Ever since I was little, whether I was playing baseball or football, I've always had a strong arm. It didn't matter if I was tossing the ball in the yard with my brother, Reid; playing a pickup game on the playground; or partic.i.p.ating in organized ball-there was a certain feeling I had when I could zing the ball to a friend and hit him right in the chest. There was nothing like the sound of a fastball popping a catcher's mitt or the thump of a football hitting your target in the chest. Sometimes my teammates got upset with me back then. "Why are you throwing so hard, Drew?" I wasn't doing it on purpose. Well, not all the time, anyway. But that throwing arm has always had fire in it. It is my gift.

As I grew up, it was like the football became an extension of me. Pitchers talk about the almost-magical feel of the baseball in their hands, and quarterbacks over the years have tried to describe the sensation that comes over them when they're holding a football. I can't quite explain it, except to say it feels like there's an energy source there. When a player picks up the ball, it's as if it comes to life in his hands.

I have a certain comfort level when I'm holding a football. It gives me a sense of strength but also responsibility. It clears my head and allows me to focus. When you have the ball, you feel like you are holding the sword of King Leonidas of Sparta, leading your team into battle. When you're in control of this thing in your hands, you have the power to do great things and ultimately determine if your team wins or loses.

For someone like me who had lived all of my conscious life with a ball in my hands, it was excruciating to suddenly be stripped of a football. This wasn't just my job or my hobby; it was my love. And to add to the pressure, now I had a new team that was counting on me-in a city still recovering from a major disaster. The people were excited. The coaches were ready. Mentally and emotionally I was primed. But my doctors said my body wasn't there yet. I wanted to turn the dogs loose, but they were holding me back, telling me to pace myself. They knew that at this point my biggest threat for reinjury was myself.

I kept pushing Dr. Andrews to let me throw. After all, I had gotten out of the sling a week early. I had full range of motion about three weeks earlier than he'd predicted. I was continuing to progress further and further ahead of schedule. Call it the magic of G.o.d's healing along with the commitment and desire he gave me. The other big motivator for me was fear of failure-fear that I wouldn't be able to come back at all or that I would let down those who had invested so much in me. Every day I was confident I could come back even better, but there was still that sliver of anxiety in the back of my mind that gave me a drive to push myself each day. But Dr. Andrews just smiled and reminded me about the importance of letting the shoulder heal. "Remember, it's not healed yet. Let the shoulder rehab take its course. No throwing for four months." He wouldn't budge on that one.

The throwing motion he was concerned about was the shoulder's external/internal rotation. Also, as I release the ball over my head when I'm throwing, my arm is put in a similar position to where it was when it dislocated. There were plenty of precautions to be taken, but that's why we had worked so hard to gain range of motion and strength back in my shoulder. The biggest concern was that I would push my shoulder too far in the rehab process and accidentally pop an anchor, which would require another surgery and put me right back to square one. I could not afford any setbacks.

At certain times during my rehab exercises, I would feel something stretching in my shoulder like rubber bands. It would actually make a squeaking sound, like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz or nails on a chalkboard. It's a weird feeling to have something foreign inside your body holding you together, and it's even stranger to be able to feel it working. But it was working, so I couldn't complain. Without those anchors, I wouldn't have had a chance.

Kevin Wilk saw the progress I was making, and he knew it was time for me to pick up a ball again. There's no test that can tell you it's time to begin throwing, so he judged it all by feel. Shortly before the fourth month, ahead of schedule, Dr. Andrews gave me the go-ahead. I was finally ready to throw again!

Transitions off the Field.

Things weren't just coasting from that point on, though. I had my good days of rehab and throwing and those days when my arm would ache and fatigue very quickly. It was obvious that my shoulder still needed a lot of work. Because of my injury, Brittany and I had made the hard decision to put off having children for now. Brittany's main objective was to take care of me and nurse me back to health. She stayed with me the whole time in Birmingham and would jokingly say, "I'm not ready to take care of two babies." It was tough to put that dream on hold, though.

Adding to our stress level was a move to a new city. We'd felt displaced for some time already after living with Brittany's parents in Birmingham for the rehab. We felt a little like we were being tossed around on the waves, and we wanted to get settled, to find a place that felt like home.

We did find a house to call home in New Orleans, and we loved it. But like most older homes there, it was going to take a lot of work and TLC. The house was in the Uptown neighborhood, a little north of the Mississippi River and one block off St. Charles, next to Audubon Park and Tulane University. Many of the homes there were built in the 1800s and are listed in the National Register of Historic Places. We chose that area because it was in the heart of the city, right in the thick of things. We wanted to embrace this community the way it had embraced us, so we decided to immerse ourselves in a neighborhood full of the culture and charm of the city.

The home we bought had about $50,000 worth of roof damage from Katrina that the owner had fixed before we arrived. The floodwaters had stopped about six blocks away, but almost all the houses in the area-even those that didn't have flood damage-were affected by the Category 5 hurricane. With any older home in the historical district, you have to deal with certain issues. Ours had been built in the late 1890s or early 1900s. It had suffered some damage from the storm, but there were also general repairs and renovations needed simply because of its age. We had a lot to accomplish to bring this house to life.

This wasn't just a dream for Brittany and me. Yes, we wanted to put down roots in this place. But we also were hoping to show the community that we were committed to the rebuilding process. Whether you live there or are just pa.s.sing through, people see these old homes as part of the fabric of New Orleans. We wanted to get our hands dirty and let everyone know we were on board with the restoration, doing our part to bring the city back better than it had ever been before. When you move into a historical district like the Garden District or Uptown or Old Metairie or the French Quarter, you feel a sense of responsibility to be a great steward of the community and to leave whatever you touch better than the way you found it.

We had planned for the renovation to take about eight months, which would have mirrored my projected comeback. Unfortunately, eight months stretched into eighteen-and then went even longer. We ended up spending two years on construction and rebuilding, and it was a long, grueling process. But we considered ourselves lucky. It was certainly nothing compared to what the folks whose homes had been destroyed went through. Many people had to evacuate the city they loved and were living elsewhere or were still living in temporary trailers the size of a closet. At least we had a roof over our heads and running water, despite the plastic coverings on the walls and the construction dust in the air. We actually spent the first six months in the house with no furniture-we slept on a mattress on the floor and ate dinner off TV trays while sitting in beach chairs. But with each new project we poured ourselves into, Brittany and I bonded more with this city. We were building something beautiful, one nail at a time.

Throwing Again.

In the first several months of my rehab, I had been incredibly antsy to pick up the ball and toss it around. I knew I couldn't do that, but it was a great temptation. Now that it was finally time for me to start throwing again, I knew I wasn't going to simply pick up the ball one day and have everything back to normal. I had to start over. Completely. From the mechanics to the muscle memory, I needed to relearn how to throw a football. That might sound funny coming from a guy who had a football at the end of his arm most of his life, but it was true. Throwing the football, and even holding it, felt foreign to me at first.

Throughout my rehab, I had tackled all my goals with enthusiasm and a positive mind-set. With the accomplishment of each short-term goal, I gained the confidence and strength I needed to pursue the next challenge. I had worked my way out of the sling, I had gained the full range of motion in my shoulder, and I had pushed myself as hard as I could without reinjuring my arm. I had followed all of Dr. Andrews's advice, spurred on by Kevin Wilk's tenacity to get me ready.

The fear of failure was always in the rearview mirror chasing after me, forcing me to push myself further than I had ever gone before. I wore my Saints shirt to rehab at the start of every week as motivation-a reminder of how much New Orleans had invested in me. I could not let them down.

My first toss was not with a full throwing motion. n.o.body on the medical staff would let me do that-they knew better. My first pa.s.s was more of a pushing motion, like a shot put. I held the ball in front of me with both hands, like I was in my set position and ready to throw, and then I just pushed it to Kevin. Simple. Sort of like when you are throwing a ball to a little kid, very gently. It wasn't strenuous at all. The feeling of throwing again was exhilarating, but at the same time the fear that tiny bit of motion brought was overwhelming.

Oh, man, I need to be so careful, I thought. I'd better not hurt myself.

Though my mind was strong and the rest of my body was in good shape, that little push let me know how weak I truly was. It confirmed how much damage had been done to my shoulder. Dr. Andrews was right-it wasn't healed yet.

Kevin and I would work for eight or nine hours each day going through different strengthening exercises. Looking back, I think he used the football as a carrot. If I successfully went through all the rigors of my exercises, we would head outside, where there was a small patch of gra.s.s about as big as a dining room carpet. It was a rather humbling experience to have people watching as they walked in and out of the building. Here I was, an NFL quarterback, tossing a football back and forth toddler style. Kevin would underhand a pa.s.s to me, and I'd push it back to him. Some people knew who I was and had heard what I was going through. Still, I'm sure they had no idea how difficult that little push with the football was for me. It looked like something a baby could do, but it took everything I had right then.

That was such a picture of where I was compared with where I wanted to be. My desire was to walk back into a huge stadium with one hundred yards of turf, but I was on a tiny patch of gra.s.s on the lawn of a hospital building. Still, I was seeing progress. One small step at a time, I reminded myself. Trust the process.

I remember standing on the lawn of the rehab clinic one day, looking down at that little patch of gra.s.s. I'd played in the Rose Bowl. I'd been to the Pro Bowl. I was a quarterback in the NFL. And yet in that moment I couldn't have been more thrilled about throwing a football five yards. It might not have made sense to anyone else, but to me it was exhilarating. I finally had the ball back in my hands again.

Gradually I moved from just shot-putting the ball to lifting the ball up to my right side and then pushing it. Occasionally Kevin would let me throw the ball a few times, and I would start to feel really good. I would think, Man, the shoulder is really coming back. This is great! That's when I'd try to stretch it out a little and take the ball back a bit farther. Suddenly I would feel it-this pain deep in the tissue. It screamed out, Not yet! I had to listen to that voice many times and fight the urge to rush the recovery process.

Anyone who has played sports at any level will tell you that you can't focus on the bad things that might happen in a game or you won't be able to function properly when you are in the moment. When you climb into a NASCAR vehicle or strap on a helmet in a hockey game, you can't worry about crashing or getting hurt. You must be able to relax and compete aggressively while approaching the game with great confidence. It is the fear of failure that drives you, but it is visualizing success that gives you the positive mind-set and confidence to feel like you can accomplish anything. In the end, when you know you have given everything you have and poured out your heart for the cause, then you can relax and let G.o.d take over. All G.o.d wants is for you to utilize the talents and abilities he has given you-to be the best you can be and to reach your full potential. All you have to do is give him the credit in return.

Early in my rehab, the threat of reinjury was real, and I had to be careful. Something as simple as slipping in the shower or accidentally twitching while I slept could potentially damage the repair. Even when I began the throwing process, I had to take it one step at a time and gradually ramp up the throwing motion so I wouldn't shock the shoulder too much. There was a balance to it all. As my physical therapist, Kevin helped me learn to listen to my body and figure out the difference between good pain and bad pain. There is the good pain of stretching and gradually breaking up the scar tissue from the surgery, and then there is the bad pain of your body telling you not to go any further or you will get hurt again. It takes wisdom and experience to know the difference. Kevin had that, and I was gradually catching on.

At that stage of the rehab, when I was ready to relearn the mechanics of properly throwing the ball, I was really cautious. I would constantly ask Kevin, "How far can I take it back? How hard can I throw?"

He was infinitely patient with me. When we began, he said, "We're going to throw ten b.a.l.l.s at five yards." It was a meager start, but it felt so good to be able to have a tangible goal for the day, to hold the ball in my hands again.

Before we went out to the little patch of gra.s.s in front of the building, I visualized everything about those short pa.s.ses. I would picture my mechanics, the proper way to throw, what position I wanted the ball in, my stance, my release point. Slowly all those things that were once automatic started to come back.

"Okay, today we're going to throw twenty b.a.l.l.s at five yards," he said the next week. The progress felt good, even though someone walking by might not notice the improvement.

Dr. Andrews had been right about recovery taking time. I learned some valuable lessons about the healing process during rehab. It's not an overnight proposition-take a pill, do a few exercises, and everything will be fine. Even though I was able to accelerate the process a little by working hard, there was no subst.i.tute for time. There are no shortcuts to healing. You can't rush it.

Whether you're talking in terms of the physical, the emotional, or the spiritual, healing has its own timetable. When there is tragedy in your life-perhaps a health crisis or the death of a family member or something else that upends your world-there's a mourning period you have to go through in order to cope with it and come out on the other side healthy and mentally whole. You have to work through the emotions and deal with the fallout. G.o.d has designed our bodies and hearts to need rest and recovery when we've been wounded, and you can't rush that. In a way, it's like the agonizing wait of pregnancy. In order for there to be proper growth for the child inside, you have to give it time. There's no way around it.

The city of New Orleans learned that lesson in the days and weeks following Katrina. One of the worst things you can do when you've been laid low is to try to come back too quickly. You have to see the truth about your situation and accept it in order to heal right and then return stronger. You need to learn the lessons while you're still down in order to put yourself in the position to make a comeback.

Everything in me wanted to rush through my rehab, and I do think my motivation helped me to get on track as quickly as possible. But I'm thankful there were people who knew more than I did about the healing process. They taught me that you have to embrace the pain in order for it to have the desired effect. The painful things we go through have a way of teaching us things we can't learn any other way. Pain is a gift I sure didn't want, but I believe G.o.d used it for a purpose in my life.

Quicker and Stronger.

The last part of the rehab process focused on being able to take the ball back and extend my arm as far as necessary to throw it with full velocity. Of course I wasn't throwing the ball that hard then, but just getting the shoulder in that position was a large feat in itself.

Here's a glimpse of the throwing action in slow motion: after your arm pushes the ball backward away from the body into what I call the loading position, it then takes great strength and force to bring your hips and shoulders around to throw the ball. This requires a lot of external rotation in the shoulder as well as torque on the arm as it goes back and comes forward. Then, after you release the ball, the arm decelerates quickly, which requires a very strong group of muscles on the back side of the shoulder to slow the arm down. If you lack strength in the back side of the shoulder, it really limits how hard you can throw the ball. Your back-side shoulder strength must match up with your front shoulder strength, or you have created an imbalance.

The problem with an imbalance is that you are only as strong as your weakest link. If the muscles in the front of your shoulder say you can throw one hundred b.a.l.l.s but the muscles in the back of your shoulder will only allow you to throw fifty b.a.l.l.s, you will only be able to throw fifty b.a.l.l.s. On top of that, the imbalance makes you more susceptible to injuries down the road. Picture the muscles as a wall of protection for the shoulder. You have already built a strong wall in the front of your shoulder, but all you have is a picket fence of muscles protecting the back. That's why so much of the focus of my rehab involved regaining strength in the most neglected areas and the muscles that atrophy the quickest, like the back side of the shoulder.

In the beginning of the rehab process, I was hardly bringing my arm back at all. After throwing just ten b.a.l.l.s five yards, my arm was exhausted. But with each day, each throw, I started gaining strength and momentum. There was a surprising silver lining that came in the midst of this. In relearning how to throw the ball, I was able to tighten up my mechanics by shortening my release. This allowed me to get rid of the ball quicker and with more velocity than I had before the injury. My windup became more compact. I could hit a target more quickly. And in the NFL, that kind of timing can be the difference between a pa.s.s that threads the needle and one that gets intercepted.

As I continued to work with Kevin, we graduated from the patch of gra.s.s in front of the building to the parking lot. We threw for longer distances, and I increased the velocity. The risk of reinjury was slowly dissipating, but I had to continually remind myself to focus on the correct mechanics of the throw rather than the length of the throw. It really felt good to be able to extend my arm and get more rotation in my shoulder.

I wasn't all the way there yet, but I was on my way back.

Put to the Test in Jackson.

By the time summer came, I could tell my legs were in good shape, my core was where it needed to be, and my mind was as focused and tough as it had ever been. But I still wasn't sure about the arm and shoulder. Will Demps, a safety for the Giants at the time, was coming off an ACL injury, and he would throw with me at the rehab facility. On the weekends, when the rehab place was closed, Brittany and I would go outside her parents' home, and I'd throw to her or have her help stretch my arm to keep it loose. I was amazed by the team of medical staff, family, and friends who rallied around me and helped me get to where I needed to be by the time training camp rolled around.

I was excited-I couldn't wait for my first training camp with the Saints. But I was more anxious than I'd ever been. Would I be able to perform? In training camp you throw so much that even a healthy arm gets fatigued. What would happen to an arm with a bunch of anchors in it-an arm that was still in recovery mode?

In July 2006, six months after my surgery, I headed to Jackson, Mississippi, for training camp. It wasn't just a first for me-this was Sean Payton's first training camp with the Saints too. More than that, it was his first training camp as a head coach. He warned the team beforehand about how hard it would be. "You'd better come to camp with your mind right and ready to work harder than you have ever worked in your life," he said. It was just like boot camp, where they tear you down as an individual before building you back up as a team-a unit that can never be broken. Later some of the guys said the 2006 training camp took years off their lives. I was there, and I believe it.

Every training camp I've ever been part of, from high school to college to the pros, has been about survival. It's always intense. But Sean wanted to make it exceptionally tough to show he was going to expect the very best from us. He wanted us to blow past the perceived limits of history and set new standards for what we could accomplish. Couple that determination from the head coach with the humidity of a Mississippi summer, heat indexes over 110 degrees, and full pads, and you have a recipe for sweat, fatigue, and plenty of sore muscles.

We had a lot of consecutive two-a-days, which tends to be rare for teams in the NFL now. For five weeks we were outside in the sun every day, and there was no respite from the other trials that plagued us. Mosquitoes. Muscle cramps. Dehydration. Fifteen or twenty guys would get IVs after practice to replace the fluids they'd lost. It was physical, hot, and brutal.

As a quarterback in training camp, you aren't taking quite the same pounding on your body that the other positions have to deal with. Your legs get sore from all the footwork drills and drops in the pocket, and your arm might be sore from throwing so much, but the rest of your joints are spared from the constant banging that players in other positions endure on the field. The grind for a quarterback is more mental than it is physical. You have to study to make sure you know what every person on both offense and defense is doing. On top of that, I was adjusting to playing football again, getting acquainted with a new team, and getting used to a new coach, a new system, and a new playbook. It was the first time I'd had any physical contact since I'd shredded my shoulder. And it was the first time I'd sported a Saints fleur-de-lis on my helmet.

During the past six months of recovery, I had convinced myself to take it slow and trust the process of healing. But I knew coming into training camp that my arm was not 100 percent; I was probably closer to 70 percent at the time. I told myself that as long as I could creep up a percent or so each day and continue to get stronger, by the time the regular season started, I would be ready.

Sean and the other coaches understood I had to ease into things, but I really wanted to show them I was close. The first day went pretty well. It was good to be back on the field after spending all that time stuck in a La-Z-Boy and tossing the ball around on a patch of gra.s.s. It was rejuvenating to be with teammates who welcomed me and were ready for a new start, a new season. As you can imagine, it was hard to attract free agents and other young talent to the Saints that year. Many of the core players from our 2009 Super Bowl team were "castaways" from other teams, brought in for the 2006 season. We had either traded for them or signed them in free agency when few other teams wanted them. It's not a knock on those guys-it's just the truth. This mentality that n.o.body else wanted us put a chip on our shoulders and united us and made New Orleans our safe haven. With so many people doubting my return as a starting quarterback in the league, I felt like one of those castaways myself.

That year we acquired our center Jeff Faine in a draft day trade with Cleveland, as well as our noseguard Hollis Thomas from Philadelphia. In fact, our entire starting linebacker core was acquired that year. Scott Fujita was a free agent from Dallas, Mark Simoneau came in a trade with Philadelphia, and we got Scott Shanle in a trade with Dallas. To a lot of people's surprise, these guys who had been written off by the rest of the league played a critical role in our success in 2006.

We had a throw count during training camp-like a pitch count in baseball-that consisted of the number of b.a.l.l.s I threw to receivers each day. That first day I threw about eighty b.a.l.l.s. I threw during the entire morning practice and then rested my arm in the afternoon. Going back to the dorm that night, I felt pretty good. Not a bad start to a new era, I thought. I had every reason to believe the next day would be even better.

I went out the second morning of training camp and began to stretch my arm. It didn't take long to realize how sore it was from throwing the first day. I tried to ignore it, and I certainly wasn't going to let on to anyone that I had a sore arm after that first stinking day of practice. I got past the long walk-through and stretching time and the ball-handling period with the running backs, and then the horn blew for our traditional "routes on air." This consists of quarterbacks throwing routes to the receivers with no defense. It's an opportunity to work on timing and technique and to visualize the play as you execute the route. Sean Payton was a quarterback and had played at all levels-in high school, at Eastern Illinois University, and professionally in the World League in England. He was also the starting quarterback for three games with the Chicago Bears during the 1987 players' strike. Plus, he had been quarterbacks coach for the Philadelphia Eagles, offensive coordinator for the New York Giants, and pa.s.sing game coordinator for the Dallas Cowboys before coming to New Orleans. So he knew what goes into being a quarterback and how to coach guys at my position.

Sean was standing about five feet behind me as we began these routes on air in the first practice of the second day. It was just quarterbacks and receivers on the field. The offensive coaches were around, and everyone was anxious to see the improvement of the team from day one to day two. I have probably thrown thousands of b.a.l.l.s in thousands of routes on air periods, but the b.u.t.terflies inside me wouldn't go away that day. This was my chance to prove that the rehab had worked. I needed to impress these guys-my teammates and my coaches. I was the new quarterback and one of the main building blocks of the new team. There was a lot resting on my right arm.

My sore right arm.

We would start off with short routes to get loose and then gradually progress to throws deeper down the field. As Joe Horn, the receiver to my right, stepped up to the line, I began to stress about the weakness in my arm I had not been able to shake. I stepped up to take the snap and thought, This should be interesting. I took the first snap and dropped back to pa.s.s. It was a simple three-step drop to throw a slant to the receiver-the simplest route in football. I have thrown this route a million times and could do it with my eyes closed and one arm tied behind my back.

The ball thumped into the dirt at Joe's feet.

I stared at the ball still rolling on the ground as Joe returned to the line. When I released that pa.s.s, I had been sure it was heading for Joe's face mask. If anything, I actually thought it might be a little high. I couldn't believe how short I was. The velocity was terrible. I had no accuracy. I could feel the coaches staring at me.

Okay, I thought. Still getting loose. No worries. I'm okay.

I took the next snap, dropped back three steps, and threw to another receiver. I don't even remember who it was now because I was so concerned about sending that first pa.s.s into the ground. I put a little more oomph into this pa.s.s.

It hit the ground in the exact same spot.

Immediately my thoughts started combusting. My new head coach was behind me, watching every move I made, and it was very quiet back there. But through the thick, humid air, I could feel what he was thinking. Did we make the right decision by bringing him here? Is this guy going to be ready for opening day?

I didn't even want to look at Sean. It was bad enough that my body had failed me-now I'd failed him too. For the past six months I had been telling myself over and over, You're going to be ready. Don't worry. Don't get frustrated. Don't get down on yourself. It just takes time. I had visualized what those first pa.s.ses in training camp were going to be like-what they would feel like, what they would look like, how the receivers would catch the ball, how the coaches would respond. Now that the moment was here, I wanted the instant gratification of making that completion and showing them I was back. Right then, from day one. But I couldn't even throw a simple slant route.

At that point, I expected Sean to bark at me. He could have kicked himself for choosing me and second-guessed himself, me, Dr. Andrews, and Kevin. Instead, he said three words that epitomize his personality.

"Use your legs," Sean said.

It was as simple as that. Use your legs.

There was a lot wrapped up in those three words. He was saying to me, I know your arm is not where it needs to be yet. Since your arm is still weak, you need to use the rest of your body to compensate. Your legs are strong. They're 100 percent. So use your legs.

There was also a little humor in those words. Sean has a unique way of saying things that are funny and seem like casual conversation or simple coaching points but in reality are ways to challenge you mentally and physically as a football player.

Since Sean's background is in the quarterback position, he was able to give me those types of tips during training camp, and this continued as my arm grew stronger. If I threw a ball that sailed over a guy's head, he would usually say, "You're overstriding." When I would miss a throw behind a receiver to my left, I knew what was coming out of his mouth next. "Get your hips open" or "Get your foot in front of the target." He knew the mechanics of the position so well that he could tell immediately what went wrong. "Step into it," he would say if you threw one in the dirt, or "Slow yourself down" if he saw me with happy feet in the pocket. Whenever I was struggling with something, he had advice to help me work through it.

It's similar to what happens to a golfer when he has a shot that goes astray. It helps to have someone watching his swing who can tell if the timing is off, if he opened up the club too soon, or if he didn't keep his head down. Same thing with a baseball pitcher. A good coach can tell if his body position was off in his windup or if he needed to adjust his release point. For a quarterback, so much of your success depends on mechanics. Especially when a game gets tight and the pressure mounts, it becomes even more critical that you have those basic fundamentals to lean on. You can't be thinking about your throwing motion or your feet when you have to convert a fourth-down play to win the game. Those things have to be ingrained in you through repet.i.tion and muscle memory. I had been so worried about getting my arm back to throwing 120 b.a.l.l.s a day that I'd lost track of the fundamentals. Quality over quant.i.ty. As soon as Sean said, "Use your legs," it clicked. Back to the basics.

A Dose of Preseason Optimism.

My arm got stronger and stronger as training camp progressed, and five days into camp, my pitch count had increased to 120 b.a.l.l.s a day, allowing me to take every rep with the first team in both practices each day. Two weeks later we were into the preseason games. Despite my optimism, things didn't start out so well for me. Our first possession of the preseason ended with a throw right in the dirt in front of Chris Horn on third down and three. Getting back on the field after an injury feels a lot like having live bullets flying at you. Next we played Dallas. I became fl.u.s.tered early in the first quarter because of my lack of success, and we got smoked. Then we faced Indianapolis in Jackson. The final score of that game was 2714, Colts. Not much to be proud of based on the scoreboard. But something happened in that game that gave me hope.

It had been about four weeks since training camp, when I had thrown that first pa.s.s into the dirt. I was playing more than I normally would in a preseason game. Sean had told the starters we were probably going to play three quarters of that game. But we knew from previous experience that if things don't transpire as planned throughout the course of the game and he doesn't like what he sees, then you'll stay in and work. When we hadn't scored by the middle of the third quarter, he said we needed to get the ball in the end zone before we would come out. It was now a matter of pride for us. We didn't want to walk out of that game with a zero by our name.

By almost all counts it was a forgettable game. But there was one moment I'll never forget. In the first quarter, Coach called the play-a twenty-yard route run by the receiver across the field. In order to complete the throw, you end up having to throw the ball about forty yards in the air. I took the snap, reading the defense on my way back. The cornerback covering my primary receiver was playing soft, therefore allowing us to throw the deep out. As I hit the last step in my drop, I hitched up, c.o.c.ked the ball back, and let it fly.

There's a feeling unlike any other when the ball leaves your hand just right. You know immediately that it's a good throw, and there's a thrill as you watch it spiral downfield into the hands of your receiver. That pa.s.s was a good forty yards as it made its way across the field into the hands of Donte Stallworth on the left sideline. He actually dropped it, but I didn't care. It came out at just the right velocity, perfectly timed with the stride of the receiver, right into his arms. It was just like the old days, before the injury.

That is what I've been waiting for, I thought. I'm back! Whatever you want to call it-the magic, the mojo-it was coming to life again. I had the velocity. I had the accuracy. The ball came off my fingertips, and the second it did, I knew that was the exact throw I wanted. Until that game, I knew I was getting better each day, and I could feel the strength coming back to my arm. I had tried to build on the small successes from the previous day. I'd followed the throw count; I'd done my rehabilitation routine consistently; I'd done my stretching-I'd done everything I was supposed to do. I trusted that as long as I did things the right way, good things would happen, and eventually I would be where I needed to be. But it wasn't until that one throw that my confidence returned. It wasn't until that moment, when the ball left my hands, that I felt deep down, This is it. This is what I've been waiting for. True, it was the only pa.s.s out of thirty in that game that felt right. But this proved it was possible. Now I just need a bunch of those to come in a row.

Sean must have thought I was crazy when I approached him after the game, completely excited. I had played poorly, and so had the whole team. The third preseason game is supposed to be a dress rehearsal for the regular season, because generally the starters see the most action in this game prior to the season opener and might not even play in the fourth preseason game.

I walked into Sean's office after the game with a grin on my face. Scott Fujita has been known to give me a hard time for being "annoyingly optimistic," and that day was a case in point. There was no reason anyone should have been encouraged by the game we had just played. But I was.

Sean looked at me with a concerned but hopeful expression as I closed his office door and sat down. "Coach, I know things didn't go the way we wanted them to today." I couldn't quench my optimism, but I did understand his frustration. Ever since training camp he had been working hard to pull us together as a team. Despite all his efforts, our offense just wasn't in sync. We were trying hard and there were occasional bright spots, but for the most part we kept coming up empty.

We needed something good to happen-and soon. When you've been beaten down for so long, it doesn't matter how hard you work; it can feel like the next thing around the bend is going to be another blow. Whether it's in football or in a job or in a relationship or with finances, it often seems like bad things compound on each other. Pretty soon you start to wonder if you can ever get out from under them. On the verge of the new season beginning, we were finding it difficult to believe-not just in ourselves, but in the process.

My philosophy has always been that it takes only one good thing to break the seal on what lies ahead. Just one positive turn of events can build your confidence and help you get the momentum going in the other direction. Once that happens, one good thing leads to another and then another. Pretty soon you find yourself riding a wave of good things.

Our team wasn't anywhere close to playing like we could play, and we all knew it. As Sean and I sat in his office, he looked dejected, which was unusual for him. He has the same positive-att.i.tude DNA as I do. I felt bad about my performance. I felt bad about how we'd played as a team. But the one good moment-my autopilot throw-overshadowed those negative feelings. For all I knew, that well-thrown ball could be our turning point.

"Coach, we're going to be all right," I said. "I'm coming back. I felt it tonight. This game was a milestone for me. I know it."

He looked at me with a mixture of incomprehension and concern.

"Seriously," I continued. "I'm going to be all right. We're going to be all right. I know that sounds crazy right now, coming off a game like this, but I think we're on the verge of something good."

And it was true-things did start to improve. The next practice, I threw two pa.s.ses that felt as true as they have ever felt. The day after that I threw three more, and the next day, four. It seemed like each time out on the field resulted in yet another pa.s.s that would come flying out of my hands like a gunslinger. Little by little, the confidence was building and the throws were becoming automatic. Let the season begin.