[21st March 2000 – 10:30 AM, Calabasas, Los Angeles, CA, USA]
The California sun had already climbed high above the hills when Xavier finally stirred awake. A warm shaft of light slipped through the half-drawn curtains, brushing against the dark curls on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, the world outside felt still, giving him a semblance of peace.
Just the muffled hum of the house and the distant call of a lawn sprinkler outside drifted into his ears. He yawned, stretching before sitting up, his body still weighed down by jet lag. After a quick shower, he pulled on a white T-shirt and light grey chinos from his overnight bag, rolling his shoulder to ease some fatigue.
A faint breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the sweet scent of jasmine and citrus from the garden below. By the time he made his way downstairs, the soft clinking of china and gentle laughter guided him toward the conservatory. The room was drenched in sunlight — glass walls framed by creeping ivy, a polished wicker table in the centre set with a porcelain teapot, lemon cake slices, and two cups.
His grandfather, Nathaniel Stewart, Nathan for short, sat with a relaxed posture as he read a bound book with a purple stripe, Power written in golden letters. His silver-streaked hair was combed neatly back, a grey quarter-zip sweater hugging his broad shoulders. Grandma Elena was seated on a nearby couch, reading the same book her book club had been discussing last night, "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon".
"Morning, sweetheart," she greeted with a radiant smile. "You slept half the day away. Tea or orange juice?"
"Tea, please," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek before turning toward his grandfather. "Morning, Grandpa."
Nathan looked up from the newspaper, his auburn eyes bright despite the soft crow's-feet at the corners. "Morning, Xav. You get a good rest. Didn't get to see you last night?"
Xavier smiled faintly, sinking into the seat opposite him. "Yeah, I had planned on getting up to greet you, but I guess I must have been more tired than I expected."
Nathan chuckled, setting the book aside. "Jet lag'll do that to you. I remember those days flying back and forth with Columbia. Back then, we didn't have the convenience of frequent flights and had to take buses when possible." He paused for a moment as if reminiscing on a fond memory before continuing. "Jet lag will feel like a massage when you spend six hours on the road with a group of rowdy college kids."
Elena was already up, moving in the kitchen, which was adjacent to the conservatory and the Living room. "You need something in your stomach," she said, opening up some cups and casing plates and pans to click and clank lightly. "You're all bones as if you hadn't eaten in weeks. Toast, eggs, maybe some fruit?"
"Grandma, I'm fine," Xavier protested, smiling as he checked his bicep to make sure his muscles were still there, but she was already busily working in the kitchen.
"She's not going to stop till you eat," Nathan said with a small grin, pouring another cup of tea. "Might as well surrender early, son."
"Yeah, I figured as much. I guess that's where mum gets it from. She makes a fuss every time I get back from college." Xavier replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. He looked around the conservatory again — the open windows, the lemon trees, the breeze fluttering through the lace curtains.
After a moment, his tone shifted, quiet but thoughtful. "Grandpa… can I ask you something?"
Nathan raised an eyebrow in curiosity as he looked up from the pages in his book. "Of course."
"You've worked in the business a good while. What, in your opinion, makes a franchise successful?" Xavier asked. "On the field, I mean. Not a business that I know, but sometimes that tends to clash with the other?"
Nathan leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. "Danm straight for the jugular, you're not holding your punches," he said after a pause, his tone slow and deliberate. "Most owners forget that football isn't just a business; it's the only sport where people matter the most. You win when you put the right people in the best position, and if you make them believe in the same goal, you have a recipe for success."
He sat back, his eyes distant for a moment, as if replaying years of locker rooms and film sessions. "I've seen talented teams fall apart because the locker room was divided. I've also seen average squads punch above their weight because they trusted each other — from the quarterback to the towel boy."
Xavier leaned forward, elbows on his knees, absorbing every word. "Success," Nathan continued, "In my opinion, for a franchise to succeed, it needs a player to be the core, what some people call the face of the franchise, and a backroom staff to build not only culture and keep the players focused."
"Why is it that mostly Quarterbacks are made the faces of a franchise? Is it because it's easier to market them?" Xavier asked with interest since the QB problem was something the Tigers were facing at the moment. "Or is it because it's a safer bet for the team, as a good QB will find it hard to leave to another team needing two to three seasons to gel with a new squad?"
Nathan gave a low hum, swirling the tea in his cup before answering. "That's a good question. It's not just about marketing — though, yes, the league loves a good face for a poster. It's about leadership distribution. The quarterback touches the ball on every play. He's the only constant link between planning and execution, so naturally, he becomes the centre of gravity for the entire locker room."
He set his cup down gently and leaned back, his tone shifting into that calm, methodical tone that Xavier had only seen when he was discussing something with his late father. "But here's the catch — a team built only around its quarterback is fragile. When he falls, the whole thing crumbles. The real dynasties — the Steelers of the seventies, the Cowboys of the nineties — they had quarterbacks, yes, but they also had identities. Culture. Systems that kept winning even when faces changed."
Elena returned just then, carrying a plate with buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and sliced fruit. "You two sound like an ESPN special," she teased, setting the plate in front of Xavier before returning to her seat. "Eat while he preaches, sweetheart."
Nathan chuckled softly. "She's not wrong. I've been giving this sermon for forty years." He took another slow sip of tea before continuing. "The key, Xav, is balance. You build around your strengths, not just your stars. The offence is your heart, but your defence — that's your spine. Without it, you can't stand tall."
He paused, eyes sharpening slightly as he looked across at his grandson. "And you need coaches who buy into that philosophy wholeheartedly, Coaches who can mould players to match the organisation's identity. You give me one good teacher and a dozen willing minds, and I'll show you a playoff team."
As he spoke, Xavier suddenly noticed something flicker — a soft, metallic shimmer above his grandfather's head. He blinked, sitting a little straighter. The light was subtle at first, like morning glare off polished silver, but then it focused, clear and undeniable. Lines of text hovered above Nathan's calm expression, each word edged with silver and faint gold:
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[Front-Office Vision: A++]Main Talents: Strategist · Versatile Planner · Discerning Eye · Calm Mind · Smooth Operator.
[Coaching Aptitude: B++]Main Talents: Patient Developer · Team Optimiser
---
Xavier's breath caught. He'd seen the golden letters above Ozzie, the radiant glow above Patrick Belichick — but this light felt steadier. It pulsed softly as his grandfather continued to talk, making him realise that he had far more talent than anyone he had ever met, at quite a high level.
"Grandpa…" he murmured before catching himself. "How would you like to move back to New York and help me rebuild the Tigers as its GM?"
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To Be Continued...