Chapter 92: A Historic Meeting

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Thomas had asked the driver to take U.S. 101 north, the scenic route from Los Angeles toward the Bay Area.

Once the bus left the San Fernando Valley, the view outside the windows opened into dry ridges and long stretches of coast. The highway slipped past the Santa Lucia Mountains, ran near Monterey Bay, and then carried the team through San Jose, Cupertino, Mountain View, Stanford, Belmont, and finally San Mateo.

The ride was long enough for the Normans to get bored, restless, and loud.

"If we keep winning," Flea said from a few rows back, "we can really fight for the national title, right?"

"Why stop there?" Boar called out. "Let’s challenge USC next."

Laughter rolled through the bus.

Ford did not laugh. He sat in the aisle seat with both hands on his stomach, looking personally offended by every joke about speed.

He had gained weight since school let out. Not a little, either.

Nolan studied him for a moment. "How much?"

Ford looked away.

"Ford."

"About fifteen pounds."

"Love has been feeding you."

"Shut up."

Monster sat two rows behind them, huge and quiet, another running back entering a team that had already been built around Nolan’s unusual needs. Ford glanced at him and looked even more depressed.

Nolan patted the seat in front of him. "Athletic competition is cruel. Sometimes one door opens and another window gets slammed shut on your fingers."

"That is not comforting."

"It was not meant to be."

Ford groaned.

"Lose the weight," Nolan said. "You are not finished unless you decide to be."

...

By the time they reached San Mateo, evening had settled over the campus.

Thomas stepped off the bus, took one look around, and received the sort of news that made coaches age five years in a single breath.

"No hotel?"

The assistant in charge of local arrangements spread his hands. "The athletic office did not finalize it."

The players complained at once.

"We are sleeping in a dorm?"

"On a road game?"

"Coach, this is insane."

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.

Nolan did not care. A bed was a bed. The field lights drew his attention instead. In the distance, someone was still practicing alone, throwing footballs toward the uprights under the lamps.

A tall, thin quarterback.

Nolan watched him for three seconds and felt his interest sharpen.

"Ford."

"What?"

"Come run routes."

"I just got off a bus."

Nolan smiled.

Ford stood immediately. "Right. Running routes."

They crossed the field with a few other curious Normans trailing behind them.

The quarterback paused when Nolan approached. He had a narrow frame, a mild face, and the quiet caution of someone used to being overlooked.

"You go here?" Nolan asked.

"Yeah." The boy looked him over. "You?"

"Senior year. Just moved nearby."

The boy’s eyes dropped to Nolan’s shoulders, then back to his face. "You are a senior?"

"Last time I checked."

Ford coughed into his fist.

The boy almost smiled. "Tom Brady."

Nolan shook his hand.

Tom Brady.

The name landed inside Nolan’s head with the weight of a locked vault opening.

Seven Super Bowl titles. Five Super Bowl MVPs. A career that would outlast logic, draft charts, injuries, jokes, and almost everyone who ever doubted him.

And here he was, a high school quarterback throwing by himself under a school light.

Nolan kept his face neutral.

"Nolan Callahan."

"You play quarterback?"

"A little."

Tom looked at Ford. "He run routes for you?"

"When he has not eaten himself into a fullback," Nolan said.

"Hey."

Tom’s delivery was quiet and clean. He did not waste words. He explained what he was working on, where he wanted the ball, and how he read the field, all in a mild voice that never tried to impress anyone.

Nolan liked that immediately.

They took turns throwing.

Tom’s mechanics were steady, his release smooth, but Nolan did not see the lightning he had expected. The ball came out well. It did not come out impossibly.

’That’s it?’

Nolan threw next, driving a pass hard enough that Ford had to brace both hands against it.

Tom stared.

"How long have you played?"

"Two months."

Tom blinked once.

They kept going. Tom was accurate, thoughtful, and much calmer than most high school quarterbacks. But compared with the monster Nolan had built in his imagination, the real teenager still looked unfinished.

’I am better than him right now.’

That did not mean Tom would stay there. Nolan knew enough about future development to respect the long road. Brady had been invisible for years before a brutal injury to New England’s starter opened the door and history changed.

Still, tonight’s Tom Brady was not a myth.

He was a skinny kid with discipline, a good arm, and a mind that might become terrifying later.

"Do you like football?" Nolan asked.

Tom hesitated. "Honestly? I like baseball more."

"Smart. Football is hard on the body."

"Then why play?"

"Because some doors are only attached to football fields."

Tom thought about that.

"If I wanted to get better as a quarterback," Nolan asked, "what matters most?"

Tom answered without drama. "Mentality. Mentality. Mentality."

Nolan nodded.

Ford, meanwhile, was bent over near the sideline, breathing like the bus ride had personally betrayed him.

"Done?" Nolan called.

"I hate both of you."

Nolan dragged him upright and started walking back toward the dorms.

’Women only make you run slower.’

...

The next morning, the preseason scrimmage began under a clean sky.

Tom Brady stood near midfield for the coin toss, then froze when he recognized Nolan on the other side.

"Senior?"

Nolan smiled. "I was in ninth grade three years ago."

Tom looked as if he wanted to walk backward into yesterday.

"So you were scouting me."

"Friendly visit."

They shook hands anyway.

Nolan lost the toss.

Again.

The opening kickoff stopped near the forty-five, and Tom Brady walked onto the field with the ball in his hands.

Nolan stayed near the sideline, watching every step.

He had come to San Mateo for a warm-up game.

He might have found something far stranger.

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