Jameis Winston, professioanal quarterback and player for the National Football League’s Tampa Bay Buccaneers, studies the defense presented before him as he approached his presenting center. He sees the mike backer, jerysey number 66, cheating up then taking one step out wide, a sign to Winston that this defender will be dropping into shallow zone coverage. As Winston places his hands in the warmth betwixt the legs of Ryan Jensen, he considers his advantage over the defense. With his knowledge of the scheme, it’s like Winston is playing eleven on nine. He barks out his formation commands to his wide receivers as well as his coded direction to Peyton Barber, his running back, cannon fire, releasing him from blocking duties so that he may break out to the nearside first down marker and await Winston’s check down pass. A pass that, frankly, Winston was not expecting to make as, based on his understanding of the sport, the streaking running back would surely draw out #66, opening a free passing lane for Winston to pass the ball to a soon-to-be-crossing Mike Evans. Checkmate.

Witness Mr Jameis Winston, a charter member of the fraternity of first overall draft picks. An athletic specimen paid millions of dollars annually to be the colonel of an NFL offense but who is still questioned on his ability to play the position. Of course, in a team sport, it is damn near a conspiracy that the judgement of the part may be impossible to differentiate from the performance of the whole. But in a moment, Mr Winston will enter a dimension of the game where imposing pass rushers, inept coordinators, and brick-handed receivers cannot limit his talent. Jameis Winston will only have to worry about one person. Worries that only exist….in the Twilight Zone.

“Hut! Hut! HIKE!”

Jensen drives the ball into Winston’s waiting palms and leans forward into his opposing lineman. Winston begins his drop back. One step. He checks to his left; Evans is off the line clean. Two steps. He peers right as Barber bursts towards the sideline. Three steps. He drives back off his left leg and plants his right. Peering over his linemen he begins to raise his throwing arm and —

He sees #66 waving his arms as he celebrates under the shower of boos coming from the stands. Winston picks himself up and jogs to the sideline. “4th down and here comes the punt team” a broadcaster tells the viewers at home.

Sitting on the bench with his Microsoft Surface Pro on the bench idle next to him, Winston’s view of the subsequent play — a blocked punt — is interrupted by the appearance of his of head coach, Bruce Arians, who is talking about the botched third down. Winston wasn’t really listening but he’s received this tongue-lashing before; he got the gist — Why did he audible out the running back’s blocking assignment? Why wasn’t he looking for #66 like they’d discussed in film study? Something about a thing coaches call “progression”. …Accountability…

Jameis Winston, sore and frustrated, had had enough.

“Look, I need time! The line is non-existent! I don’t have enough protection to give me even four seconds to get the ball off! Give me time or shut up!”

His coach, showing his tire from decades in the league bit his tongue while he looked over his shoulder. Ascertaining that no one was eavesdropping, he leaned in and growled at his quarterback. “You need a lot more time than four seconds, Jameis. You need all the time in the world.”

“Then get it for me!” Jameis challenged his coach with an impossible task that matched the helplessness he felt trying to execute this offense. Arians’ eyes rolled at Winston’s tone. Again, he checked over his shoulder and returned to the quarterback, instructing him that, if he was serious, the phone to the owner’s box was right there behind him. “Make the call,” he said gravely, “and Bryan Glazer can make anything you want happen.”

Winston stared at coach and, without saying one word or offering one hint of emotion, walked over to the red phone and lifted the receiver to his ear. The earpiece clicked once. Clicked twice.

“Jameis, my man, what has you calling the owners box mid-game?”

The confidence in Bryan Glazer’s voice consoled Winston’s angst. His plans to repeat his complaining performance from the bench evaporated. “Listen, uhhhh, sir.” Winston spoke from the heart. “I need time. And I told Bruce and he told me to talk to you so….here I am. What can you do for me?”

Winston listened as Glazer quietly popped his lips away from the phone. He was considering whether or not to elaborate on his concerns considering the owner seemed more focused on enjoying his in-game cigar. He started again, “I told coach you didn’t have anything to do with –”

“Time? How much time? What are we talking about here?”

“I….I need time. I need the time necessary for me to see the defense, process the scheme, and properly respond to the coverage.”

“Time for you to do all that, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s all I need. Just because I am getting hit before –”

“I heard you, Jameis. I just want to clarify that we’re talking about the time you need. Not the amount of time that, say, Kurt Warner needed or Drew Brees needs. We’re specifically saying, Jameis needs adequate time to properly read a defensive, evaluate that scheme, and respond through audibles or simply time in the pocket. Am I right.”

“Yeah that would be magic. But I don’t –”

The phone clicked. Winston tapped the plungers to see if the connection tripped but, apparently, it had not. His concentration broke as the crowd roared and, turning to the play on the field, Winston saw as his teammate Vernon Hargreaves III crossed the sideline cradling an intercepted pass.

In the chaos of the personnel swap, Arians grabbed Winston and pulled his shoulder down to shout in his ear.

“Scat six x domino rogue fiesta! And get your feet set before the ball comes back to you! And remember, no risk it, no biscuit!” He gave Winston’s shoulder one pat and pushed him to the awaiting huddle. Winston jogged out to his waiting teammates and pulled the huddle in close enough to be heard over the booming PA system and still-applauding fans.

“Alright, keep me clean and let’s catch these dude’s on the flea flicker.”

Once again, the offense lined up and Winston returned to the line. He saw #66 pointing and barking commands to his backs. Winston promptly approached the line and commanded the ball to be hiked. The crowd screamed with delight as they saw that the simple handoff call was some trickery when Barber stopped in his tracks and looked back to his Winston, who was facing away from the play, selling the fake perfectly. Winston could always time his turnaround based on the crowd’s cheers for a flea flicker. In an instant, Winston began to turn back to Barber, who had surely already tossed the ball back in his direction.

But when Winston returned from the split-second blur of turning back, he did not hear fans. He did not see other players. He did not feel the ball reach his awaiting hands. Jameis Winston stood alone on the 50 yard line in an empty stadium. There was no PA. There were no cheers. The Jumbotron was blank except for the running clock presented at the top of the video board.

“What the? What happened?” Winston peered around in a panic and saw nothing. No equipment. No Gatorade jugs. He was alone. Or so he thought, until he backed up into a single shelf of books. He peered at the titles. Quarterback Basics. Fundamentals of Passing. Reading Defenses. Joe Montana: A Biography.

A message lit up the video board. “Take all the time needed to read, learn, and return to the game.” Jameis returned his gaze to the bookshelf. Then back to the video board. Then the clicking clock. The sun was setting and, as the stadium lights clicked on, only a single suite was illuminated. Standing at the front of this luxury box was the silhouette of a man with a cigar burning in his hand. The silhouette held up a hand, dropped it, and disappeared into the suite, leaving only a vanished trail of cigar smoke in his wake. Jameis Winston was speechless. He was scared. He had asked the wrong man for the wrong favor — and he had all the time in the world to regret it.

The best laid plans of mice and men… and Jameis Winston… the quarterback who wanted nothing but time. Jameis Winston, now just a part of a forgotten landscape, just a piece of Tampa Bay folklore, just a fragment of what man has deeded to himself. Mr. Jameis Winston, first overall pick and indefinite starting quarterback…in the Twilight Zone.