[11th April 2000 – 00:05 AM, Amsterdam Schiphol Airport]
The departures terminal at Schiphol was relatively quiet at this ungodly hour, the pre-dawn stillness broken only by the occasional announcement and the rumble of luggage wheels across polished floors. Maria stood at the security checkpoint, her yellow suitcase at her side, carry-on bag slung over her shoulder.
She wore dark jeans, a cream turtleneck, and a long camel coat against the morning chill. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail.
Noah stood with his hands in his coat pockets, his breath visible in the cool air of the terminal. "You have everything? Passport, tickets, documentation for work?"
"Three times checked," Maria assured him with a faint smile.
"Money? Credit cards?"
"Papa."
"Phone numbers? Emergency contacts?"
"Papa."
He smiled sheepishly. "I'm allowed to worry. It's in the father contract."
Maria stepped forward and hugged him tightly. "I'll be fine."
He took her figure in his eyes, crinkling in sadness and a hint of pride. "Your mother… she doesn't mean half of what she says when she's angry."
"I know," She replied softly, eyes glistening. "It's just frustrating realising how little she believes in me. All my life I've tried my best, and I've always been at the top of my class, so why does she have so little faith?"
"She just worries. We both do, especially after what happened to your brother." He sighed, his entire demeanour emanating sorrow, before he placed a hand on her shoulder. "But for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. You've always chased what you believe in — even when it scared you."
Her throat tightened as she hugged him. "Thank you, Papa."
The PA system crackled to life: [Last call for passengers on Continental Airlines Flight 72 to New York JFK. Please proceed to Gate D7.]
He smiled faintly. "Go show them what my girl can do." Maria wiped her eyes, nodded, and walked toward security.
~~~
[11th April 2000 – 08:40 AM, John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York City]
The first-class cabin of Continental Flight 72 had been comfortable—spacious seats that reclined into beds, attentive service, decent food. Maria had slept for maybe three of the eight-hour flight, her mind too wired with anticipation and anxiety to rest fully. The terminal buzzed with morning chaos — flight announcements, echoing footsteps, and the hum of impatient travellers.
Maria's brown platform boots clicked against the linoleum as she navigated through the crowd, her carry-on bag bouncing against her hip. Her blonde hair, which had been neatly pulled back for the flight, was now slightly dishevelled. JFK was by far busier than Schiphol had been, showing just why the city was the financial capital of the world.
She somehow managed to find her way through the crowd. She followed the signs for ground transportation, riding the escalator down to the arrivals level where the yellow cabs waited in an endless queue. Stepping out of the glass doors, the crisp April air hit her with a sudden cold wave, not quite as cold as the Netherlands but still noticeable.
She spotted a line of yellow cabs and made her way toward them, weaving through the crowd. A dispatcher in a bright vest waved her forward. "Taxi, miss?"
"Yes, please."
He opened the door of a yellow cab, helping her load her suitcase into the trunk as Maria slid into the back seat. The driver, a young Indian man in his mid-twenties wearing a Yankees cap, immediately began driving following the exit lane. In the back seat, Maria exhaled deeply, her head leaning back as the car rumbled forward.
She loosened her coat, taking another big breath before the voice of the driver entered her ears. "Where to?" the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
Eyes still closed, she smiled faintly, the fatigue slipping into a soft sigh. "Home," she murmured. "Yeah, take me home."
The cab lurched forward, then stopped abruptly, jolting her upright. "Lady," the driver said, turning halfway in his seat, bewildered. "I don't know where the fuck you live."
Maria blinked, disoriented for a beat — then laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days. "Hahaha, right?" she managed between laughs, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry, that was—" She fumbled in her bag for the piece of paper Xavier's office had sent her. "Here. This address. Please."
He took the paper, squinting at it. "The Westminster on 7th Ave," he whistled, turned back around, and pulled into traffic.
"You just move here or something?"
"Something like that," Maria said, still smiling as she watched the New York skyline come into view through the window.
The driver glanced at her again in the mirror. "First time in America?"
"First time in New York."
"Ah." He nodded sagely. "Don't worry. City's crazy, but you get used to it. Where you from? Europe?"
"Netherlands."
"Amsterdam! Nice. My cousin went there once. Said it's beautiful."
"It is," Maria agreed quietly, watching the unfamiliar landscape roll past—highways, billboards, the sprawling urban sprawl that was so different from Utrecht's orderly streets.
~~~
[11th April 2000 – 08:40 AM, Scarsdale, New York – 22:40 AM,]
The cradle of gladiatorial sports, the dreamland of organised sports and the most comprehensive talent development factory. These titles all apply to the United States of America, the cradle of modern sports. No other country has managed to dominate three team sports as comprehensively as they have.
Basketball is played in the far east of China to the cold winters of Russia and even in the slums of Rio. Yet somehow, the most well-known league, the cradle where every Basketballer wants to reach, is in America. Baseball is similarly a global sport, and despite Japan having arguably an equally competitive professional scene, kids risk throwing out their shoulders to reach the major leagues.
American football is perhaps the most dominant example, as Americans have mastered the sport to the point that no other country dares to host a professional league. Excuses like 'it's a barbaric sport,' or 'wearing pads is for whimps, Rugby is a real man's sport,' some even say 'look at the concussion rates in players.'
All those voices are stupid, idiotic and simply lack an appreciation for art. It is an art indeed, how millions of kids all around the 50 states pick up a pigskin, a Horsehide, and the orange all for a dream. The American dream where a kid from the gritty streets of Chicago, the slums of Harlem and even the cowboys of Arkansas chases a 0.01% (1 in 10,000) chance of reaching the NFL.
Reaching the NBA was even harder, consisting of only a 0.006% (1 in 15,000–17,000) chance. Why is all this important, you wonder, for the simple fact that for football hopefuls, just making it to varsity from middle school to high school had a success rate of only 10-12%. The NCAA was even more brutal, with only 73,000 spots, cutting that 12% down to 7% on all collegiate levels.
That's where most careers end as players are left with battered bodies, bruised bones and even worse. However, if you ask most, 7/10 will tell you it was worth it— they got to be heroes for almost a decade. The National Football League only has 1,700 spots across all rosters. For those who haven't been paying attention, that means, for every 10,000 kids tossing a football at age 13, only about one will ever make an NFL roster.
It was a process of natural selection, the wild wild west, where the law of the jungle reigned supreme. 1,500–1,800, it's a lot of numbers, I know, but we're almost done, I promise. So 1,800 players out of 73,000 get the nod in college, ranked as the best of the best, to be selected by 32 GMs.
In the 2000 Draft, 254 hopefuls made their dreams come true, and 200 QBs were eligible for the draft. With only 40 of them receiving enough interest from Scout to believe they are ready, or having no other choice but to declare. What this meant for Xavier and the Tigers organisation, by extension, was that they had a 1/40 chance to get it right.
When Xavier set the directive to find the 'Face of the Franshis' on the 4th of April, scouts were sent out to invite 25 prospects. The entire league by now knew who the Tigers were drafting, or at least could guess as much, as they only invited QBs. The previous management had used only five of the 30 visits, leaving them to exploit this option to be sure of their choice.
"This is like picking a needle out of a stack of needles." Nathan groaned, rubbing his salt and pepper hair as he paused the replay displayed on the cinema wall. "I've watched so many of these kids throw the ball; they are starting to blend together. This might be too little preparation to pick the perfect QB."
"OH, about that, I think I figured out who it should be," Xavier said from the side, leaning back in his plush leather chair. "There are two solid picks who could turn into Pro Bowl commanders, making us competitive if we follow the plan."
"Huh, how.. Never mind if you knew, why didn't you say so?"
"Because Grandfather, there is a monster, a monster in this draft..."
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To be Continued...