Inside Arch Manning’s wild recruitment saga
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Seth Wickersham
Editor’s note: This story is an excerpt from the book “American Kings: A Biography of the Quarterback,” which will be available on Sept. 9 from Disney Publishing’s Hyperion Avenue.
SENIOR NIGHT AT Isidore Newman School in Uptown New Orleans. Class of ’23. A warm October sunset. A tunnel of cheerleaders under the lights, with a line of football players waiting to have their names announced and to meet their parents at midfield, and little surprise over who will be called first.
He’s in full uniform, wearing a kelly green jersey, with a white number 16. He stands, slightly tilting back and forth, waiting. The field is bright and clean. He turns to his coach beside him.
“Do I run?” Arch Manning asks.
He is the top-rated high school quarterback in America. His talent and production and work ethic merit the status, but it’s his name that makes the future feel inevitable. He’s a Manning. His grandfather is Archie, a Southern icon. His Uncle Peyton is a two-time Super Bowl champion, a national icon. His Uncle Eli is a two-time Super Bowl champion, which in New York gets you pretty close to icon status. Arch knows no other kind of life. There’s no hiding.
The crowd buzzes. A fervor awaits. The structures framing the stadium at Newman seem to mirror stages of his life. He’d started playing, almost as soon as he could walk, on the playgrounds behind the north end zone. Parallel to the sidelines are classrooms and buildings where he went to elementary school and then high school. As he approaches the south end zone, seventeen years old and at the beginning of something, he stands in the shadows of Manning Fieldhouse, named in honor of his father and uncles, all Newman alums. Tonight, as a senior, he commands the stage with little left to prove. In three months, he will be a freshman at the University of Texas. Anything other than a college career that ends with him being the first overall draft pick will seem like potential unfulfilled, an expectation both comically unfair and a reality of the life he has chosen.
Coach Nelson Stewart looks back at Arch. Stewart played with Peyton when they were young. He’s known Arch since he was running on that kindergarten playground. He looks out to midfield now, to Arch’s parents, Cooper and Ellen.
“Do a smooth jog,” Stewart says.
“How fast?”
“Not fast.”
You can make the case that Arch Manning wasn’t born on April 27, 2004, but on October 4, 1969. That night, Archie Manning’s Ole Miss Rebels played Alabama. Archie was a handsome junior from Drew, Mississippi, a gifted, gritty kid carrying a deep hurt and living out a tireless urge to prove himself after his father’s death by suicide. He liked the position of quarterback. He studied those who played it, even as a kid. He reveled in the responsibility and the status it afforded him. It felt comfortable, manageable, an extension of self and ability. This was the first nationally televised night game in college football history. Archie threw for 436 yards and ran for 104 more, accounting for five touchdowns in a one-point loss, in what is now considered one of the greatest games of all time. He cried when the game ended. He was a legend, a folk hero, a song title, an All-American before he took an NFL snap, and even though he couldn’t have known it at the time, he was the beginning of a family franchise that would show no signs of slowing down almost six decades later. Arch was part of a lineage before he was a glint in Cooper and Ellen’s eyes. When Arch played fifth-grade flag football, Stewart and Cooper talked about moving him up to the middle school team but decided to keep him where he was, staving off the mania that awaited him. When he started high school, college coaches circled.
He fit the part: tall, muscular, thick, handsome, driven and with a beautiful release point. The hype grew. Read the headlines–“The Next Manning” or “Better Than Peyton?” or “Overrated”–and you know it’s been a long time since he felt like a little boy.
Arch can throw the deep out, he can settle teammates in the huddle and he can read a defense. On Senior Night, as he stands at midfield, you can almost feel the weight of what lies ahead, the way it presses down on him, when he hopes someone might light the way for the short, tentative jog from the end zone to midfield, from what’s now to what’s next.
FOUR YEARS EARLIER, first drive, first game, Arch saw something. It was a spring game against Archbishop Shaw High. He was in eighth grade. He stood near the line of scrimmage. He scanned the defense, like he had been trained to do, trying to decipher it, decode it, looking for keys, subtle tells. The right cornerback was in tight coverage against wide receiver Jarmone Sutherland. Newman had a slant route called, but this was inviting. Sutherland turned to Arch, wondering what to do. Arch gently tugged his face mask, signaling him to go deep.
Arch had already shown promise at the essential thing: throwing the ball. That was evident from the start, when he was playing flag football in fifth grade. “He had a good throwing motion,” Uncle Eli says. But what stood out to Eli is that “it made sense to him. Some people, they pick up a ball, and it just works.”
Every aspiring quarterback must decide at some point: Are you about this world? Are you willing to do what it takes? Do you want to leave the old version of yourself behind? Do you possess all of the strange traits–talent, smarts, drive, luck, the combination of broken in the right places and healed in the right places–to do it? There’s a chrysalis, a metamorphosis that takes place. It happened to Peyton and Eli. Both faced choices about what they were willing to sacrifice. As boys, these men dedicated their lives to this job.
Archie and Cooper and Peyton and Eli all tried to shield Arch. They wanted football to be fun. In flag football, Arch loved throwing touchdowns to his friends. But when Cooper took him to games, NFL or college, Arch barely said a word.
He silently studied what was taking place on the field. “Like he was taking a class,” Cooper says. He’d constantly ask Cooper to throw with him in the den, and after a few passes whizzed too close to Ellen’s head, she ordered them outside. One time, the family had a layover in Miami, and Arch had a ball, because he almost always had a ball, and he threw in the terminal. Cooper took Arch to camp at LSU. People started to notice, because of course, and Arch was offered a scholarship on the spot.
But he hadn’t actually done the thing. Not yet.
In the Archbishop Shaw High game, he got the ball and took a few steps back. He looked left, then center, preternaturally calm, then turned right and threw with zip and touch deep down the right sideline. It landed over Sutherland’s outside shoulder, perfect placement for a touchdown and the beginning of something beyond anyone’s control. He invoked a feeling, reminding those who saw it of what they felt the first time they witnessed it, and showed them what it looked like now.
In the stands, Cooper and his longtime friend Richard Montgomery turned to each other. “S—!” Montgomery said.
Cooper replied with a look that said here we go.
IT WAS EASY to get swept up in Arch and all the buzz, his every act being viewed through the prisms of precociousness and prelude, even for coach Nelson Stewart. As a freshman, Arch threw 38 touchdowns in eleven games. There was one game where Arch struggled, throwing a few interceptions, which is memorable to Stewart not only because it was the exception but because of what he saw. Every quarterback needs to find a way to bury doubt; the Mannings were no different. Stewart looked at Arch’s eyes as he came off the field. Arch was overwhelmed and stressed and looked . . .young. “I had to remind myself that he’s just a kid,” Stewart says.
Was it already too late? A documentary crew had called Cooper and asked if Arch wanted to be featured alongside some of the game’s legends, including John Elway. Cooper loved the idea but couldn’t do that to his kid. Archie created headlines when he told a reporter that his grandson was “a little ahead of” his sons when they were freshmen. What was intended as a simple observation of fact–neither Peyton nor Eli had started on varsity as freshmen–became a family member upping the hype and went viral, not just on recruiting sites and college message boards, but on actual news outlets. Stewart says that Arch was the first freshman to start an opener in school history.
When Arch was a sophomore, Stewart and Cooper met to lay out a plan. Both men felt like they were staring at a tsunami taking form in the distance.
“What do we want this to look like?” Stewart asked Cooper.
“We’re gonna do a 1975 recruitment,” Cooper said.
Cooper wanted the impossible: an environment where Arch could thrive as a quarterback, but also for him to not fall out of love with the game, and the job.
Cooper’s own recruitment was straightforward. He was a wide receiver, and he went to Ole Miss, the family school. Spinal stenosis cut his career short, but he nonetheless managed to become a legend–“a social legend”–in Peyton’s words. Peyton honored Cooper by switching his number from 16 to 18, which his older brother had worn at Newman. It was Cooper’s legacy: The football life could end at any moment.
“I want you to run point,” Cooper told Stewart. “Very old-school.”
Very old-school meant that Cooper wanted Stewart to be his son’s gatekeeper, organizer, spokesman, confidant, security guard, evangelist, strategist, and of course, head coach of what the family expected to be the most sophisticated high school offense in the country. And one more condition:
“No offers,” Cooper said.
“What does that mean?” Stewart asked.
“No offers. No talking to the media if we can.”
Scholarship offers are a barometer for top recruits, a tangible way to measure demand. Offers are also a way for college coaches to mark territory. What happens to a boy when so many people want to tell him where to do this, with whom to do it with, when so many people make decisions for him, and when there’s no way to know what the right choice is? “Nothing you’re doing as a freshman or sophomore is gonna be relevant in the big picture,” Cooper told Arch.
“We’re not doing that crap,” Cooper said.
“All right,” Stewart said.
The plan quickly faced its first test. One day Stewart returned to his office after teaching class to see Ole Miss head coach Lane Kiffin sitting in his chair. He told Stewart,
“I have to offer this kid.”
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Stewart said. “But we’re not, you know . . .”
Still, Kiffin wanted his world, the world of college coaches and of recruiting junkies, to know that he was already staking his claim. Kiffin took a selfie at Stewart’s desk and posted it on social media.
It was on.
ARCH MANNING HAD his own command center: Nelson Stewart’s office. Only Arch wasn’t in command, and for the most part, neither was Stewart. College coaches often showed up for the sake of showing up, setting up shop at Stewart’s empty desk while he taught class, just popping up on campus with little or sometimes no warning. Some schools–Ohio State, Princeton, Texas A&M, Rutgers–stopped by once, hoping for mutual interest. But for most of 2021, there was a steady stream of fifteen or so coaches from the main contenders: Texas, Alabama, Ole Miss, and Georgia. NCAA rules forbade them from regularly talking to Arch, so they were there to be seen by him–and to get to know the quarterback by getting to know the coach. They’d sit down and talk ball with Stewart, who would take notes and steal ideas, losing track of time and hustling off to teach. When he glanced at his phone, the screen was filled with text messages and voicemails from other coaches. Coaches would FaceTime Stewart, hoping that Arch happened to be with him, a way to sneak in actual face time. On the day of the 2020 NFL Draft, when the Bengals picked Joe Burrow first overall, LSU coaches FaceTimed Stewart, hoping Arch was in the background. He was. The message was clear: You can be next.
Arch was nominally aware and acutely oblivious to it all. He just went about his thing, existing, playing golf, watching every episode of “Friday Night Lights,” and playing quarterback. He was self-assured, cocky but endearing, good-natured and calm. Arch had Peyton’s situational intensity, Eli’s situational indifference, Cooper’s situational savvy, and his own sincerity. He was a byproduct of the entire Manning infrastructure, the receptor of every aspect of quarterback intelligence that this iconic family had learned through the decades. He had a quick release, an inheritance and the result of hours of work with his uncles and coaches. He went to Tulane for arm care. He had a huge trunk, thick thighs, and a quick torso, honed from drills useless in any other field. One day Arch sat in on a meeting with New Orleans Saints coaches and scouts as they evaluated the quarterbacks in that year’s draft.
Grandpa Archie seemed more engaged with his grandson’s recruitment than he had been with his own kids’, often leaving Stewart long voice memos. Uncle Eli was there to answer any of Arch’s questions, but he knew better than to impose–he had been in Arch’s shoes, as the youngest taking on this job and all that attended it. But the benefits were undeniable.
Arch and Cooper flew from New Orleans to Denver, where Uncle Peyton lived. They worked out at the Broncos facility. Peyton also got Clyde Christensen, a longtime NFL offensive coach who’d worked with him in Indianapolis and Tom Brady in Tampa Bay, to send private videos of Brady’s practices, melding the best of Manning’s theories with Brady’s techniques, two legends funneling into a boy. Peyton texted them to Stewart, telling him to run those drills. There were dozens of video clips.
Arch visited Clemson twice, Alabama four times, Georgia four times, Texas four times, Ole Miss a few times, LSU, and even Virginia. Of all places, Cooper liked Virginia for his son for one reason: It wasn’t a football crazy school. He could live under the radar. His older sister, May, was a student there. As Cooper and Arch walked through campus, the father saw an opportunity for something close to peacefulness. “You could come here, be a normal guy,” Cooper told him. “No one’s gonna mess with you.”
Cooper wasn’t a classic quarterback dad, but he was learning fast and wasn’t afraid to be cutthroat. Peyton would sometimes hop on the phone with Stewart after games, going through play-calling, and then would follow up a day later wondering if the school needed any donations. Eli, meanwhile, would purchase thousands of dollars of equipment for Newman without telling anyone. New shoulder pads would just show up.
Stewart taught five classes a day. Visiting coaches learned his schedule. Tuesdays at 10 a.m., Stewart’s job was to watch Newman’s pre-K kids on the playground where Arch had once played. College coaches, with nothing better to do, pitched in. Pete Golding, then Alabama’s defensive coordinator, pushed kids on the swings. So did Bill O’Brien, then the Tide’s offensive coordinator. Nobody minded; they were with Stewart. Texas coach Steve Sarkisian showed Arch the play sheet from Alabama’s national championship over Ohio State when he was a Crimson Tide assistant. Golding would FaceTime Sarkisian from Stewart’s office, just to tweak him.
Ever the offensive lineman, Stewart tried to protect his quarterback, lead-blocking through fans after games to get Arch to his car. Other times, the backup quarterback, Christian Sauska, would come out and claim to be Arch and pose for selfies. Never in the history of humankind has it been easier to check a face, famous or otherwise, yet people fell for it.
One day Golding took a photo of his dip cup on Nelson’s desk and texted it to Sarkisian, his buddy: “Guess where I am?” Sark started to freak out and he rapid-texted Stewart. On another day, Sarkisian pranked Kiffin by saying that he’d spoken with Arch at least one hundred times. Sure enough, Kiffin exploded on the other end of the phone.
One day, someone sent Stewart a link. It was for an Arch Manning autographed football. The price: $957. It was almost impossible for him to process. He showed it to Cooper, who shook his head and lamented.
“Put my last name on it . . .”
NOBODY KNEW WHERE Arch Manning wanted to go to school. Some in the family preferred Georgia, where head coach Kirby Smart would coach him hard. Others, Alabama. The problem for Alabama was that Nick Saban — whom the Crimson Tide assistants affectionally called “Daddy” — was getting up there in years, and nobody knew how long he’d be there. Texas kept lingering. Competition was so fierce that everything was fair game. It was public record that Steve Sarkisian had battled alcoholism, a disease that nearly cost him his career. Sark had rebuilt his life and work in recovery. But during one Zoom call with Arch, Golding was discussing Alabama’s schematics and culture, and then he went there.
“I love Sark,” Golding said. “He’s my best friend.” He paused. “I hope he can stay sober.”
After the Zoom ended, Stewart called Golding. “Pete, that’s f—ed up!”
Golding knew. He had no choice.
“Daddy’s on me.”
In June of 2022, Nelson Stewart served as a counselor at the Manning Passing Academy in Thibodaux, Louisiana, the annual camp in the sticks that’s as much of a tour stop on the high school quarterback junket as Elite 11, thirty-some years strong. Arch has been at the camp since he was in middle school and is the most tenured attendee in the camp’s history. Stewart was overseeing a drill at another camp, due to arrive to Thibodaux late, when he looked at his phone and saw that he had missed five calls from Arch. He wondered if something was wrong. He called back. Cooper answered.
“Someone wants to talk to you,” Cooper said.
“Coach,” Arch said, “I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and how you’ve handled it. I just want to let you know that I’ve decided to formally commit and play at Texas.”
He liked Sark. He especially liked that Sark was the head coach and the play-caller, increasing the odds that he’d be there for the duration of Arch’s time. Texas was a good school, in case he were to suffer a career-ending injury. He liked that Texas was joining the Southeastern Conference. Texas had just finished an 8-5 season when he committed; he wanted to be part of an upswing, of bringing something back.
Holy s–t! Stewart thought. “I’m proud of you,” he said. He started to well up. Arch told him he needed to call more people before news broke. “Coach, I’ve got a lot of people to thank.”
“You’re good,” Stewart said.
“Do me a favor,” Arch said. “Don’t tell anybody. It’s a secret.”
Within minutes, A.J. Milwee, Texas’s quarterbacks coach, called.
“What’s up?” Stewart said, knowing exactly what was up. They danced around the obvious.
“I can’t talk,” Milwee said. “But I can’t believe this, we did it.”
“Yeah, man. I’m so happy for you.”
News broke. Texts flooded in from coaches who had been a part of Stewart’s life for the past few years. Alabama’s Pete Golding called Stewart. Saban wanted an explanation.
“Why Texas?” Golding asked.
Stewart listed all the reasons, including that Arch had once said that he felt Austin was big enough that he wouldn’t be recognized.
“Stop,” Golding said. “No motherf—ing way.”
YOU KNOW THE moment. It happens every game. When the quarterback takes over. When he creates and alters momentum, when he separates himself, when we know, everyone knows, why this job is different. Arch Manning’s seminal moment is in the third quarter of a close game on Senior Night, closer than expected. The Greenies face third-and-29. There are no plays for that situation. Arch gets the ball. He stands in the pocket as it breaks from behind, and skips forward, eyes downfield, until nobody obstructs his view, and he sees a chance, a deep post route. He sets. He’s at his own 26-yard line. The ball launches into air, above the stadium lights and into the darkness, then down again, nose over nose until it drops at the opponent’s 15-yard line, into the arms of his receiver for a first down, 60 yards traveled in all. The local television broadcaster says wow four times, yet that seems insufficient.
After Newman wins, players gather in the end zone. Stewart addresses them. Arch is on a knee, toward the back. Stewart paces, calling out high and low points. Then he stops. He holds a ball.
“I’m about to embarrass him,” he says.
Arch looks down. He had started Senior Night by sitting with the freshmen at the team dinner; it was important to him to connect with every player, regardless of stature or age. He’s ending it with a reminder of who he is, was, and where he’s going.
“I’d argue tonight was his toughest game,” Stewart says. “He got hit a bunch. He got up every time. He didn’t yell at the line once. He kept his poise. That’s what being a leader is. Now Arch has 129 career touchdowns. He’s our career leader.”
The team applauds.
Arch brings the team together and gives them a rally cry for the night. The kids disperse, toward the fence separating the stands from the field. Parents and friends gather. Seniors pose for selfies. Arch wanders over, his path stopped for a photo or autograph, half dozen in all. A life is just beginning, and Arch has yet to face the crossroads that his famous family members did. In two months, he would clean out his locker. It was a mess. Cooper shook his head. Arch sifted through stuff, tossing things away as he went, when both men noticed something buried in the back and at the bottom. It was a trophy. It had a football player kneeling. It was what he’d been awarded when he won the Bobby Dodd National High School Player of the Year from the Touchdown Club of Atlanta. Archie had won Touchdown Club’s version of the award in 1969. Peyton had won it in 1993. Eli had won a different award from the same club in 2003. Cooper told Arch that it should be in his room or in a trophy case. Arch gave it to his dad to figure out. In three months, he’d be a freshman at Texas, and property of the public in an even greater way than he is now.
In 2024, after he got his first career start and helped the Longhorns defeat Louisiana-Monroe, the life he knew would change; something he had prepared for and thought about caught him by surprise. Kids wanted his photo as he walked through campus. Dinners out took on a new meaning. He could not hide in Austin, and in fact he was easier to spot than ever. You think you know when you’re starting to lose control of your life, but you don’t until it happens. He texted Eli: Can we chat for little bit? Eli figured it was to talk ball. It was to talk fame. How do you handle this stuff ? Eli had a few rules. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to tell people to wait until after dinner. Tell the team: No photos with anyone drinking alcohol. If you blink at the wrong time holding a beer, it’ll live on the internet forever, coming up after the inevitable bad game. They were tips, but not answers. Eli didn’t offer solutions. There are none.
One morning after Arch is gone, Stewart is at his office when he gets word that Peyton is going to stop by Isidore Newman the next day. He won’t be alone. He’ll be with his young teenage son, Marshall.
They need a place to throw.
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Andrea Adelson
COLUMBUS, Ohio — Sydney Reeves remembers going to her first Ohio State game as a little girl, mostly to watch the band. Her parents were proud marching band alums, and every year they would march as part of the band alumni game — when former members come back to perform alongside current members.
Sydney’s grandparents, season-ticket holders since 1964, would point out the spot where her parents each made history. In 1992, Wendy Reeves dotted the i, then one year later her husband, Chad, did it, making them the first married couple to “dot the i” in Script Ohio, one of the most recognizable traditions in college football.
Mesmerized as the band marched perfectly to spell “Ohio” in script, Sydney waited for the person tabbed to dot the i that day to strut to the top of the letter, take their hat off and bow to the roar of the crowd. She thought to herself, “I don’t know when or how, but I’m going to do this.”
And if anyone was destined to dot the i, it was Sydney Reeves. She got her first introduction to music at 2 weeks old, when Wendy, a band director, sat her in her baby carrier at middle school band rehearsal. At 2, Reeves asked for a little tuba to keep under her bed. At 8, she knew she wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps as an Ohio State sousaphone player.
In the years in between, her parents told her stories about their marching band experiences. Chad and Wendy met in the band, naturally. He proposed during an Ohio State skull session, the term for the warmup pep rally that the band puts on before every home game. Chad told everyone in the band, plus Wendy’s family members, what was going to happen without revealing his secret to her until he got on one knee. Wendy, astounded, remembers turning around and seeing family with signs reading, “Wendy, be my tuba for life!”
She said yes. They married in December 1992 and played their sousaphones at the wedding.
As children growing up, Sydney and her older sister, Samantha, would watch the proposal over and over on VHS tape. They would watch the wedding, too, specifically the part when their parents played Ohio State songs. On the anniversaries of the days they each dotted the i, Chad and Wendy would take out another set of VHS tapes and play those, too.
Samantha did not have much interest in doing band in college. But Sydney had already decided she wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps. So when she got to middle school and walked into her mom’s band room, there was no discussion about what instrument she would play.
AT EVERY BUCKEYES home game since 1936, the 225-member Ohio State marching band has spelled out “Ohio” in script. To put the iconic finishing touch on the word, a senior sousaphone player is selected to strut to the top of the i and dot it.
“A moment of glory,” Wendy says.
But, originally, dotting the i wasn’t much of an honor, Christopher Hoch, the director of marching and athletic bands at Ohio State, said. The first i dotter was “an afterthought.”
“It was an E-flat cornet player — the smallest instrument in the band,” Hoch said. “The next time they did the Script Ohio, the band director at the time decided, ‘We need something that’s a little bit more visible, a little bit more flashy.’ So, they went from the smallest instrument in the band to the largest instrument. You can clearly see that giant sousaphone bell every time the i dotter struts to the top of the i now.”
The sousaphone is a tuba variant created in the nineteenth century at the direction of John Philip Sousa. It wraps around the marcher so that its weight can be carried by the player’s shoulder rather than their arms. But generally, before anyone learns how to march holding the 35- to 40-pound instrument, they learn how to play the tuba. That was tough sledding for Sydney, who said with a laugh, “It took a lot of air.”
“It took a lot of time, and practice, and patience to be able to get myself going in sixth grade.”
Luckily, she had two experts at home. Wendy taught Sydney how to play the tuba, and once she got to high school, Chad helped teach her how to march with the sousaphone. Marching in high school is one thing, though. Making the Ohio State marching band is another.
About 400 people try out for the band each year. But even if you make the cut one year, there are no guarantees you make it the next. Sometimes veterans lose their spots. The tryout requires a music audition and a series of four marching auditions, plus 30 minutes of simultaneous marching and playing in front of the band staff.
“Students spend an entire summer working out, practicing, trying to get all their marching fundamentals right, trying to get their music learned,” Hoch said.
That is exactly what Sydney did going into her freshman year in 2021. She attended all the summer practice sessions at Ohio State. Chad and Wendy would go, too, watching and giving her feedback. Then Sydney would go home to practice with her parents some more.
Sydney thought she was well prepared when she tried out, but she did not make the band. Crushed, she turned to her parents again. Chad took her out to the high school field whenever Sydney came home so they could practice.
“We would march up and down the field, trying to perfect all the fundamentals,” Sydney said. “It was just really cool being able to see that he could still do it all, and do it better than me.”
SYDNEY CALLS CHAD her “best friend” and her “rock.” They would sing “You are My Sunshine” in the car on the way to school when she was a little girl. Whenever she needed a hug, she would go to him, because he gave the best hugs. But there were also hard moments for the Reeves family.
Chad struggled with addiction, and Sydney described “good days and bad days” growing up.
“The good always outweighed the bad,” Sydney said. “It didn’t matter what was happening. If he needed help, we helped. It was very important to us that he knew that he was so loved.”
Added Wendy: “Every family has struggles of one kind or another. It just depends what struggle becomes yours. It doesn’t make a person a bad person. It doesn’t take anything away from their successes.
“But I think the challenge in a family comes from wanting that person to find their personal best, to find their success in recovery. Chad worked very, very hard at recovery. We, as a family, supported that.”
Sydney was at Ohio Stadium in November 2021 for a sorority event when she got a phone call and learned that her dad was in the hospital. He was found unresponsive at home. By the time she arrived, Chad had died, from an accidental drug overdose. He was 51.
“It was heartbreaking, because you never want to lose a parent, and you never want to lose a parent at a young age especially,” Sydney said. “But we knew that he was safe and that everything was going to be OK.”
They held the funeral on a football Saturday. Wendy told everyone to wear scarlet and gray. So many people came to pay their respects, including friends from the time Chad and Wendy spent in the band. At the reception, they streamed the Ohio State game, just as Chad would have wanted.
Sydney returned to school two weeks after his passing, more determined than ever to make the band in her sophomore year. She doubled down on her efforts to get in good physical shape and perfect her music and marching. In her mind, Sydney could hear her dad repeating his favorite line:
To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.
“The memories and the drive that he gave me on those days that we practiced, I took those, and I would do the things that he would tell me,” Sydney said. “They would repeat in my mind and I’d be like, ‘OK, you’ve got to focus. You’ve got to do this.’ I would always say his favorite quote before I do pretty much anything. That really just calmed my nerves and got me ready.”
All that work paid off. Sydney made the band. As long as she continued to improve and make the band every year she was at Ohio State, Sydney knew she would be in position to one day dot the i. The honor is reserved for senior sousaphone players, so some years there is more competition than others. There are 28 total sousaphone players in the band — 24 who march and four alternates. Some years, there will be enough home games for each senior to get a chance to dot the i, and other years, some people will miss out. (This year, there are seven senior sousaphone players.)
“The i dot selection process is kind of complicated,” Hoch said. “There is a rank-order system based on the number of performances that you have marched as a regular band member.”
With that in the back of her mind, Sydney prepared for her first game, in 2022. At the skull session, Wendy presented Sydney with a gift: a Buckeye on a string that Chad wore when he marched in the band.
“This was papa’s,” Wendy told Sydney.
Sydney put it on underneath her uniform, and as she and her fellow band members went down the ramp and onto the field to perform, she cried.
“Because I was doing this thing that I had always wanted to do, that my parents got to do, and that I was making all of my family proud,” she said.
“To anyone outside of the Ohio State family, it might seem silly, a nut on a string, right?” Wendy said. “But for her, it would be like getting something that was very meaningful of his. It is a link to his time in the band, and it was moving for her, and she was thrilled to have it.”
The string started to fray as she wore it that year, so Sydney put it away until later. She didn’t want to wear it again until she got her chance to dot the i.
SYDNEY LEARNED THIS past April she would dot the i on October 4 against Minnesota. So, she got to work, focused on perfecting the tradition’s trademark strut.
She practiced in her backyard, and her mom would tape her, then break down the tape step by step — just like a football coach. Then in July, Sydney started practicing with the drum major, who leads the sousaphone player to the i.
“You’re kicking your legs out in front of you with a little bit of a leaning back motion, and you do about 16 of them to get to the spot from the bottom of the O,” Sydney said. “That is the most challenging part of the entire day, because it’s not something that we normally do, and it’s heavy, and you’re thinking, ‘I have to control my breathing, because I have to play.'”
Sydney learned she would have a practice run of sorts when she found out she would be one of multiple i dotters for the alumni game on Sept. 6 against Grambling. What made that day extra special was having her mom, aunt and uncle — all band alums — on the field marching with her.
That experience was great, but against Minnesota, she would have the spotlight all to herself.
And now, Sydney Reeves from Dublin, Ohio, brings this 89-year tradition back to halftime. The incomparable Script Ohio.
Sydney and the band had just completed their halftime performance. Now the public address announcer told the crowd that she would be closing things out. Sydney had to focus on every step, every move, every fundamental she had been coached on over the years.
Wendy watched from the stands, clasping her hands, saying, “Come on, little one! Come on, little one!” counting down in her head exactly what Sydney had to do and when.
When the band finished looping the final O, Sydney followed the drum major, one strut at a time. She dotted the i and bowed, betraying little emotion. But tucked under her uniform she could feel the buckeye. She felt her dad’s embrace, his encouragement, his courage, one generation connected to the next — a legacy firmly planted on the Ohio Stadium turf.
“I do feel like it brought me closer to him,” Sydney said. “Being able to have this thing that he also was able to have is really awesome. It would’ve been even more special if he could be there in person. But it was very special that I had his buckeye, and I had his memories.
“And I knew that he was looking down on me.”
After years of dreaming and waiting, it was over, just like that. Wendy turned around in the stands to a legion of high-fives and well-wishers, who told her, “You did it, mom!”
“I hadn’t done anything except stand there and watch her dot the i,” Wendy said.
But that, of course, is not true. When Wendy decided at age 11 that she wanted to play the tuba and dot the i in the Ohio State marching band, few women had gotten that opportunity. That decision ultimately inspired her daughter to make history right alongside her parents.
With her i dot, Sydney became the first child of two people who had previously dotted the i at Ohio State to also dot the i.
“It is a dream that you have your whole life, so being able to accomplish that dream is like nothing you could imagine,” Sydney said. “In that moment, it’s this fairy tale that you see in movies, and you get to keep those memories for the rest of your life.”
Sydney gave her mom a big hug when she got back into the stands. But Wendy had already sent her a text message, right after the halftime show ended.
“Sweet dot, baby.”
The SEC has asked the NCAA to rescind a pending rule change that will allow athletes and athletic department staff members to bet on professional sports beginning on Nov. 1, according to a copy of a memo obtained by ESPN.
SEC commissioner Greg Sankey sent a letter to NCAA president Charlie Baker on Oct. 25, stating that during an Oct. 13 conference meeting, “The message of our Presidents and Chancellors was clear and united: this policy change represents a major step in the wrong direction.”
Last week, the NCAA’s Division I cabinet approved a rule change to allow betting on professional sports, and Division II and III management councils also signed off on it, allowing it to go into effect on Saturday. NCAA athletes are still prohibited from betting on college sports and sharing information about college sports with bettors. Betting sites also aren’t allowed to advertise or sponsor NCAA championships.
“On behalf of our universities, I write to urge action by the NCAA Division I Board of Directors to rescind this change and reaffirm the Association’s commitment to maintaining strong national standards that keep collegiate participants separated from sports wagering activity at every level,” Sankey wrote. “If there are legal or practical concerns about the prior policy, those should be addressed through careful refinement — not through wholesale removal of the guardrails that have long supported the integrity of games and the well-being of those who participate.”
If the rule goes into effect, it would mark a shift in a long-held policy that had become difficult to enforce with an increase in legal sports betting in the United States. The NCAA has faced an uptick in alleged betting violations by players in recent years. In September, the NCAA announced that a Fresno State men’s basketball player had manipulated his own performance for gambling purposes and conspired with two other players in a prop betting scheme. The NCAA is investigating 13 additional players from six schools regarding potential gambling violations dealing with integrity issues.
On Oct. 22, when the NCAA announced the adoption of the new proposal, it stated that approving the rule change “is not an endorsement of sports betting, particularly for student-athletes.”
“Our action reflects alignment across divisions while maintaining the principles that guide college sports,” said Roberta Page, director of athletics at Slippery Rock and chair of the Division II Management Council, in the NCAA’s news release. “This change recognizes the realities of today’s sports environment without compromising our commitment to protecting the integrity of college competition or the well-being of student-athletes.”
Sankey wrote that the “integrity of competition is directly threatened when anyone with insider access becomes involved in gambling.” He also said the SEC is “equally concerned about the vulnerability of our student-athletes.”
“The SEC’s Presidents and Chancellors believe the NCAA should restore its prior policy-or a modified policy-communicating a prohibition on gambling by student-athletes and athletics staff, regardless of the divisional level of their sport,” Sankey wrote. “While developing and enacting campus or conference-level policy may be considered, the NCAA’s policy has long stood as an expression of our collective integrity, and its removal sends the wrong signal at a time when the gambling industry is expanding its reach and influence.”
ESPN’s Pete Thamel contributed to this report.
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