After the conditioning, everyone was spent. Guys were lying on the grass, some were getting water from trainers, others looked like they wanted to throw up. But Coach Rivera wasn't done with us.
"Alright, men! Time for live reps. First team offense versus first team defense. Second team offense versus second team defense. Let's see what you've got."
I was with the second team, which meant I'd be going against the second team defense. But from what I'd seen, even their second string was better than most of the starters I'd faced in Chicago.
Markus Thompson was our quarterback - a junior who had a strong arm but wasn't as polished as Cameron. Our running back was David Kim, a stocky Korean kid who ran hard between the tackles.
I lined up at the Z receiver position, split wide to the right side of the formation. Across from me was James Mitchell, a senior cornerback who was built like a safety - big, physical, looking to intimidate.
"Hope you're ready for some real coverage, rookie," Mitchell said during the huddle break. "This ain't Chicago public school anymore."
"We'll see about that," I said, looking him dead in the eye. Dude thought he was gonna punk me just 'cause I was new.
The first play call came in through Markus: "Four verticals. Z receiver, stem vertical for eight yards, then break it off into a comeback at 15."
I walked up to the line, studying Mitchell's alignment. He was playing about seven yards off, giving me a free release. Perfect.
At the snap, I used a clean speed release - no wasted movement, just exploded straight upfield. Mitchell barely got a finger on me as I flew past his outside shoulder.
I ran my stem exactly eight yards, selling the vertical route hard. My head was up, eyes focused downfield like I was going deep. Mitchell was backpedaling, buying every bit of it.
Then I planted my outside foot hard into the turf, feeling my cleats dig and tear at the grass as I broke back toward Markus. The violence of the cut created instant separation - Mitchell was still running backward when I was already coming back to the ball.
The pass was right on time. I caught it clean with both hands at chest level, squeezed it tight, and turned upfield. Mitchell tried to recover but I'd already picked up four extra yards before he could make the tackle.
"Damn, that break was nasty as hell," Markus said as we hugged back to the huddle. "Where'd that come from?"
"Chicago, baby. We run routes different out there."
The second play was a slant concept - quick timing route designed to beat press coverage. Mitchell had moved up to the line, trying to jam me at the snap.
When the ball was snapped, Mitchell came at me with his hands up, looking to knock me off my route. I hit him with a quick jab step to the left, got my hands up fast to swat his jam away, then broke hard inside with a stutter release.
The timing was perfect. Markus delivered the ball before Mitchell could recover, and I snatched it out of the air with my fingertips, pulling it tight to my chest as Mitchell crashed into me.
Twelve-yard gain, and I popped right back up talking shit.
"Better bring more than that weak-ass jam," I said, walking back to the huddle.
Mitchell's face was tight. Dude was getting frustrated.
The next few plays were money. A comeback where I used a double-step release to create confusion, then broke back so sharp that Mitchell fell down trying to change direction. An out route where I used a hop step to make him think I was going inside, then broke to the sideline and caught the ball in stride.
Every route felt automatic. The Jerry Rice experience was feeding me technique I'd never learned but somehow knew perfectly.
But it was the fade route in the red zone that really got everyone's attention.
Third and goal from the 18-yard line. Marcus audibled to a corner fade - my bread and butter.
I lined up tight to the sideline, studying Mitchell's leverage. He was playing inside shade, trying to take away the slant. Perfect.
At the snap, I gave him a hard jab step inside, selling like I was running a quick slant. Mitchell bit on it, stepping toward the middle of the field.
Then I broke hard to the corner, using a speed release to get vertical fast. Mitchell was scrambling to recover, but I already had a step on him.
Marcus threw a perfect ball to the back corner of the end zone. High and outside where only I could get it.
I tracked the ball over my shoulder as I ran, timing my jump perfectly. When it was time to go up, I planted off my left foot and exploded upward, my 42-inch vertical carrying me way above Mitchell's reach.
At the highest point, I extended my arms above Mitchell's helmet, snatching the ball with my fingertips before bringing it down to my chest. Mitchell was trying to climb me like a ladder, but I shielded the ball with my body as we came down.
I toe-dragged my right foot along the sideline, making sure I was in bounds, then fell backward into the end zone with Mitchell landing on top of me.
The whole practice field went quiet for a second.
"Holy shit!" someone yelled from the sideline.
"Did y'all see that jump?"
I got up, still holding the ball, and looked right at Mitchell. "That's how we do it in Chicago, homie."
Dude just stared at me like he couldn't believe what had happened.
Coach Martinez jogged over during the break between reps.
"Williams, where the hell did that come from? That catch - that was some college-level shit right there."
"Just doing what I do, Coach."
But I could see the confusion in his eyes. This wasn't normal for someone coming from public school ball.
The next play was a dig route - fifteen yards across the middle into traffic. Not everyone's favorite route 'cause you know you're gonna get hit.
I ran a clean stem to twelve yards, used a subtle head fake to the outside, then broke hard across the middle. The linebacker, Kevin Walsh, was sitting right in my path, licking his chops.
Marcus delivered the ball on time, but it was slightly high. I had to jump off both feet to reach it, extending my body horizontally while snatching the ball with my fingertips.
Walsh hit me right as I secured the catch, but I held on tight, taking the shot and bouncing right back up.
"That's how you catch over the middle!" I shouted, pointing at Walsh. "Bring that weak shit again!"
The offense was getting hyped now. Even guys who'd been skeptical were starting to believe.
But the catch that really had everyone talking was a back-shoulder fade along the sideline.
I was running a go route against Brandon Torres, their nickel corner. Kid was fast but small - probably couldn't handle my size and physicality.
I used a speed jab diamond release, making Torres think I was breaking inside before exploding vertical. He was running stride for stride with me, hands all over me, trying to disrupt my route.
Twenty yards downfield, I saw Marcus starting to scramble. I slowed my route down slightly, then turned back to look for the ball just as Torres ran past me.
The pass was coming back to my outside shoulder, slightly underthrown. I had to adjust on the fly, jumping off my right foot and twisting my body back toward the quarterback.
I reached out with my left hand, snatching the ball with my fingertips while falling backward. Torres tried to come back and break it up, but I shielded the ball with my body as we both hit the ground.
When I rolled over, I was holding the ball tight against my chest, having planted my left foot to stay in bounds.
"That's some grown man shit right there!" our running back David yelled.
Even some of the defensive players were shaking their heads in disbelief.
"Bro, where you really from?" asked Anthony Rodriguez, one of their safeties. "That was some NFL-type catch."
"South Side Chicago," I said, getting up and dusting myself off. "We built different out there."
The last play of my series was a slant-and-go double move. Torres was playing up tight, trying to jump the slant route.
I gave him a hard jab step inside, really selling the slant. He bit hard, stepping up to defend the quick route.
Then I broke vertical with a burst that caught him completely off guard. By the time he realized what was happening, I was already three steps past him.
Marcus dropped a perfect ball over my inside shoulder. I caught it in stride with both hands, never breaking pace, and ran it into the end zone untouched.
Forty-two yards. Touchdown.
The second team offense was going crazy, celebrating like we'd just won the championship.
"That's my receiver!" Marcus was yelling, jumping up and down.
Even Tyler Brooks, who was watching from the sideline with the first team, was shaking his head with what looked like respect.
Or maybe it was concern.
I jogged back to the huddle, feeling the new found strength running through my body. The Jerry Rice experiences was working better than I'd ever imagined.
----
I'd been coaching high school football for twelve years. College for three before that. I thought I'd seen everything when it came to young receivers.
But what I was watching from Jakari Williams made no damn sense.
When I'd studied his high school film, I saw a talented athlete with good instincts but raw technique. The kind of player who succeeded through athleticism more than polish, just like any other 'Top' kid from the area.
What I was seeing in practice was a completely different player.
His route running was surgical. Every stem was perfect, every break was at the exact right depth, every hand placement was textbook. The way he could create separation reminded me of watching elite college receivers - that combination of technical precision with natural athleticism.
But it was more than just technique. His football IQ was off the charts. He was reading coverage pre-snap, making adjustments on the fly, finding soft spots in zones that most high school receivers never even recognized.
And those contested catches? The way he went up and got the ball with that kind of body control and timing - it reminded me of watching elite prospects who just had that "it" factor.
I pulled out my phone and called up Williams' high school stats again. 104 catches, 1,423 yards, 14 touchdowns. Good numbers, but nothing that screamed "elite prospect" considering his competition.
But the player I was watching right now? This kid could play Division I football tomorrow.
"Coach Martinez," I called over to my receivers coach. "What do you think?"
"I think we might have underestimated this kid," Martinez replied. "His technique is already better than Tyler's, and Tyler's been in our system for two years."
That was what worried me. Tyler Brooks had been our undisputed number one receiver since his sophomore year. Full ride offers to Stanford, UCLA, USC. The kid had been training with private coaches since middle school.
But watching Williams work, I was starting to think Tyler might have some competition for that top spot.
And if Williams could perform like this against our second team defense, what would happen when he got reps against the first team?
"Coach," one of my assistants jogged over. "You need to see the GPS data from the conditioning drills."
He handed me a tablet with the performance metrics from the afternoon. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for Williams' data.
When I found it, I had to read it twice.
Two-mile run: 10:52. That was faster than half our returning starters.
Sprint ladder times: Consistent across all distances, with acceleration numbers that were off the charts.
Terrible 20s: Completed all rounds with times that didn't drop off. Most players lost 15-20% of their speed by round 15. Williams actually got faster.
Heart rate recovery: Elite level. His heart rate dropped back to baseline faster than players who'd been in our program for years.
"This can't be right," I muttered.
"I thought the same thing," my assistant said. "So I checked the equipment. Everything's working perfectly. These numbers are legit."
I looked back out at the field where Williams was running another route - this time a double move that left the defender completely turned around.
Either this kid had been hiding his true ability level, or something had changed dramatically since his high school film was shot.
"Get me his academic transcripts," I told my assistant. "And call his high school coach. I want to know everything about this kid's training background."
"You think something's fishy?"
"I think something doesn't add up. Players don't make this kind of jump in technique and conditioning in three days."
But as I watched Williams make another spectacular grab - this time a one-handed catch in traffic that had the entire second team offense celebrating - I found myself getting excited despite my suspicions.
If this kid was legit, if he could sustain this level of play, we might actually have a chance to compete for some championships.
Malibu Prep hadn't won a conference title in five years. We'd been close, but we always seemed to be missing that one playmaker who could take over games.
Looking at Williams torch our secondary, I was starting to think we might have found him.
"Keep running him with the twos," I told Coach Martinez. "But next week, I want to see what he can do against the first team defense."
"You thinking about moving him up?"
"I'm thinking about winning some football games. And that kid might be the piece we've been missing."
As practice wrapped up and the players headed toward the locker room, I made a note in my phone to call Williams into my office tomorrow morning.
We needed to have a conversation about expectations, about opportunity, and about what it would take to earn significant playing time at Malibu Prep.
Because based on what I'd just seen, Jakari Williams wasn't going to be a project player.
He might be our best receiver right now.
Back in the locker room, guys were buzzing about practice. The conditioning had separated the men from the boys, and the scrimmage had shown who could really play.
"Yo, Williams," Derek Chen called out as I was getting changed. "That fade route catch was insane. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Just practice," I said, pulling off my practice jersey.
Tyler Brooks walked over, and I could tell he had something on his mind.
"Nice work out there today," he said, but his tone was different. Less friendly than before. "You looked... comfortable."
"Thanks."
"Just remember, practice is different from games. When the lights come on and there's real pressure, that's when you find out who can really handle this level."
I could see what he was doing - trying to plant doubt, trying to make me think I wasn't ready for the big stage.
"I hear you."
But inside, I felt more confident than ever. The Jerry Rice system wasn't just giving me technique - it was giving me the mindset of someone who'd performed at the highest level for twenty years.
Game pressure? I was ready for it.
As I headed out of the locker room, I felt my phone buzzing with messages.
I had a text from Grandma Janet: Maya and Tayanna are flying out next weekend! She's so excited to see you and show you how much the baby has grown
My heart jumped. I was finally going to meet my goddaughter in person.
Me: Can't wait. How's Maya doing?
Grandma Janet: She's doing great. Strong as ever. The baby is healthy and beautiful. You're going to fall in love with her
Me: Already do. Tell Maya I miss them
As I walked back to the dorm, I thought about everything that was happening. My boys back home were keeping their promises, working to become better men. Maya was raising Tayshawn's daughter and finding the strength to move forward. My mom was getting healthier every day.
And me? I was starting to find my place at this new level.
Tomorrow we'd have weight training in the morning - 6 AM, three times a week. Then we'd have our nutrition meeting where they'd map out exactly what we needed to eat to perform at peak levels.
And next week, Coach Rivera would probably move me up to face the first team defense.
I was ready for all of it.
Whatever came next, I was ready.