[30th May 2000 – Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY]
[POV Thomas]
For Thomas, the three months after being drafted had been nothing short of a nightmare. Unlike some of his higher-ranked peers, he had zero guarantees of being drafted, so when he was elated, that was all he felt. His dream since the age of seven, when he could hold a football and throw a spiral, was to reach the league.
He faced many challenges on his path, never being the first choice, and was ready to do the same when he reached the league. However, the woman in charge of getting him ready was a taskmaster of the worst kind. The Tigers organisation had offered sponsored summer training to all their drafted rookies.
They mostly received a week-by-week menu of exercises they had to complete, but it wasn't mandatory. However, because they were rookies, no one thought they could opt out, even if they wanted to. He, as the second-lowest-drafted rookie, couldn't slack off, especially with how much scrutiny the media put him under.
That's what began his nightmare; while all the other recruits who "opted in" received weekly checks from trainers from the strength and conditioning division, he was different. The new head of said division, Dr Maria van der Me, in all her 5'7 glory, made him her personal pet project. She deceptively let him be the rest of April, only to put him through the ringer in May.
First, she regulated his meals gone, where the days he could munch on a chilli dog, now it was all lean, whole foods, with a significant emphasis on vegetables, fruits, and lean proteins like grass-fed meat and wild-caught fish. The only blessing was that the Franchise was sponsoring his meals for now, but the doctor had made it clear that if he wanted to succeed, he would need to do it himself in the future.
He couldn't complain, though, as all the exercises she had him do were having a visible effect on his physique. He felt stronger and more agile, while not fast, within a four-meter box, he could shuffle his feet. That's another problem he had with the woman; she treated him like a mix of a triathlete and a soccer player.
He had expected high-intensity weightlifting to build up his muscles, as his small frame, despite his height, had always been a problem. However, the woman had merely laughed in his face before having him run a 10-mile cross-country. She would ride on her bike alongside him, shouting phrases like "Is that all you have in your tank, or back home we have players who can crawl a 10k faster than this."
Her training was unconventional, ranging from weird bodyweight training to swimming and resistance workouts. She never let him get used to her training style, as just as he got used to something, she would flip on him. One week it was heavy leg focused, the next it was all about the core, followed by strength and conditioning.
The only constants were balance, endurance, and injury-prevention workouts that have become ingrained in his mind. He could practically do them in his sleep, but she made sure that he did them with focus. June was a weird month for him, as Dr Maria had arrived with something that looked like a vest, wrapped only around his chest, like a half-shirt.
He didn't understand why he would need to wear something so uncomfortable, but he did so anyway. Maria actually let him resume training on his own, providing him with a weekly training menu. In week one, she came back with a bulky laptop and hooked up the vest, downloading the data it had recorded.
"You slacked off more than normal, Thomas," Was all she said as she took him through the data. "You need to decide for yourself how much you want this. You have some talents, but are not that outstanding that you can coast on them, so if you want to be a star in this league, you will need to want this more than everyone else, even when no one is there to push you."
~~~
[15th July 2000 – Tigers Training grounds, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY]
Thomas Brady stood in line with forty-seven other rookies and training camp invitees, all of them dressed in the standard-issue grey shorts and navy Tigers t-shirts they'd been given upon arrival. The morning sun was already brutal at 8:30 AM, the humidity making the air feel thick enough to chew. Sweat was already gathering at the small of his back.
Around him, conversations buzzed with nervous energy—guys introducing themselves, comparing draft positions, talking about where they'd played in college. The first-rounders—Abraham, Urlacher, Peterson—stood in a cluster near the front, already carrying themselves with the confidence of men who'd been guaranteed millions. The later-round picks and undrafted guys hung back, trying not to look as anxious as they felt.
Tom was somewhere in the middle, literally and figuratively. Sixth round, pick 178. Not high enough to feel secure, not low enough to feel threatened, as he was the only QB drafted. He just had to prove himself so that the organisation would invest in him long term.
"Alright, listen up!" A woman's voice cut through the chatter like a whip crack. Every head turned.
Dr Maria van der Meer stood at the front of the group, clipboard in hand, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She wore black athletic pants, a Tigers polo, and an expression that suggested she'd rather be literally anywhere else. Behind her, a team of assistants and trainers wheeled equipment carts toward the group—scales, measurement tools, and boxes of what looked like... vests?
"My name is Dr Maria van der Meer," she said, her Dutch accent clipping each word with authority. Their eyes briefly met, but she didn't acknowledge him as she continued her speech. "I am the Director of Sports Science and Performance for this organisation. Like you, I came here with high expectations and a dream, but I was scammed. But here we are. For the next four hours, you will go through the most comprehensive physical and medical assessment you have ever experienced. This is not optional. This is not negotiable. Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good." She gestured to her assistants. "You will each receive a ProQuant biometric vest. You will wear it for the duration of training camp. It tracks everything—heart rate, movement patterns, acceleration, deceleration, impact force, fatigue markers. This data will be used to optimise your training, prevent injuries, and evaluate your performance."
One of the bigger guys—a defensive tackle from Alabama—raised his hand tentatively. "Uh, ma'am? What if it's uncomfortable?"
Maria's expression didn't change. "Then you will be uncomfortable. Next question?" No one else spoke.
"Excellent." She consulted her clipboard. "When your name is called, collect your vest, proceed to Station One for anthropometric measurements, then Station Two for cardiovascular assessment, then Station Three for mobility screening. Move efficiently. We have a lot of bodies to process."
She began calling names alphabetically. "Abraham, John!"
The first-round defensive end stepped forward, his 6'4" frame making him look like he'd been carved from granite. He accepted his vest from an assistant—a familiar black compression garment with sensors embedded throughout—and headed toward the first station without hesitation.
Tom watched the process unfold. Guys are getting weighed, measured, and their body fat percentages calculated with callipers that looked medieval. Then they moved to treadmills for VO2 max testing, faces going red as they pushed to exhaustion while wearing oxygen masks. Finally, they went through a series of mobility tests—squats, lunges, shoulder rotations—while Maria's assistants made notes and took videos.
"Brady, Thomas!" Tom's stomach clenched. He stepped forward, accepted his vest from a young woman who couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and pulled it on over his Tigers compression shirt. It fit snugly, just as it did during his workouts back home.
There wasn't really much to it except the sensor that slid into the pocket between the shoulder blades. He figured that the vest had some secondary sensors, but wasn't really that worried since it sat snugly once one got used to it. "Station One," the assistant directed.
Tom moved to where a man with a measuring tape was waiting. "Step on the scale." 211 pounds. The number appeared on a digital display.
"Height?"
"Six-four and three-eighths," Tom said.
The man measured anyway, confirming it with a laser tool that beeped. Then came the body fat callipers—pinching his tricep, his abdomen, his thigh. Tom tried not to flinch. "Fourteen-point-two per cent," the man announced, writing it down. "Move to Station Two."
The treadmill was worse. They fitted him with a mask connected to a machine that measured his oxygen consumption, then steadily increased the speed and incline until his legs burned and his lungs screamed. By the time they let him stop, he was gasping, hands on his knees, the world spinning slightly.
"Adequate," the technician said neutrally. "Station Three."
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To Be Continued...