Chapter 454 293: I Am Honored
SoFi Stadium, the Giants' locker room.
Forty minutes until kickoff.
In contrast to the roaring crowd outside, which was loud enough to shake the heavens, the locker room was nearly silent. No one spoke, and no music played.
The only sounds were the clang of metal lockers and the RIIIP of equipment assistants tearing open rolls of athletic tape.
At this stage, every single detail had to be perfect.
The players checked the tightness of their pads, the fit of their helmets, and the screws on their facemasks.
Li Wei sat in front of his locker. He had already put on his number 1 jersey, but his helmet still rested on the bench beside him.
His eyes were closed, his hands clasped over his knees, his body leaning slightly forward.
Taped above his locker was a photograph of the moment he had leaped over a defensive player to score a touchdown in the championship game.
An equipment assistant had put them up for all the players; above every locker was a picture of their best moment from this season.
The sound of hurried footsteps approached, heading straight for him.
Li Wei slowly opened his eyes.
"Mr. Li Wei," a slightly nervous voice said, "is it time to tape your wrists?"
A young white man he didn't recognize was kneeling in front of him, clutching a roll of white athletic tape and a pair of specialized medical scissors.
A brand-new work ID hung from his chest, the photo on it still having the stiff look of a freshly taken ID picture.
"You are?" Li Wei extended his left wrist.
"My name is Daniel, sir," the young man said quickly as he tore the seal on the tape. "I just joined the equipment staff last week. I was interning in the training room at UCLA before this."
"Last week?" Li Wei raised an eyebrow and commented casually, "You're pretty lucky then. Catching the Super Bowl your first week on the job. Saved yourself a few thousand USD in ticket money."
"Yes, sir. I can't believe it myself." Daniel's hands were trembling as he taped Li Wei's wrist. He took a deep breath to calm himself and began to precisely wrap the first layer of tape. "Mr. Stanley—the head of the equipment staff—he said they needed so many extra hands to prepare for the Super Bowl that I had to work it, and I happened to get assigned to you."
He paused, as if he still couldn't quite believe he was this close to Li Wei.
"Honestly, I thought he was joking at the time."
"Mr. Stanley is a very strict man," Li Wei said with a small smile. "He never jokes."
"I know," Daniel said as he finished the base layer and started on the second layer of athletic tape—this one had to be tighter, to secure the wrist joint without affecting finger dexterity. "But this is the Super Bowl, Mr. Li Wei. And I'm taping *your* wrists."
Li Wei didn't say anything, just watched Daniel's hands.
'He's doing a good job. Even tension, clean finish.'
"Right hand," Li Wei said, switching hands.
Daniel continued his work. A few seconds later, he seemed to make up his mind about something.
"Mr. Li Wei," he said, his voice low, "can I say something off-topic?"
"What is it?"
"My dad's a Giants fan. He's been watching their games since 1986," Daniel said as he continued taping. "In his whole life, he's only seen them win the Super Bowl once, that game against the Patriots in the 2007 season."
Daniel pulled the last wrap tight, cut the tape cleanly with his scissors, and pressed down the edge with his fingertip.
"What you're going to do today is far greater than any Super Bowl before," he said, looking up at Li Wei. "Winning it all with a perfect season—no one in the history of the NFL has ever done that, and it's likely no one ever will again."
"You're destined to go down in the history books," he said. "I just want to say, I'm honored to be a small part of witnessing that history."
"Thank you, Daniel. You did a great job on the tape," Li Wei said, flexing his wrist to show him. "Thank your father for his support of the Giants. And also, please tell him for me that his son, Daniel, made an indelible contribution to Li Wei's victory."
Daniel smiled. "Thank you, sir."
As he turned and walked away, his steps were noticeably lighter.
All the equipment preparations were complete. Head Coach Dabor walked in.
He was wearing his usual dark blue Giants polo shirt, with a matching windbreaker over it.
Unlike usual, he wasn't wearing a headset or carrying a playbook today.
He walked to the center of the locker room and looked around at all the players.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at him.
"Gentlemen," his voice wasn't loud, but it was enough to resonate through the locker room. "I'm not going to give you a speech."
He paused.
"We've gone over the plays all week. We've watched the film hundreds of times. We've been drilling this stuff since training camp. Every one of you sitting here isn't here because of luck, or because someone handed you an opportunity. You're here because you're talented, hardworking, and blessed by God. You've sweated an entire season to get here today."
"I've been a coach for almost 30 years—from assistant coach, to coordinator, to head coach," he said. "People ask me if I'm nervous."
He chuckled.
"To be honest, I'm about to piss my pants."
A few players let out soft laughs.
"But this feeling isn't just fear of losing. It's more about the unknown," he said. "The players with kids might understand what I'm talking about. Right now, I'm like a father waiting outside the delivery room for my child to be born. The feeling gives me shivers."
Dabor's gaze swept over each player's face. "When I'm old—and I'm getting there, but I don't think I'm there yet—and my grandson asks me what the proudest thing I ever did in my life was, I can tell him: I coached one of the greatest teams ever, and I stood with them on the field at the Super Bowl."
"That's what I hope to say, anyway. My grandson hasn't been born yet, but I've already rehearsed it in my head," he emphasized.
"The only condition is that you motherfuckers bring that championship trophy back to me," his tone shifted abruptly.
Everyone froze for a second, then the room erupted in laughter.
"Time to hit the stage, boys! The Giants are on the move!" he clapped his hands, and the atmosphere in the locker room instantly ignited. "Go crush the 49ers, like stomping on an ant!"
The locker room door was pushed open, and the players filed out one after another.
It was about a 50-meter walk from the locker room to the entrance of the players' tunnel. The path was a wide concrete corridor, where fluorescent lights overhead stretched and shrank everyone's shadow.
Today, this corridor was completely different from usual. Both sides were lined with people.
Not fans, not reporters, and certainly not NFL officials.
They were the Giants' own people.
The entire equipment staff stood at the very front. Stanley, the director, stood with his arms crossed, his face expressionless, his eyes fixed on the players.
Daniel, who had just taped Li Wei's wrists, was also in the crowd. When he saw Li Wei walk past, he clapped and whistled with all his might.
Behind the equipment staff was the medical team, the team doctors dressed in matching white polo shirts. The head physician smiled and nodded at each player, while behind him the physical therapists, athletic trainers, and nutritionists clapped and whistled.
"Tear 'em apart!" a young trainer couldn't help but yell.
Further back was the support staff—the women who washed the jerseys, the men who cleaned the locker room, the culinary team that prepared and delivered the food, and the workers who moved the field equipment.
These were the people most easily overlooked. They were up at 4 a.m., washing the filthy practice uniforms until they were spotless, all before the players even woke up.
After the players finished practice and went home, they would restack dozens of cases of Gatorade. No camera was ever pointed at them.
But today, they were all standing here.
The Mexican woman in charge of the laundry room was wearing a Giants jersey she usually couldn't bear to wear. Her cheers, thick with an accent, were sharp and loud, more piercing than those of the young men around her.
The head chef clapped with his hands raised above his head. His hands were covered in scars from the stove, but his applause was heavy and loud. "Win for me! Win for all of us!"
In the final section of the corridor stood the data analytics group and the video editing team.
This group got the least sleep all season. The night after every game, they had to break down the opponent's film frame by frame, annotating every running route, every formation change, every defensive hole, and ensure the report was on the coaches' desks by 8 a.m. the next morning.
Over the course of a 20-game season, they had produced more than 1,275 tactical analysis reports.
The chief data analyst's hair had already gone half-gray. He stood at the corner of the tunnel, holding a huge whiteboard—God knows where he'd dismantled it from. On it, drawn with a black marker, was the team's record.
[20 (crossed out) 21 Wins, 0 Losses!]
One by one, the players walked down this tunnel filled with their own people.
Some high-fived the staff, some bumped fists, some just gave a silent nod, but every single player's expression changed after passing through this corridor.
The nervous became resolute, the silent became uplifted, and those who were already excited now looked ready to explode.
You are not fighting alone.
Every person standing on either side of this tunnel, from the rookie who taped your wrists to the woman who washed your underwear, from the analyst who cut film in the dead of night to the logistics worker who hauled ice—they had all bet a year's worth of their heart and soul on you.
They couldn't take the field for you, but they had walked with you to this point in their own way.
At the end of the tunnel, sunlight streamed in from the field, forming a blinding curtain of light.