Technically, I’m pretty far from Boston. I’m standing in an Atlanta hotel ballroom that’s been converted to house the dozens of journalists in front of me. I’ve spent a good chunk of my football career in similar situations, but only for the Los Angeles Bulls, where I played up from when I was drafted until last season.

I lean back from the podium, making it obvious I’m looking down at the New England Rebels’ emblem—an outline of a soldier of the American Revolution—before I adjust the mic. “Look, I grew up on the south shore of Massachusetts, and I’ve always been proud of our teams, even the Red Sox.”

The room chuckles.

“But it’s another kind of proud to lead the Rebels to a Super Bowl. And I’ll be even prouder to bring that trophy to the streets of Boston.”

I wait for the head of the Rebels’ PR team to take another question, and a woman stands.

“Rebecca Morris,” she introduces herself. “From The Boston Journal’s Sports & Style section. A large part of this year’s coverage of the team has focused on your relationship with Coach Foller.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my manager, Nick. It’s impossible to miss the veins in his neck bulging.

Rebecca continues, “I think it brought a new sense of wholesomeness to the game, knowing that he coached you all the way back in high school. But I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations that have come up over the last few months.”

Nick might have a stroke.

“There are two things my team reminds me to never comment on. Politics”—I wait for the laughter to subside—“and legal matters. The Rebels did an investigation and I have to trust it was thorough.”

My eyes bounce between Nick, who looks like his blood pressure has lowered, and Rebecca, who doesn’t appear satisfied.

“You don’t have any comment on the abuse allegations?” she asks. “As of now, four former players back when he coached at the college level have⁠—”

“I can’t speak to other players’ experiences. I can only speak to mine.”

Nick’s eyes beg. Please don’t.

I rock back and forth on my heels. I should probably keep my mouth shut and leave it at that. But I’ve been in the public eye long enough to know no comment leaves a lot of room for people to come up with their own truths when really, there only is one. And it’s simple.

I owe everything to James Foller.

They always say you never forget your first. I happen to have a few of those up my sleeve. Foller is one of them. He was the guy who made me into the player—the man—I am today. That started in high school, but it didn’t stop there.