Page 1 of The Americana Playbook

“Hasthis been the welcome home you’ve always dreamed of, Fitz?”

Technically, I’m pretty far from Boston. I’m standing in an Atlanta hotel ballroom that’s been converted to house the dozens of journalists in front of me. I’ve spent a good chunk of my football career in similar situations, but only for the Los Angeles Bulls, where I played up from when I was drafted until last season.

I lean back from the podium, making it obvious I’m looking down at the New England Rebels’ emblem—an outline of a soldier of the American Revolution—before I adjust the mic. “Look, I grew up on the south shore of Massachusetts, and I’ve always been proud of our teams, even the Red Sox.”

The room chuckles.

“But it’s another kind of proud to lead the Rebels to a Super Bowl. And I’ll be even prouder to bring that trophy to the streets of Boston.”

I wait for the head of the Rebels’ PR team to take another question, and a woman stands.

“Rebecca Morris,” she introduces herself. “FromThe Boston Journal’sSports & Style section.A large part of this year’s coverage of the team has focused on your relationship with Coach Foller.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my manager, Nick. It’s impossible to miss the veins in his neck bulging.

Rebecca continues, “I think it brought a new sense of wholesomeness to the game, knowing that he coached you all the way back in high school. But I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations that have come up over the last few months.”

Nick might have a stroke.

“There are two things my team reminds me to never comment on. Politics”—I wait for the laughter to subside—“and legal matters. The Rebels did an investigation and I have to trust it was thorough.”

My eyes bounce between Nick, who looks like his blood pressure has lowered, and Rebecca, who doesn’t appear satisfied.

“You don’t have any comment on the abuse allegations?” she asks. “As of now, four former players back when he coached at the college level have?—”

“I can’t speak to other players’ experiences. I can only speak tomine.”

Nick’s eyes beg.Please don’t.

I rock back and forth on my heels. I should probably keep my mouth shut and leave it at that. But I’ve been in the public eye long enough to knowno commentleaves a lot of room for people to come up with their own truths when really, there only is one. And it’s simple.

I owe everything to James Foller.

They always say you never forget your first. I happen to have a few of those up my sleeve. Foller is one of them. He was the guy who made me into the player—theman—I am today. That started in high school, but it didn’t stop there.

When I went on to play in college at Georgia, he joined the staff as the quarterback coach my sophomore year when we won a championship. And when I was drafted to the League, it wasn’t much later he joined the Bulls as an assistant offensive coordinator. But I can’t exactly take credit for that. Foller got to that level because he was a damn good coach who knew what it would take tokeepwinning.

The truth is, football is an ugly sport. You’ve got to be tough. You’ve got to be violent. And to win? You’ve got to give your grit, determination, and will. You can only do that if you’re prepared and do the work. I’m not sure why people find it surprising to find that coaches are often tough on players. They scream. They break you down. If you’re tough enough to get through it, they’ll build you back up and you might find yourself in my exact situation—about to play in the Super Bowl.

Coach did all of that. After going on to be the offensive coordinator for two more teams, he made enough of a name for himself to become the head coach of the Rebels. And his first executive decision was to make a change at quarterback that timed with my contract with the Bulls expiring.

“It’s been an honor to be coached under James Foller,” I say. “I credit him with much of my growth and success, and look forward to throwing a cooler of water on him after we get that win in two days. I’ll take the next question.”

* * *

“You know something.” Josh, my center, straightens from his bent over position, huffing. “We need to think bigger.”

I hand back the water bottle to the Rebels assistant. “We’re about to play in the Super Bowl,” I tell Josh. “What’s bigger than that?”

“No.” Josh shakes his head. “I mean about what we’re going to do to Follerafterwe win. It has to be bigger than a cooler of Gatorade.”

“What do you need? A swimming pool?” I joke.

Josh stares toward the sideline. “That’ll work if it’s filled with Holy Water.”

I trace Josh’s stare. “They’ll be alright,” I say when I see what he sees—Micah, my running back, and Todd, our defensive lineman standing, helmets off as Coach talks to them.

“Most of us are about to play the biggest game of our lives the day after tomorrow and he’s got us running routes in full pads.” Josh scoffs.

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