Chapter 216: Chapter 137: A Sense of Crisis
When Head Coach Daboll led his entourage of assistant coaches and data analysts into the war room, he was surprised to find the hundred-plus beasts below—men whose muscles were far more developed than their minds—sitting quietly in their seats like well-behaved children.
This piqued his interest. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had a gut feeling it had something to do with Li Wei.
Based on the prospects he’d selected, he knew many of them were serious troublemakers. They were talented, but they needed to be thoroughly disciplined. Take that guy from Louisiana State, Darius—
Fuck! Where was Darius? Why wasn’t that major hothead making a peep?
He’d reviewed his game tape and file and had mentally prepared himself to bring the hammer down on the kid. To not see him stirring up trouble was, frankly, a little surprising.
After scanning the room, he finally spotted Darius. The fake gold chain was gone, and a very distinct red mark circled his neck. He was sitting silently in a corner, his eyes locked on the person in the very front row—
Li Wei?
Daboll didn’t know what had happened in the locker room, but he had a feeling it had everything to do with Li Wei.
Daboll cleared his throat with a couple of soft coughs and clapped his hands.
"Gentlemen, welcome to the New York Giants. I’m Head Coach Brian Daboll," he said. "First off, congratulations. You beat out countless others your age to be here, standing in a room that represents the pinnacle of football."
He snapped his fingers. A few assistant coaches behind him immediately came down, carrying a thick stack of tablets to distribute to every player in the room.
"This is your bible for the next three days: the playbook," he said, pointing to the dense grid of tactical codes on the big screen. "It contains every offensive and defensive play we’ll be drilling for the next three days. And remember, this isn’t the NCAA. We’re not playing house here. This playbook has over fifty base formations and more than three hundred tactical variations."
"I’m only giving you three days," he said, holding up three fingers. "This is the most basic test. If you can’t pass the exam after three days, then I’m afraid I’ll have to say sorry."
The sound of tablet covers flipping open immediately filled the room, followed by a soft but continuous wave of sharp, indrawn breaths.
For this group of jocks, most of whom barely scraped by with a passing GPA, this indecipherable playbook was more terrifying than calculus.
Daboll and his staff slipped out of the war room. By the time they returned, two hours had passed.
Like a teacher supervising detention, Daboll peered ominously through the glass window in the door, a ghostly figure in the hallway.
When he saw some of the players had already started relaxing and were messing with their phones, he exchanged a look with his old partner, Offensive Coordinator ’Mad Dog’ Matty.
Matty was a short, stocky old white man with a neck as thick as a tree stump. He had a buzz cut, was perpetually chewing gum, and his eyes held the unsettling glint of a true maniac.
He grinned in understanding, flashing a set of yellow teeth. With his hands clasped behind his back, he sauntered to the front of the room like an amiable neighborhood uncle.
"Hey, kids," his voice was surprisingly gentle. "Everyone settling in okay? Chairs comfortable enough for you? If it gets too cold in here, you just let me know."
"Um..." A meek-looking white backup quarterback in the second row raised his hand. He was an undrafted rookie from a D3 school named Timmy.
Li Wei glanced over and recognized him.
The D3 league, to put it simply, was even shittier than the school Travis went to.
"Co-Coach, I think it’s fine. It’s just... the play calls are a little... much." Timmy swallowed, trying to sound studious. "Especially the defensive reads for the ’Empty 3 Jet’ formation. There are so many variations in the playbook."
"A little much? Oh, you poor kid."
The smile on Matty’s face grew wider. Chewing his gum, he ambled over to Timmy with his hands still behind his back. He even thoughtfully reached out and straightened the crooked glasses on the kid’s nose.
"Your name is... Timmy, right?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Right, Timmy. It’s normal to think there are a lot of plays." Matty’s voice was as soft as if he were lulling a baby to sleep. "After all, back in D3, you probably just had to look at your coach on the sideline waving a couple of cards with pictures of SpongeBob on them and then chuck the ball, right?"
Timmy gave an awkward laugh. "I’ll work hard to adjust, Coach."
"Work hard? That’s good."
"But, Timmy," Matty said, suddenly shoving his big, stubbled face right up to Timmy’s, the distance between them less than an inch. "Since you brought up the formation, let’s have a little quiz."
"In that formation, if the defense doesn’t line up in a standard Cover 2 shell, and instead the strong safety creeps down showing a zone blitz, what’s your audible?"
Timmy froze. He had just forgotten that specific check.
"Uh... um..." Cold sweat beaded on Timmy’s forehead, his fingers twisting into a knot under the table. "I... I think it’s..."
