I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, but sleep wasn't coming. That voice - Jerry Rice 2004 Season Loaded - kept echoing in my head like some kind of broken record.
"This is some bullshit," I muttered, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "I'm probably just stressed about all this California shit."
But as soon as I thought about it again, something appeared in my vision. Not on the wall or anything physical - it was like it was floating right in front of my face, translucent and glowing faintly.
JERRY RICE 2004 SEASON
Below that was an empty progress bar labeled "Jerry Rice 2003 Season," completely gray and waiting to be filled.
"What the actual fuck?" I whispered, waving my hand through the air where the text appeared. My hand went right through it like it wasn't even there.
I blinked hard, shook my head, even slapped myself lightly. But the display stayed there, hovering in my vision like some kind of video game menu.
Jerry Rice. Even I knew who that was, and I wasn't really into NFL history like that. Dude was probably the greatest wide receiver who ever lived.
I grabbed my phone and started googling, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
The more I read, the more my mind started racing. Jerry Rice played 20 seasons in the NFL. Retired as the all-time leader in receptions, receiving yards, and touchdowns.
The dude was basically a football god.
But 2004? That was his last season. He was 42 years old, playing for the Seattle Seahawks, and basically a shell of his former self. Still had the knowledge and technique, but his body was done.
"So if this crazy shit is real," I said to myself, "I got the abilities of a 42-year-old Jerry Rice who was damn near retired?"
The rational part of my brain said this was impossible. Systems like this only existed in those web novels and anime shows that some kids at school were always talking about.
But the other part of my brain - the part that felt that electricity, that heard that voice clear as day - was telling me to test it out.
I looked at the clock on my nightstand: 2:17 AM.
Fuck it.
I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt, and my beat-up Jordans, then snuck out of the house. Grandpa William and Grandma Janet were heavy sleepers, and I knew how to move quiet anyway.
The nearest field was Roosevelt Park, about six blocks away. It wasn't much - just a small football field with metal bleachers and grass that was more dirt than green. But it would do.
The streetlights gave me just enough light to see as I walked to the middle of the field. I stood there for a minute, feeling stupid as hell.
"Alright," I said to nobody. "If this system shit is real, let me feel it."
I started with something simple - running a basic comeback route. Nothing fancy, just plant and turn.
But as soon as I took my first step, something felt different.
My footwork was cleaner than it had ever been. Each step was precise, deliberate, like I'd run this exact route a thousand times before. The plant and turn were so smooth they felt automatic.
"Holy shit," I breathed, staring down at my feet.
I tried a more complex route - a double move with a comeback fake and then a comeback. In high school, I could do it, but it took concentration. Sometimes I'd telegraph the fake or mess up the timing.
This time, it was perfect. The fake was so convincing that even I almost believed it. The break was sharp enough to separate from any defender.
My hands were next. I found an old tennis ball somebody had left on the field and started tossing it to myself, making different types of catches.
Over the shoulder. Between my legs. One-handed grabs. Catches in tight spaces.
Every single one felt natural. My hands were softer than they'd ever been, like they were magnetized to the ball. Even the difficult catches felt routine.
But the real test was my body.
I'd always been in good shape - you had to be to dominate three sports like I did. But this felt different. My breathing was controlled, even after running routes for ten minutes. My legs felt strong, like I could keep going for hours.
I pulled up my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face and damn near jumped out of my skin.
Those weren't my abs.
I mean, they were attached to my body, but they weren't the abs I'd gone to bed with. Instead of the decent six-pack I'd worked for, I was looking at eight perfectly defined sections. Veins were visible running along my obliques and down my arms.
My shoulders looked broader. My forearms were more defined, with veins bulging like I'd been lifting heavy for years.
"This is impossible," I said, but I was grinning like an idiot.
I spent the next hour testing everything I could think of. My route running was surgical - every cut was precise, every break was at the perfect angle. My hands were reliable on every type of catch, from simple slants to diving grabs.
My football IQ felt sharper too. I could visualize defensive coverages in my head, see exactly where the soft spots would be. It was like having a GPS for finding open space.
But I also understood the limitations. I wasn't faster - my 40 time would probably be the same. I wasn't jumping higher or hitting harder. This was the skillset of a veteran who succeeded through technique and intelligence, not raw athleticism.
Jerry Rice in 2004 was still Jerry Rice. But he was also 42 years old.
As I walked back home, my mind was racing with possibilities. If this was 2004 Jerry Rice - the old, declining version - what would 2003 look like? Or 2002? Or hell, what about the 1990s when he was in his absolute prime?
I thought about my own abilities before tonight. I'd always been a gadget player in high school - someone who could do everything pretty well, but wasn't necessarily elite at any one thing.
My biggest strength had always been my vertical jump. I could sky over people for rebounds in basketball, and on the football field, I used it for contested catches and defensive plays. At 6'2", I played way bigger than my size because of that bounce.
I was also well-rounded athletically. Good change of direction, solid agility, decent speed for the South Side but nothing that would turn heads at a combine. I made up for it by being versatile - I could line up anywhere on offense, play multiple positions on defense, and handle special teams duties.
But now? Now I felt like I had the technical foundation of one of the greatest players ever. Even if it was the end-of-career version, it was still Jerry fucking Rice.
The progress bar in my vision still showed no movement. I wondered what I'd have to do to fill it up. Probably something more intense than just running routes in an empty park.
As I climbed back through my bedroom window, one thought kept running through my mind:
If I could get the abilities of prime Jerry Rice - the Jerry Rice who torched defenses in the 80s and 90s - combined with my natural athleticism and vertical jump...
These California kids had no idea what was coming.
I looked at the system display one more time before closing eyes. The progress bar was still empty, but that was fine. Real progress took real work.
JERRY RICE 2004 SEASON
I smiled as I drifted off to sleep. This was gonna be fun.
The next morning, I woke up feeling like I'd slept for twelve hours instead of four. My body felt recovered, energized, ready to go again.
Grandma Janet was making breakfast when I came downstairs, and she gave me a look.
"You're up early for someone who went to bed late," she said, not even turning around from the stove.
"How you know I went to bed late?"
"Because I heard you sneaking back in at 3:30 in the morning."
She turned around with that look that grandmothers had - the one that said she knew exactly what you'd been up to.
"Where'd you go, Jakari?"
I thought about lying, but Grandma Janet had always been straight with me. She deserved the same.
"Roosevelt Park. Wanted to get some work in before we leave for California."
Her expression softened. "You nervous about the move?"
"Yeah. But also excited, I guess." I sat down at the kitchen table. "Just want to make sure I'm ready for whatever they got out there."
"Baby, you've been ready. The question is whether they're ready for you."
Grandpa William walked in, already dressed in a suit even though it was barely 7 AM.
"Speaking of being ready," he said, "we need to talk about your departure. I spoke with the admissions office yesterday. They can have you enrolled and in classes by Monday."
"Monday? That's in five days."
"Which gives us time to get you settled this weekend. Flight leaves Thursday evening."
Five days. I was really doing this.
"What about Maya? The baby could come any day now."
"Already handled," Grandma Janet said, setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. "We're flying her out to California next month, after she's recovered from delivery. She'll stay for a week so you can meet your goddaughter properly."
I stared at them both. These people had thought of everything. They weren't just sending me away - they were making sure I didn't lose the connections that mattered.
"Y'all didn't have to do all that."
"Yes, we did," Grandpa William said firmly. "You're family. And family takes care of family."
After breakfast, I went back to my room and called Maya.
"Five days?" she said when I told her about the timeline. "Damn, they don't waste time."
"You still good with all this?"
"Jakari, I been thinking about it all night. You know what Tayshawn would say if he was here?"
"What?"
"He'd say 'Stop being scared and go get what's yours.' You been dominating Chicago football since middle school. Time to see if you can dominate everywhere else."
She was right. I'd put up crazy numbers in high school, but deep down, I always wondered if it was because the competition wasn't that strong.
My 104 catches for 1,423 yards sounded impressive, but half those defenders couldn't cover a lamp post. My 14.5 points per game in basketball came against kids who thought defense was optional. My 23-1 long jump record was against schools that barely had track programs.
Now I was about to find out if I was actually good, or just good for the South Side.
The difference was, now I had something I didn't have before. Something that made me feel like I could compete with anybody.
I was ready.