When nobody was watching, a little quarterback practiced for his day in front of the cameras. He used a hairbrush for a microphone. His dad did the interviewing, prepping him in the hopes that one day a roomful of people would listen. Anything in his control, the kid would be prepared for it. The tightest spiral? He was up at 6 a.m. to work on that. The smartest guy in the locker room? He once drove 17 hours straight, from Richmond, Va., to the University of Wisconsin just to get a copy of the playbook so he could become one with it over the Fourth of July weekend.
It was the stuff out of his control that confounded Russell Wilson. He did not talk about those things. He'd hear someone say he couldn't do something in high school, and Wilson would type the quote, print it out and hang it on his wall so he could stare at it each morning when he awoke.
Three and three-eighths inches. If Harrison Wilson III could make it to the final NFL cutdown back in 1980 after three years of law school, if he could survive a stroke that should've killed him and hold on long enough to see that his kid was going to be OK, then his son could sure as hell overcome three and three-eighths inches.
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