencing his drumming heart. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I'm back. Let's start off easy, Trio right, Z post, on two. Ready?"
The players looked unsure, but no one argued with him, quickly taking their positions as they had only 15 seconds left. "Break!"
The offence lined up. Brady walked into position behind the line of scrimmage and took a deep breath. He could see the frown on the coaching staff, who seemed to be ready to pull him any minute. But a small imperceptible white poster caught his attention, reading "Brady I Believe In You!"
His world seemed to go silent the moment he caught sight of the kid who appeared to be no older than seven seated atop his father's shoulder. "Five Brady," his running back, standing a couple of steps to his left, exclaimed, but he wasn't rushed.
He looked forward with three seconds to go and exclaimed loudly for all to hear. "Set Hut!" Everything happened quickly as he took the snap from centre, dropped back three steps, and immediately felt pressure from his left.
The Saints' defensive end had beaten the backup tackle cleanly. Brady stepped up into the pocket, eyes downfield, saw Windrell Hayes breaking open on the post route—
The defensive end lunged forward, but Brady stepped to the right, narrowly dodging the lunge and firing off a bullet pass. The spiralled throw rifled forward narrowly missing hands, trying to interfere, hitting the receiver's chest just as he made his cut and turned to face the QB. The ball bounced off him as he struggled to grasp it, naturally slowing down, and by the time he secured it, the safety had closed.
He managed to push forward for another 3 yards before being stopped by the safety, gaining the first down. "First and ten!" the referee announced. The crowd offered scattered applause—a first down was a first down, even if it looked ugly.
Brady jogged back to the huddle, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His hands were shaking slightly, but the panic had subsided; he breathed a little easier now that he had survived the first play. "Nice throw, TB," Hayes said, slapping his helmet. "My bad on the catch. Won't happen again."
"You're good," Brady replied, his voice steadier now. "Alright, Ace right, 22 dive, on one. Ready?"
"Break!"
The offence lined up again. Brady took the snap, completed a perfect handoff to the running back—a third-stringer named DeShawn Foster—and watched him hit the line for four yards before getting swallowed by Saints linebackers. Second and sixth.
In the VIP suite high above the field, Maya James sat forward in her seat, hands clasped together. "Is he supposed to look that nervous?" she asked quietly.
Nathan Stewart, seated beside her with a headset draped around his neck, chuckled softly. "First NFL snaps. Everyone looks nervous. He'll settle."
"He'd better," Amara James said from Maya's other side, a tone of concern and expectation. "All that money Xav is paying these coaches, and they can't calm down one skinny quarterback?"
Zoe, sitting on the edge of her seat with a bag of popcorn balanced on her lap, pointed at the field. "Look, he's doing that hand signal thing! Xav said they were gnag signs to intimidate the other team!"
Sure enough, Brady was at the line of scrimmage, scanning the Saints' defence, his hands flashing rapidly through a bizarre series of signals as he adjusted protections. He pointed at the defensive tackle, then motioned to his right guard. The offence shifted slightly according to his instructions.
"Those are not gang whatever, He's reading the defence," Nathan explained, looking slightly disappointed at his excited granddaughter. "Adjusting the play based on what he sees. That's good."
"Hut!" Brady took the snap, dropped back five steps, and immediately felt pressure collapsing from both edges. The Saints were sending a blitz—five rushers against a patchwork offensive line that had been together for maybe two weeks.
Brady's eyes darted downfield. His primary read—Laveranues Coles running a slant—was covered. His secondary read—tight end crossing the middle—had a linebacker sitting in the passing lane—pressure closing, and no time or ability for solo heroics.
Brady stepped up, felt the pocket collapsing behind him, and did the only thing he could: he threw the ball away, sailing it high and out of bounds near the sideline.
[3&6]
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To Be Continued...