"Yeah, how time flies, right?" Cam said, with a mix of nostalgia and excitement.
Andrew gave a small nod as he fully stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space. He still wasn't completely used to this new room.
It was a medium-sized room. In the area where Cam stood, a large couch, big enough for five people, dominated the center of the space. Opposite it, mounted on the wall, was a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, paired with a powerful sound system, the kind that made the whole room vibrate when the volume went up. That section was arranged like a small home theater.
A place made for watching television, NFL or college games, movies, series, or whatever else.
Then his gaze shifted to a different wall, completely covered by neatly aligned shelves, each space filled with something different: trophies, plaques, medals, framed photos, and newspaper clippings. There was no clutter, no excess, everything was placed with intention, almost like a timeline of his three years of high school football, including what he was doing now in his senior season.
There were game MVP awards, many of them presented by ESPN or Fox Sports West, mementos of nights broadcast nationwide, of cameras, lights, and packed stadiums. Trophies of different sizes, some simple, others more elaborate, but most of them engraved with the same words in different forms: Most Valuable Player.
His eyes stopped on one award in particular:
CIF Southern Section – Offensive Player of the Year (2010–2011).
The trophy was understated and heavy: a dark base of polished wood with a metal plaque engraved with his name, the year, and the distinction. On top, a stylized figure holding a football.
It was the most important award in the Southern Section, granted after a vote by coaches, journalists, and officials within the circuit. Andrew had received it just a few days after winning the final against Long Beach Poly on November 28, 2010. It wasn't for a single game, it was for the entire body of work: the Trinity League and the section playoffs.
Beside it stood another recognition, just as rare or perhaps even rarer:
Cal-Hi Sports – State Player of the Year.
The most prestigious statewide award in California. It was unusual for a junior to win it, and even more so in such a decisive, unquestioned manner.
But not everything on the wall was a physical trophy.
There were framed clippings. One from MaxPreps occupied a central place. The headline read:
Andrew Pritchett-Tucker is the undisputed National Player of the Year after a legendary season.
MaxPreps didn't award a trophy. What they did was publish a long, detailed article, statistics, context, level of competition, and overall impact. That recognition was especially respected by universities and recruiters. That was why Cam had printed the article, selected the most important excerpt, and had it framed.
Another frame belonged to Parade Magazine.
Parade All-American – First Team (QB).
It wasn't an individual award, but rather an elite selection. Still, appearing on that list meant you had put together a great season. And Andrew wasn't just on the list, he was on the cover of that national issue, released after the final against De La Salle, the same game played in front of more than fifty thousand people and cameras from all over the country.
A little lower, another clipping:
USA Today – All-USA First Team (QB).
This was also a national selection. Mater Dei had been crowned national champion by consensus, and Andrew, as the most dominant player in the country, couldn't be left out.
Andrew's gaze then drifted to a trophy he was particularly fond of:
EA Sports National Player of the Year.
That one was physical, and he had received it in person. He'd had to go to EA's offices for the presentation. Cam had even placed a photo next to the trophy: Andrew holding it and looking at the camera while shaking hands with a suited man who had presented the award.
Then his eyes moved to what could be considered the most important trophy, well, the second most important.
Gatorade National Player of the Year – Football
The most prestigious individual award in American high school sports. It is awarded once a year for each sport (football, basketball, baseball, soccer, etc.). The winner is considered the best high school player in the country in that specific sport. Each discipline has its own winner.
But first, each category has a state-level winner. Andrew had been chosen as the best player in California. That stage didn't include a physical trophy, nor was it even made public. Everything was kept quiet until the very end.
After that, among all the state winners, only one was chosen. And the ceremony was never announced.
Gatorade coordinated secretly with the school. On an ordinary school day, without any warning, brand representatives would show up on campus alongside a former NFL player or a well-known journalist. An impromptu assembly would be organized in the gym, students not fully understanding what was going on, and there, right in front of everyone, the award would be presented.
Andrew remembered that day clearly.
When students started being called to go to the gym, most of them, including him, already had a pretty good idea of what it was about. There weren't many mysteries left. The season had been far too dominant to pretend surprise: 72 touchdowns, three titles, Mater Dei sitting at the top of the national rankings.
There was no real tension or anxiety about whether Gatorade would show up or not. Honestly, there wasn't another high school football player who combined that level of individual performance with such an overwhelming collective impact. He had literally scored twice as many touchdowns as Matt Barkley did in the year he won the same Gatorade award, actually, twice as many plus two more.
The trophy was heavy and solid. It had a cylindrical metal base with a gold finish. On top, a vertical structure with the Gatorade logo embossed, simple and instantly recognizable. Next to the award was a photo his father had framed without hesitation: Andrew standing at the center of Mater Dei's gym, holding the trophy with both hands, a faint smile on his face.
Behind him, a black backdrop with repeated POY and Gatorade logos, and to one side a vertical banner indicating the year and the award: Player of the Year – Football.
Although the award excited him, it didn't overwhelm him. What truly left an impression on him, was who presented it to him: LaDainian Tomlinson.
An active NFL player. A running back. One of the best of his generation.
Tomlinson had spent nine seasons with the San Diego Chargers and, in February 2010, had joined the New York Jets as a free agent. For many, his retirement already seemed close, even though he was still competing at the highest level.
Even so, seeing him there, in the Mater Dei gym, was something Andrew had never imagined.
Tomlinson had been named NFL MVP in 2006. A historic season: 1,815 rushing yards, 28 rushing touchdowns, plus additional scores as a receiver and even as a passer. Thirty-three total touchdowns in a single year, an big number, even by professional standards. All of it while wearing a Chargers uniform.
He had been selected multiple times to the Pro Bowl and All-Pro teams, and even before the NFL he had already left his mark in college. During his collegiate career, he set records that were still being cited, like 406 rushing yards in a single game, and he had been a finalist for the Heisman Trophy. A career worthy of respect from start to finish.
Andrew knew, because he came from the future and because he loved statistics, career paths, and football history, that Tomlinson would officially retire in 2012. That meant a career lasting more than a decade, from 2001 onward, something rare for a running back, a position punished by constant hits and wear. Lasting that long at that level wasn't luck; it was discipline, preparation, and an extraordinary work ethic.
Not every day does an active NFL player, an MVP, someone who redefined his position, shake your hand and hand you an award.
'Gatorade had truly outdone itself this time,' Andrew thought.
It wasn't unusual for the brand to bring NFL players, former players, or well-known journalists to present the award. That was part of the ritual. But it wasn't the same for an analyst to show up as it was for a reigning NFL MVP to walk in.
That was what made it special. He wasn't the only one surprised, Víctor, Nick, and the others were just as stunned when they saw him.
The photo he'd taken with Tomlinson felt more valuable to him. He had already framed it. But that picture was in his bedroom, not here.
His gaze then shifted to the trophy sitting right beside it.
The Gatorade National Athlete of the Year.
It was different from the previous one. The trophy was circular, with the Gatorade logo engraved in the center, polished enough to reflect the light. That award didn't represent just football. It represented all sports.
Among all the national winners by sport, Gatorade chose only two athletes each year: one male and one female.
The best across all sports. The one who had the best season. Player of the Year put you at the top of your discipline. Athlete of the Year placed you above every other sport.
Unlike the previous award, this one didn't arrive as a surprise on a random day. There was a gala organized by Gatorade every year, with suits, dresses, and even speeches. Andrew had enjoyed it, it had been fun.
He remembered that from the moment he arrived, no one really seemed to be wondering who would win, at least on the men's side. Barkley, in his year with 35 touchdowns, had also won both Gatorade awards. So it was logical to assume that Andrew, who had put up a little more than double the touchdowns, fewer interceptions, and, above all, a greater collective impact, would win as well.
It was almost impossible to compete with Andrew's season, individually, collectively, and in terms of media attention.
At the gala, Andrew talked with other boys and girls who had also had outstanding seasons in their disciplines. Swimmers, track athletes, basketball players, even sprinters. Simple conversations, comparing training routines, meals, travel, and daily habits. People who understood exactly what it meant to sustain that level for an entire year.
"Nice, isn't it?" Cam said with a smile as he stepped closer, looking at the gleaming trophy, not a speck of dust on it.
"Yeah," Andrew said, nodding as he touched the Gatorade logo with his finger. It really was aesthetic.
For a few seconds, they stood in silence, contemplating it. Then Andrew murmured, almost to himself, "I want to win another one."
Cam turned his head and looked at him. "What?"
"I want to win another one," Andrew repeated more clearly. "No one's done it. I want to be the first."
"The Gatorade National Football Player of the Year?" Cam asked, intrigued.
Andrew slowly shook his head. "That too, but not just that. I want to win the National Athlete of the Year again."
Cam looked at him, surprised. "Is that even possible? I think no one has ever repeated in that category. They always pick someone different. Not even LeBron won it twice."
That was true.
In the National Player of the Year awards by sport, repeating wasn't impossible. In basketball, it had happened, Greg Oden won it twice. LeBron James did too, in 2002 and 2003, during his junior and senior years at St. Vincent–St. Mary. In soccer, track and field, baseball, and other sports, there had been repeat winners as well.
But not in football. The wear and tear was greater. Maintaining that level for four years in high school was rare. And above all, most players didn't truly explode until their senior season.
The National Athlete of the Year was a different story. There was no written rule forbidding a repeat winner. It just never happened. The award wasn't cumulative, nor did it follow a mathematical formula. It wasn't about adding up statistics year after year.
How do you compare a quarterback with an Olympic swimmer, with a basketball player, with a soccer player?
That was why the jury evaluated other factors: dominance within context, national impact, the scale of the phenomenon, the trajectory over the course of that season. And also, though no one ever said it out loud, they looked for variety, for avoiding the award becoming repetitive.
Andrew looked at him. "That's exactly why."
"And how do you plan to do it?" Cam asked.
"A season so historic they can't ignore it and have to name me National Athlete of the Year again," Andrew replied.
It wasn't about repeating what he'd done in his junior year. It was about surpassing it. Redefining the ceiling once more. Many believed his previous season was a ceiling no quarterback could ever break, he would have to force them to rethink that.
Cam watched him in silence. He didn't see arrogance. He saw conviction, and fire.
"Then it's not enough to win everything like last year," Cam said. "You'll need more touchdowns, more points, fewer mistakes, more impact, and more noise."
Andrew nodded slowly. "Exactly."
Cam let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "The worst part is…" he said, pointing at a framed newspaper clipping on the wall, "you're already doing it."
Andrew followed his finger. There, carefully framed, was a Los Angeles Times Sports clipping. The headline took up nearly the entire page:
[Andrew Pritchett-Tucker surpasses Robby Pohl and becomes the player with the most total touchdowns in the history of high school football.]
Below it, the photo: Andrew walking off the field with his helmet in hand, the scoreboard still lit. Friday, September 30. Orange Lutheran. Second game of the Trinity League. Seven touchdowns that night. The final number: 229.
Andrew remembered the exact moment. Before the start of his senior season, he had 204 touchdowns at the end of his third year, two seasons at Palisades and one at Mater Dei.
The career total touchdown record had belonged to Robby Pohl with 228. Andrew broke it in the fourth game of the new season.
Beside that clipping was another one:
[Andrew Pritchett-Tucker breaks the total yards record and becomes the most productive player in the history of high school football.]
Date: September 23, the third game of the season.
Andrew finished that night with more than 350 yards, bringing his career total to 17,250 yards across all his games.
The previous record was roughly 17,000.
Two historic marks shattered in two weeks at the very start of the season, before October had even begun.
"That's what I mean," Andrew said with a faint smile.
If he managed to close out his high school career with a season like that, breaking historic records, repeating the previous year's titles with better statistics and even greater national exposure, it would be impossible for Gatorade to ignore him.
It was about forcing a decision, like when he made that video pushing the CIF to move Palisades up.
The truth was, he was already doing it. Even though the season wasn't over yet.
It was November 1, 2011.
The senior season had begun in September. The first game, a non-conference matchup, was played on Friday the 8th. Since then, Andrew had played eight games. Eight wins. Exactly like the year before.
Two non-league games, which counted toward the record, five league games, and the first round of the section playoffs.
Once again, Trinity League champions.
Up to that point, Andrew had totaled 46 touchdowns in eight games. An average of 5.75 TDs per game.
It was even better than his junior season, when he finished with 5.1 TDs per game over fourteen contests.
He was improving, and not just on paper.
His body had changed too. Over the past year, he had fully filled out: 6'4", 212 pounds. It wasn't useless weight. Everything was functional. The ideal height to throw over the offensive line, just the right weight to absorb contact if needed.
He wasn't light. But he wasn't oversized either. Perfectly balanced, as Thanos would put it.
Physically, he fit perfectly into the mold of an elite quarterback. Based on physical traits alone, he was comfortably within the top 1–5% nationwide. And when you added his skills decision-making, field vision, anticipation, there was no comparison at the high school level.
Andrew believed his current level was already college-ready. He could compete from day one without fear. Not dominate like this, of course, but hold his own. He wasn't afraid of that jump, in fact, he was eager for it.
Still, nothing was guaranteed.
The pace had to be maintained. His body had to hold up. And the season still had its most demanding half ahead, assuming they weren't eliminated first.
Cam let out a soft laugh and shook his head. "Your mindset… it still amazes me."
Most players, after a historic season, slowed down. Not because they wanted to, it just tended to happen. Quarterbacks would have a brutal, explosive year, and the next one would be solid, correct, but not the same. Not scandalous, but not disappointing either. Simply human.
It had happened in high school with Clausen, Barkley, Leinart. It had happened in college with many Heisman winners, and even in the NFL.
"In your case, it seems to be the opposite," Cam continued. "You don't just maintain your level, you surpass it every season."
Andrew shrugged. He didn't quite know what to say. Settling felt foreign to him. It seemed like a slow form of boredom.
'If I stayed where I am, it would be too easy,' Andrew thought, glancing at the newspaper clipping.
He was looking for something that would force him to push. To stretch the limit. And at the level he was already at, that only meant one thing:
Breaking records. One after another.
Andrew stopped thinking about football and scanned the room. The low lighting, the massive screen, the surround sound, and on the opposite wall, the constant gleam of metal and glass, medals hanging, framed photos and newspapers. He sighed.
"Dad and I wanted this to be just a movie room," Andrew said. "And it ended up being a movie room and an early Hall of Fame."
"It is!" Cam replied enthusiastically.
It had been Cam who, with almost curatorial patience, had turned the back half of the room into a timeline. Trophies, medals, newspaper clippings, championship photos. Everything arranged chronologically, as if Andrew's career already deserved to be walked through from beginning to end.
Technically, it was a home theater. The problem was that if you sat on the couch and turned your head, you found dozens of gleaming trophies staring back at you in silence.
How could the Pritchett-Tucker family afford to dedicate an entire room to a home theater and, at the same time, to a personal museum?
The answer was simple: the Pritchett-Tucker family had moved into a new house.
-------------------------------------------------
You can read 15 chapters in advance on my patreon.
Link: https://[email protected]/Nathe07