Monday morning hit different in California. Even in early May, the sun was already warm at 7 AM, and the campus was buzzing with activity as students made their way to classes.
I stood in front of my closet looking at my new school uniform - khaki pants, white polo shirt with the Malibu Prep logo, and brown leather loafers. Everything felt weird as hell after years of jeans and Jordans.
"You good?" Cameron asked, already dressed and ready to go.
"Yeah, just... adjusting to all this," I said, putting on the polo. The material was soft, expensive. Nothing like the scratchy uniforms from my old school.
"You'll get used to it. The dress code's pretty relaxed compared to some prep schools."
We grabbed breakfast in the dining hall - more options than I'd ever seen in my life. I settled on scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast while Cameron got some kind of acai bowl with granola.
"So what classes you taking?" Cameron asked as we ate.
I pulled out my schedule. "English, Algebra II, Chemistry, World History, Spanish II, and something called Leadership Development."
"Leadership Development is actually cool. It's like a seminar where they bring in guest speakers - CEOs, politicians, athletes. Last semester we had a guy who started a billion-dollar tech company."
That sounded wild. Back home, we were lucky if they brought in someone from the community college.
The first thing I noticed walking to class was how different the students looked. Not just the clothes - though everyone was dressed like they were heading to a country club - but their whole vibe. They walked with confidence, talked loud about weekend trips to their parents' vacation houses, pulled out phones that cost more than my mom made in a month.
And the girls... damn.
These California girls were on another level. Designer everything, perfect hair, looking like they stepped out of magazines. A group of them walked past talking about their plans for spring break in Italy. Italy. Like it was just another weekend trip.
"Close your mouth, Williams," Cameron laughed. "You're gonna catch flies."
"Man, shut up," I said, but I knew he was right. These girls had me distracted.
First period was English with Mrs. Henderson, a thin white woman who looked like she'd been teaching since the Civil War. The classroom had actual books everywhere - floor to ceiling shelves, comfortable reading chairs, windows overlooking the ocean.
"Today we're continuing our discussion of symbolism in literature," Mrs. Henderson announced. "Can anyone give me an example of a symbol from the reading?"
A blonde girl named Sophia raised her hand and gave some answer about colors representing emotions. Other students chimed in with complex explanations that went over my head.
I mostly stayed quiet. This level of analysis was way beyond what we did back home. We read books and talked about what happened, not all this deep symbolic shit.
Algebra II was more my speed - math was math, and I'd always been decent with numbers. The teacher, Mr. Kim, went through problems that were challenging but manageable.
Chemistry was where I struggled. The teacher, Dr. Peterson, was talking about molecular structures and chemical bonds like everyone already knew this stuff. I was lost after the first ten minutes.
At lunch, I sat with Cameron and some of the other football players. Tyler Brooks waved me over to their table.
"What's up, Jakari. How are classes treating you?"
"They're alright. Different from what I'm used to."
"Yeah, the academic standards here are pretty intense," said Derek Chen. "But the tutoring program is solid if you need help."
"Might have to look into that," I admitted.
A girl with long dark hair and green eyes approached our table. She was beautiful - not over the top with makeup and jewelry, just naturally pretty.
"Excuse me," she said, looking directly at me. "You're the new student from Chicago, right? I'm Isabella Rodriguez. I write for the school newspaper."
"Yeah, that's me. Jakari Williams."
"I was wondering if you'd be interested in doing an interview? The student body would love to hear about your experience coming here."
Tyler jumped in before I could answer. "Isabella, Jakari's still adjusting. Maybe give him a few weeks to settle in before you put him in the spotlight."
I could see what Tyler was doing - trying to control my interactions, keep me in my place.
"Actually, I'd be cool with that," I said. "When you want to do it?"
Isabella smiled. "How about Thursday after classes? We could meet in the library."
"Sounds good."
As she walked away, Tyler's expression changed slightly. "Just be careful what you say to her. Isabella's articles get a lot of attention on campus."
World History with Mr. Thompson was interesting. We talked about different wars and empires, stuff I could follow without getting too deep into analysis.
Spanish II was my strongest class. Growing up around Marcus and his family had given me a good foundation, and the teacher, Señora Garcia, seemed impressed with my pronunciation.
Last period was Leadership Development in a seminar room with about fifteen students. The teacher, Dr. Williams (no relation), was a Black woman in her forties who carried herself with authority.
"Today we're discussing what makes a leader," she said. "Not just someone who gives orders, but someone who inspires others. Who can give me an example?"
A kid named Preston talked about being captain of the debate team. A girl named Madison mentioned organizing charity events. Standard rich kid stuff.
"Mr. Williams? You're new, but I'd love to hear your perspective."
I thought about my boys back home, about the promise we'd made to get our lives together.
"I guess... real leadership is about not leaving people behind. Like, when your friends are going through shit, you don't just bounce. You try to help them get better too."
Dr. Williams nodded. "That's a mature perspective. It's easy to walk away from people who are struggling."
The day flew by faster than I expected. Before I knew it, it was 2:30 and time to head to the athletic center.
The locker room was buzzing with energy when I walked in. Guys getting changed, music playing, the usual pre-practice energy. But there was something different in the air - more serious, more intense than high school ever felt.
My locker was already set up with everything I needed. Practice jersey, shorts, socks, cleats - all in perfect condition, all with my number 18.
"First practice, Williams," Tyler said, pulling on his cleats a few lockers down. "Hope you're ready for this."
"Been ready."
"We'll see."
Coach Rivera walked into the locker room carrying what looked like a black sports bra.
"Listen up!" his voice cut through all the noise. "Everyone gets fitted for a GPS vest today. These track everything - speed, distance, heart rate, acceleration, how hard you're working."
He held up the vest. "This isn't high school anymore. Every rep, every sprint, every movement gets recorded and graded. Your performance gets a letter grade from F to A. F means you don't belong here. A means you're elite."
The equipment manager started handing out the vests. They were lightweight but looked high-tech as hell, with a small device that fit between the shoulder blades.
"Most of you will start in the C range," Coach Rivera continued. "Some might get a B if you impress me. Very few of you will see an A in your first week."
I took my vest from the equipment manager and examined it. The material was stretchy but snug, designed to fit tight against your body. The GPS pod was small but felt solid, like serious technology.
"Pre-practice conditioning starts with a two-mile run around campus," Coach Rivera announced. "This isn't a jog. Target time is 12 minutes. Anything over 14 minutes and you're running extra. Under 11 minutes gets my attention."
I strapped on the vest, adjusting it until it felt secure but not restricting. The pod sat right between my shoulder blades, barely noticeable once I put my practice jersey over it.
Around me, other guys were doing the same thing. Some looked nervous, others confident. A few of the returning players were explaining to newer guys how the system worked.
"The vests track everything," Derek was telling a sophomore. "Your top speed, how many steps you take, how quickly you accelerate. Coaches can see if you're giving 100% or just going through the motions."
Cameron finished putting on his vest and looked over at me. "You ready for this? Coach Rivera doesn't mess around with conditioning."
"Yeah, I'm good."
But as I laced up my cleats and grabbed my helmet, I felt that familiar electricity building in my chest. The same feeling I'd had when the system first activated.
Only this time it was stronger. Like my body was preparing for something it had been waiting for.
I stood up, adjusted my jersey one more time, and headed toward the door with the rest of the team.
"Line up at the starting line!" Coach Rivera shouted as we filed out onto the practice field. The May afternoon sun was beating down, and I could see some guys already sweating just from walking outside.
About fifty players lined up across the field, all wearing the GPS vests under our practice jerseys. The returning players looked confident, but some of the newer guys were shifting nervously.
"Two miles around campus," Coach Rivera called out. "Your GPS is tracking everything. I'll know your exact time, your pace, your heart rate, everything. No hiding, no coasting."
He looked down at his stopwatch. "On my whistle. GO!"
The whistle blew and we took off.
The pace was fast - faster than any conditioning I'd done in high school. These California kids were in shape, and they weren't messing around.
But as soon as we started running, something incredible happened.
It felt... easy.
Not just easy - it felt like I was barely working. My breathing was controlled, my stride was smooth, my legs felt strong. While guys around me were already breathing hard after the first quarter-mile, I felt like I could run all day.
By the half-mile mark, I realized I was holding back. The Jerry Rice system was making my body perform at a level that was way beyond what a high school player should be capable of.
"Looking good, Williams," Tyler said, running next to me. But I could hear him breathing harder than me.
I settled into the lead pack - about eight guys who were setting the pace. Cameron was there, Tyler, a few of the returning starters. But while they were working hard to maintain the speed, I felt like I was jogging.
At the mile mark, the group had spread out significantly. Some of the bigger linemen were already falling behind, their breathing labored. But I was still feeling fresh.
"Damn, where'd this come from?" Derek asked, glancing over at me. He was breathing heavy but trying to hide it.
"Just stayed in shape over the summer," I said, not even winded.
By mile and a half, only five of us were still in the lead group. Tyler was starting to struggle, his form getting sloppy. Cameron was hanging on but looked like he was working at his limit.
I wasn't even breathing hard.
The last half-mile, I had to actively slow down to not pull away from everyone. The Jerry Rice conditioning was so far beyond high school level that I could have probably lapped some of these guys.
We crossed the finish line together - the lead group finishing in 10:52. Well under the 11-minute target that got Coach Rivera's attention.
"Outstanding," Coach Rivera said as we caught our breath. "First group finished in 10:52. That's the kind of time I expect from my skill position players."
While the other guys in my group were bent over, hands on their knees, trying to recover, I was barely breathing hard. It was like I'd just finished a light warm-up jog.
Tyler noticed. "You're not even winded," he said, suspicion in his voice.
"Good genes, I guess."
But I could see the wheels turning in his head. This wasn't normal for someone coming from Chicago public school football.
It took another four minutes for the rest of the team to finish. Some of the linemen were walking the last quarter-mile, and a few looked like they might throw up.
"Pathetic," Coach Rivera muttered, looking at his stopwatch. "We've got work to do."
As we headed back toward the practice field for the actual workout, I felt the system humming through my body. The conditioning run had barely registered as exercise for me.
"Alright, men!" Coach Rivera's voice boomed across the field. "Now we get to work. Your GPS vests are tracking every rep, every movement, every second of effort. I'll know exactly who's giving me 100% and who's just going through the motions."
He pointed to different stations set up around the field. "We're running Alabama-style conditioning today. Four quarters, just like a real game. Each quarter gets progressively harder."
----
"High knees, 20 yards!" Coach Rivera shouted. "Then butt kicks back! Your GPS is tracking your step frequency and knee drive!"
We lined up and ran through the drill. My knees were driving higher than anyone else's, my form was perfect. I could feel the system optimizing every movement.
"Bear crawls, 10 yards out, crab walk back!"
This was where guys started to struggle. Bear crawls burned your shoulders and core, crab walks destroyed your glutes and hamstrings. By the third rep, half the team was grimacing.
I felt strong through all five rounds. My arms weren't shaking, my core wasn't burning. The Jerry Rice conditioning was carrying me through what should have been exhausting.
"Quick steps drill!" Coach Martinez called out. "Rapid-fire foot movement for 30 seconds, maximum intensity!"
I took the proper stance - knees bent, weight on the balls of my feet, arms ready. When the whistle blew, my feet moved so fast they were almost a blur. The GPS was tracking every step, and I knew my numbers had to be off the charts.
Tyler was next to me, his feet moving fast but nowhere near as controlled or rapid as mine.
"Damn, Williams," he breathed during the rest period. "Your feet are crazy quick."
---
"Sprint ladders!" Coach Rivera announced. "10-yard sprint, 10 seconds rest. 20-yard sprint, 20 seconds rest. 30-yard sprint, 30 seconds rest. 40-yard sprint, 40 seconds rest. Then we repeat the cycle."
This was designed to build the explosive power needed for football - short bursts of maximum effort with limited recovery.
My 10-yard splits were consistently faster than everyone else's. My acceleration out of the stance was explosive, my top-end speed was impressive for someone who wasn't supposed to be a pure speedster.
By the third cycle, guys were starting to fade. Their 40-yard times were dropping, their form was getting sloppy.
Mine stayed consistent. Every sprint felt controlled, powerful, effortless.
"Burpees with sprint!" Coach Martinez called out. "Drop down, push-up, jump to your feet, sprint 20 yards!"
Twenty reps total. This combination drill was a killer - it hit your whole body while demanding explosive power at the end when you were already tired.
I cranked out all twenty reps while guys around me were struggling to complete fifteen. My burpees were clean, my sprints were fast, my recovery was quick.
"What the hell?" Derek muttered, watching me finish while he was still on rep sixteen.
---
"Four Corners drill!" Coach Rivera shouted. "Sprint to the first cone, backpedal to the second, shuffle to the third, sprint to the fourth. Continuous movement for two minutes!"
This was where conditioning really showed. Maintaining intensity for extended periods while changing directions and movement patterns.
I moved through the drill like I was running routes in a game. Every direction change was sharp, every movement was controlled. My heart rate felt steady, my breathing was controlled.
Around me, guys were starting to break down. Form was getting sloppy, speeds were dropping, some were starting to walk sections instead of sprinting.
"Terrible 20s!" Coach Rivera called out. "20 push-ups, sprint 100 yards, 20 sit-ups. Drop one rep each round until you get to one!"
This was the drill that broke people. Twenty rounds of decreasing reps, but the sprinting distance stayed the same. By round 15, it was pure mental toughness.
I stayed strong through all twenty rounds. My push-ups remained crisp, my sprints stayed fast, my sit-ups were controlled.
By round 10, half the team was struggling. By round 15, guys were cramping, some were dry heaving on the sidelines.
Tyler finished, but he was completely spent. Cameron made it through but was lying on the grass afterward. Derek had to stop at round 17.
---
"This is where we separate the men from the boys," Coach Rivera announced. "Gassers. Sideline to sideline, four times. That's one rep. We're doing ten reps with 30 seconds rest between."
Gassers were the most hated conditioning drill in football. Sprint across the field, touch the sideline, sprint back, touch the other sideline, repeat four times. Do it ten times total.
By rep three, the field was spreading out. The faster guys were finishing and getting their 30 seconds rest. The slower guys were still running when the next rep started.
I was finishing each gasser with time to spare. My times weren't just consistent - they were getting faster as other guys were fading.
"How is he getting faster?" I heard someone ask from the sideline.
By rep seven, only about fifteen guys were keeping up with the pace. By rep nine, it was down to eight.
I finished all ten reps strong, barely breathing hard, while guys around me were collapsing on the field.
"Outstanding!" Coach Rivera called out as the last few guys finished. "GPS data will be analyzed tonight. Grades will be posted in the morning."
He walked over to where I was standing, barely sweating while guys around me looked like they'd been in a car wreck.
"Williams," he said quietly. "That was impressive."
"Thank you, Coach."
"We'll see if you can do it again tomorrow."
As guys limped back to the locker room, Tyler walked up next to me. His jersey was soaked with sweat, his breathing was still heavy.
"Where the hell did that come from?" he asked.
"Just stayed in shape, I guess."
But I could see him studying me, trying to figure out how a kid from Chicago public school football was outperforming guys who'd been training at elite levels their whole lives.
These guys had no idea what they were dealing with.
Time to see what this Jerry Rice system could really do in a full practice.