Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Bench press goals line the grey exterior, etched in chalk, a tangible reminder of achievements eclipsed. From little league to Pitt Signing Day, newspaper clippings enshrine the walls forming a mural, chronicling every football milestone of Whitehead's career arc that his uncle kept. He peers around, each corner conjuring up memories. After a few reps with a 60-pound rusted dumbbell and the relic duct-taped leg press, he bends down and selects an all-purpose Riddell football pad, emblematic of the five-year-old little boy in pajamas that gripped the same cushion years prior. Whitehead stands in the middle of the humbling concrete 10X10 workout space, personifying its unconventional blue-collar essence. There, Whitehead's toughness was fashioned, and his physical play style on the gridiron was forged.

This breezy 75-degree day in Western PA, for this hard-hitting safety, opens a rare window into his makeup that reaches beyond what is typical. He is here, back where it all began. Whitehead's reminiscent hometown tour features his inaugural Wishes Gala, fourth-annual Youth Football Camp at Central Valley High School and reunion with his unequivocal support system. Much has changed over the previous five months for Whitehead, including a new permanent address. On March 14, Whitehead buzzed into the AdventHealth Training Center, inking a new contract with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers after a two-year stint with the New York Jets. Whitehead, originally a fourth-round selection by the Bucs in the 2018 NFL Draft, returns to the franchise where he started 55 games from 2018-21 and hoisted the Lombardi Trophy.

"We had to draw the line at some point, and I made a mistake," General Manager Jason Licht admitted via the Loose Cannons podcast. "I'm glad we got him back. It was a mistake that I regretted the minute we let him walk."

Bruising backs pushing the pile forward has faded into the annals of NFL history with the emergence of today's pass-centric game. Despite the evolution, power football can still exhilarate players and fans alike by establishing a mentality of dominion and breaking the opposition's will. Whitehead not only embraces contact, he has an insatiable desire for it. Stopping a running back short of the sticks on third down by delivering an earth-shattering hit is what Whitehead lives for; that is why he plays the game.

On the grand stage, Whitehead embodies the unquestioned principle that the Iron City operates by: grit.

He leisurely strolls down the hallway at his alma mater, Central Valley High School, and passes a glass case with his Bucs' jersey preserved inside. Since the 2010 merger of Center and Monaca into Central Valley, Whitehead is one of two players to reach the NFL's doorstep, along with Robert Foster. In a cut-off t-shirt, Whitehead walks with effortless charisma and nonchalance past the tribute, presenting the antithesis of stardom. Here, without his helmet or gladiator suit of armor, he is simply Jordan, the approachable and kind-hearted individual that makes others feel exceptional.

"I have said this from Day One, when recruiters were coming through, I challenged anybody to walk through these halls and to say, 'Jordan Whitehead,' and you would not get one negative word out of a teacher or a custodian or a cafeteria worker," beamed Mark Lyons, Whitehead's former high school head coach.

Like a kid trapped in a 27-year-old's body, Whitehead gleefully wanders down the corridor, past a plaque with a simple yet insightful engraving, 'Central Valley Football: A player who makes a team great is more valuable than a great player. – John Wooden.' He then crosses the threshold into his old locker room. Whitehead steps between the metal rows and opens a grated door with paint chips, hit with flashbacks as the time capsule unlocks. A beam spills through the skylight, illuminating the silhouette of the former teenager that captivated underneath the Friday Night Lights for the Warriors.

Back in 2011 against New Castle during his freshman year, Whitehead intercepted the first pass thrown his way and took it to the house for a 94-yard pick-six. The quarterback dropped back, and two wide receivers bunched on the right side of the formation ran verticals, streaking down the grass. Whitehead blanketed the outside receiver, matching him stride-for-stride against the boundary. He maintained inside leverage and plucked the ball out of the air at the high point as it arrived. Whitehead raced toward the opposite end zone, as hash after hash disappeared. The boisterous crowd was drowned by the intensity of his panting. Whitehead cut inside to maneuver around traffic and crossed the goal line, nearly falling over from exhaustion. He became the first ninth grader on varsity and from that point on, Whitehead began cementing his reputation. He played with authority, grasping the enormity of the opportunity in front of him and a singular moment on November 23 became a microcosm of that sentiment.

In the 2013 WPIAL AA Championship against West Allegheny at Heinz Field in Pittsburgh, Whitehead delivered a ferocious hit that rattled the snow at the 15-yard line. That play, exemplifying his will, became a harbinger of things to come for Whitehead in the sports stratosphere. The quarterback dropped back and quickly delivered a pass to No.23 on the flat route to avoid the incoming blitzer. Whitehead, who was stationed 10 yards back from the ball, flew downhill like a man possessed. By the time the ball reached the opponent's hands, Whitehead had already stuck his foot in the ground and triggered. Checkmate. He threw him down for a loss, setting the tone. In that moment, with Western PA fortitude coursing through his veins, his trajectory shifted.

"I have always thought, your great athletes see the play differently than your average guy, I do not care what sport," states Lyons, leaning back on a bleacher. "Jordan had that ability. He could see a play from the snap and then already see what was going to happen two or three seconds without me fast-forwarding. We know that after we fast-forwarded. He already had that fast-forward playing in his own mind, the anticipation and his knack for taking the proper pursuit to the ball. He always looked faster because he was a step ahead, not only athletically but mentally."

Eight years later, an eerily similar game-defining play occurred, steamrolling the Buccaneers from the brink of greatness to the apex: Super Bowl LV. At Lambeau Field in the NFC Championship Game, Whitehead provided a surge of electricity. On third down, Aaron Rodgers dropped back, went through his initial progression and threw the ball to Aaron Jones flowing across the field on an under route as the pocket collapsed. Whitehead was lined up 10 yards off the line of scrimmage, recognized, then took off with a phenomenal first step. The second the ball hit Jones' hands, Whitehead, a heat-seeking missile, brought a jarring thud that echoed throughout the Frozen Tundra. Fumble. That indelible mark on the game led to a touchdown and subsequent 28-10 advantage for Tampa Bay. The Bucs went on to win 31-26, but that singular play, is etched in Bucs' lore and Whitehead's mental log.

Snap after snap, he leaves everything on the turf, sacrificing his body for the collective mission. Whitehead plays with reckless abandon, a result of strenuous training that caused Whitehead's parents to question if he bordered imbalance.

"Is this healthy?"

Whitehead's parents, Greg and Antonia, pondered those three words daily.

Their child needed no prodding from dad to go workout or engage in exercise. He was obsessed with the grind and pushed his body to the limit. Even at six years old, the little boy who flexed his scrawny arms and a six-pack of ribs, irrefutably realized what it would take to achieve his lofty aspiration. Pigskin in hand and cleats on his feet, he wholeheartedly pursued what set his soul ablaze. Whitehead's exclusive focus became manifesting his dream of playing professional football. Like Groundhog Day, with each sunrise mimicking the previous 24 hours, Whitehead unfalteringly toiled in the garage with one recurring creed: No one will out-work me.

"What are you going to do if you do not make it to the NFL?" Antonia would inquire, as any protective mom would.

Undeterred, Whitehead had no backup plan. If his mind could conceive it, Whitehead knew he could achieve it through diligent effort.

He had an unrivaled zeal for the game of football that could not be stifled. Greg and Antonia sensed something unusual and distinct inside of their son, who was hardwired to incessantly watch clip cut-ups and lift weights with the exuberance of an undisputed heavyweight champion … at age six. Both parents, despite seeing the obvious talent their son exuded at tournaments, relented. They prayed without ceasing and let Jordan make his own decisions.

"You want it to happen, but you didn't want to get too eager about him making it into the NFL," described Greg. "You take it in steps - get through high school then get through college. Then, hopefully you get to the next level. There are a lot of football players out there in this country. The road is long, and it is hard, so we just prayed. Our lives revolved around him doing his thing and taking him to games."

Whitehead was exposed to professional football at an early age and saw it as an attainable goal. Darelle Revis, a Hall of Famer who is regarded as one of the best lockdown corners in league archives, is Whitehead's cousin.

"When I was younger, I would see Darelle Revis and say, 'I want to do that,'" described Whitehead. "I wanted to play for Pitt, and I felt like I could. As you grow up and go to high school and go to college, you get more confident and see this is a possibility. I would say after my freshman year at Pitt I really felt like I could go to the NFL. It felt like it was touchable then and not just a big pipe dream."

All his life, Whitehead was mentally and physically preparing for his four quarters on Sunday. His uncle, Michael Sims Sr., served as his coach during little league and Sims engendered a commitment to excellence. On occasion, that meant players throwing up and crying after arduous drills. In true Pittsburgh fashion, from five years old to high school, Whitehead underwent bear crawls up a steep hill with full equipment on. The sand-basket walks and infamous coming-of-age workout plans plastered on the wall in the garage were legendary. Those relentless checklists, although vigorous, became the steppingstone that cultivated Whitehead's mentality.

Now in the NFL, Whitehead still follows the same regimen that his uncle configured in three-by-eight sets: 100 push-ups, 50 dips, 24 pull-ups, heavy jump rope reps and then for good measure, leg press with weights. The structured rundown – much like Whitehead's physicality on the field and the hard-nosed city surrounding him – is devoid of glitz and glamour. There is no finesse, just an unbridled dedication to one's craft.

"They would start in a three-point stance and then shoot up the hill," noted Sims, pointing to the hillside that became the antagonist in Whitehead's nightmares as a kid. "We had coaches on the hill and the kids would have to go around us and if they did not go around us, we would start over again. It was just grueling. The parents supported us. We were in the conference with the likes of Aliquippa and Beaver Falls, and I would say, 'The only way we are going to beat them is by training hard.'

"We had that special garage and people started learning about it. For the most part it would be sprints, bear crawls, high knees and shuffles on the side. We went all the way up the hill, and they had to do 10 the rightway. Somedays we would start our practices here, all-day running drills. We were tough on them and that was the initial stage of the foundation. We would have a clipboard out and we would run the drills just like a college program. Our kids were smart, and they were advanced. We built a program and had a great coach in Mark Lyons."

In '04, Whitehead took a brief sabbatical from the game after repeatedly enduring hits to his Brett Favre chin strap. Whitehead played alongside his cousin, Michael, and in the BlackHawk scrimmage, he was pounded for the fourth time in the same spot and matter-of-factly yelled, 'I can't do this.'

Sitting on the couch in his parents' house, Whitehead lets out a contagious gut-laugh that fills the room as he dwells on the comical irony. Now, he takes pride in the very thing he once quit the game because of. Lifting weights caused the same inner turmoil. Whitehead used to despise picking up the rusted dumbbells two to three times a day in a perpetual mundane routine. But that consistent labor bred strength that has sustained him.

Whitehead's application of accountability and purpose, thorough and deliberate, is laced into every aspect of his life. For the athletic phenom, visualization catapulted him forward. His aunt, Jackie Sims, taped all of his youth football league games and Whitehead would critique himself to foster development. Each day after school, Whitehead would race home and delve into film before practice to prevent the same mistake from happening twice on the field. While most kids his age were occupying their time going to the movies or the mall, Whitehead was innately wired to exceed limits. From the Mighty Mites days to receiving Buccaneer footage on the team-distributed tablets, Whitehead follows the same philosophy in the NFL. That self-motivated approach – watch, visualize, adjust - spurred a prolific senior campaign at Central Valley.

As a playmaker on both sides of the football for CV, Whitehead totaled 1,933 rushing yards on 148 attempts (13.1 average), had 24 receptions for 471 yards and compiled 100 tackles and seven interceptions as a senior. In that final season, he added 35 touchdowns scoring five different ways. That preposterous stat line would have been impressive for the totality of a high school career but for a single season, extraordinary. Superlatives are not sufficive enough to characterize his impact for the Warriors. At running back, Whitehead dazzled with Barry Sanders-esque cutting ability, forcing missed tackles with mind-boggling maneuvers that somehow kept him upright. Lyons had to force himself to not give the ball to No.3 on every play. On defense, Whitehead brought the crowd to their feet with uninhibited seismic blows and staggering twitchiness in the secondary. With straight-line speed and a remarkable downhill prowess, Whitehead served as the all-encompassing gadget.

"I remember watching film on him," described Bucs' teammate Bryce Hall. "He was their key player and would do anything for them. On offense, they force-fed him the ball. On defense, he was the safety, the angel. He was the protector and covered a lot of people's mistakes at that level. In high school a lot of times, you put your best athlete in the secondary and that was him. He was the safety, but he would just always roam in the middle of the field making tackles. He was quick and he was strong. I played against him in college and when he was at Pitt, and they used him on offense, as well. He was that same kind of guy."

His stellar production for the Warriors sparked attention nationally. Whitehead was rated as the top recruit in Pennsylvania coming out of high school and received numerous Power 5 offers. Ultimately, he chose to play at the University of Pittsburgh to be close to his inner circle in Western PA and represent the city that fueled his mania.

Back on the couch, minds adrift, Greg and Antonia candidly detail the mental war that transpires when their son takes the field on gameday. For them, worry assumes control, seizing their subconscious until the final whistle blows. Over the years, Antonia has never missed a game of his dating back to little league. She is Jordan's backbone, providing stability in an otherwise ever-changing nomadic profession. During his NFC Championship performance, she sat with a heated vest and heated gloves to make sure Jordan felt her presence in hostile territory. Greg watched on TV for that game, praying like usual that after every play, his son gets up. Each matchup, the ritual is the same for the Whiteheads. Mom does not eat due to nerves and clears her head for kickoff with attempted meditation. No pictures are taken. She means business and quickly finds her seat in the stands notoriously early to mentally prepare. If the crew – aunts, uncles, sisters, cousins, brother-in-laws – are not there at the predetermined and heavily investigated stadium departure time set by Antonia, then they find their own ride.

Dad on the other hand, paces. No tailgate. Eyes are glued on Jordan. No ostentatious branding that screams, 'Hello, I am Jordan Whitehead's father' to invite unruly taunting. Nothing out of the ordinary to stand out, but for the exception of the occasional yell, instigated by his spouse, of course. During Whitehead's high school playing days, Greg and Antonia made a mutual pact to sit separately in the Central Valley bleachers because each would rile up the other. One would say, 'He shouldn't hit him like that,' giving the other a bout of anxiety. For the respect of other spectators, the duo shifted their seating arrangement. Once Jordan arrived at Pitt, the pair had no choice but to try and act like normal, civilized parents in the crowd, which meant no more pacing for Greg. However, regardless of the venue, fretfulness remains crippling.

"Your focus is on your child and every play, he is hit, or he is taking a hit," both chime in. "All you are waiting for is to see him get up. Once he gets up, then it is, 'Ok, next one.'"

Greg and Antonia have been the constant force in his life, present at every stage from playgrounds to illustrious stadiums. As Jordan grew up on the field, they built a makeshift home from the sideline. They are his anchor, the pillar of strength upon which Jordan constructed his dream.

"They were there to see it every time," stated Pitt Head Coach Pat Narduzzi. "I just think he played better with his people there. I know his mom travels to Tampa and New York to watch him play. Some people just play better when they have family there or they know they are in attendance or watching.

For Whitehead, there is one person in particular whose advocacy imitates that of his own blood: Madison Aikens. During his senior year at Central Valley, he took a drama class to complete his schedule. What started out as an easy course requirement morphed into one of the most profound influences in his life. Madison, a die-hard football fanatic with cerebral palsy who was in the same class, brought infectious laughter into the curriculum. Her unfiltered commentary, motivational cheering and vivacious spirit impacted Whitehead on a daily basis. Their friendship blossomed into an enduring bond, propelling him forward. Before every game, Madison still sends Whitehead a heartening 'good luck' video that emboldens him.

"We were at the high school homecoming, and this woman just came up to me," Antonia recalls. "I had never spoken to her, did not know who she was, and she was crying. She said, 'I just want to thank you.' She told me about how Jordan and the football players were in the classroom with her daughter, and she brought her daughter up, who is in a wheelchair. Jordan had never told us about this, and she said, 'They embraced my daughter. She has cerebral palsy, and she is in their class. That is the only class she ever looks forward to. They come in and greet her and they make her day.' From there, Madison and Jordan and the Aikens family have become part of our family. Madison went to all the games, and she cannot go to high school games now with someone else wearing three. She yells, 'Hey, that is Jordan's number. They can't wear that.' They probably came to all the home Pitt games and came to some away games. She always says we have made their life more fulfilling just because Madison would not have something to look forward to if it was not for Jordan. They do so much for us because of who they are."

Family, immediate and not, is Whitehead's 'why.' Each player has one - the inherent compass that beckons them to reach unimagined heights. Every time the jersey slides on top of his pads and his hands feel the letterhead that protrudes ever-so-slightly, W-H-I-T-E-H-E-A-D, he is reminded of his roots and the close-knit community that shaped his resolute endurance.

Inside his parents' condo in Monaca, Whitehead befittingly sits between his mom and dad on the black leather sofa. He watches and admires as they provide anecdotes, narrating his life at various stages. As the term box safety hangs in the air, Whitehead returns to the pivot point.

After committing to the University of Pittsburgh, Whitehead made a call to Narduzzi mid-summer that re-routed his course.

"So, the story was, he was playing corner, and I think he can still play corner," described Narduzzi. "I think he just wanted instant success, so it was in the middle of the summer in July. He called me and asked if he could switch to safety. I said, 'I don't care where you play Jordan. You can play at linebacker.' It was him who called me. I think he can be an All-Pro corner and has the athleticism to play both, but he called me and wanted to make that move."

From Whitehead's vantage point, he remembers getting beat by a go-ball that prompted the move – the barometer of a consummate competitor. He fit the mold of a safety and seamlessly navigated the transition in the Panthers' secondary, evidenced by a play made in the first preseason exhibition.

Narduzzi, who has seen a revolving door of talented individuals come and go through the program, unexpectantly and instantaneously managed to summon the moment that he realized Whitehead would not only be NFL bound but would break the status quo.

"The ball was on the hash, and I just remember this guy in our first scrimmage, he comes flying across the field. I thought, 'Holy cow. This guy is the real deal. He can go.' It was his rookie year that I knew from that first scrimmage. He was going from one side of the field to the other. He was not supposed to make that play but went across and made the play on the other side of the field."

For the Panthers, Whitehead became a fixture on defense. He started immediately as a freshman, resulting in consensus freshman All-American honors. Whitehead put up a decorated debut season in which he was named the ACC Rookie of the Year and Defensive Rookie of the Year by the Atlantic Coast Sports Media Association (ACSMA). In 2015, he led Pitt with 109 tackles – the most by a true freshman in school history - six for loss, an interception, six pass breakups and a fumble return for a touchdown. He earned second-team All-ACC recognition in 2016 and covered a lot of ground when active for the Panthers.

Whether chewing up yards as a rusher following lethal jump-cuts or wreaking havoc in the backfield, Whitehead did not aim to keep his jersey clean.

Instead, as the Panthers' starting strong safety and do-it-all chess piece, he galvanized the unit with tantalizing play. He delivered unyielding hits, personifying the very essence of football's brute nature and the mentality needed to succeed between the hashes. Before he gave him reps at tailback, Narduzzi wanted Whitehead to master the safety position and the nuances of quarters coverage first, which he did at a record pace, once again setting an unattainable precedent. He was given the ball on offense and seized the opportunity against Notre Dame, subsequently scoring two touchdowns like clockwork.

Whitehead's experience as a two-way player and his understanding of the intricacies that the running back position entails translates to his diagnosis on defense. He sees the game differently than most, possessing an inimitable feel for a rusher's course, cut-backs, proper angles of pursuit and blocking assignments. Each enhances his game, sharpening his pre-snap processing to fire downhill.

"If they are an aggressive running back, I have to use a different strategy in tackling them," Whitehead explains. "I was always a little running back, but I was strong, and I couldn't take the hits on full so I would try and if they were going to tackle me high, I had to learn how to take the hit or spin out of the tackle. So, if they are a big running back, you have to learn how to get their legs down. But now, being on the other side, it is really a feel thing for the running back or the linemen or reads and run block reads and them firing off the ball or to just pop straight up. It helps with that, and it also helps with angles. If a running back and you see a hole, if you have the A-gap but the running back in the B-gap is wide open, the running back is going to choose the B-gap so as a safety, most guys would just take their gap and try to get over but just being a savvy football player, you know that running back is probably going to cut back to that B-gap. So, you slow down and get to the gap without getting blocked."

Narduzzi, a touted defensive guru, is a perfectionist by nature. He places high expectations on his defensive units but entrusted Whitehead to make a call every time he was positioned in the secondary. He gave Whitehead the opportunity to make checks with the linebacker and corner placed on his side of the field. Whitehead eagerly took advantage of the responsibility, showcasing an advanced football IQ. At five-foot-ten, 198 pounds, Whitehead had to achieve near textbook technique and create unorthodox methods to succeed near the line of scrimmage. He was never the biggest safety, but hit harder than the vast majority, showing no signs of hesitation. The reason a heralded defensive mind put the weight of his defense on the shoulders of a 20-year-old kid from Beaver County, Pennsylvania in crunch time is because he saw one overarching thing: greatness.

In 2018, the pinnacle moment arrived. The NFL came knocking. The Buccaneers selected Whitehead in the fourth round of the draft. During his first four-year span in Tampa Bay, Whitehead became the enforcer. He played the prototypical box safety/strong safety role, filling a variety of responsibilities in Todd Bowles' complex defense. In addition to playing the run near the line of scrimmage, Whitehead was used to cover tight ends in the flat and was flexed out on 'Z' receivers. Although he was considered 'undersized' by NFL safety standards, he was unflinching at the point of contact. While some players shy away from contact to prevent injury, Whitehead welcomes it. Whitehead's jarring thuds changed the momentum of games and energized the franchise.

"He is like a heavyweight boxer," Bucs' Safeties Coach Nick Rapone expresses. "He is going to come in and he is not going to dance around. He is going to throw punches, so when he comes in to tackle you, he is coming in full speed. That is how he sets the tone. He could have played in the 70s, 80s, or 90s."

Both Rapone and (then) Defensive Coordinator Todd Bowles played an integral role in spearheading Whitehead's development during the initial stage of his pro career. During the 2020 COVID season, Bowles taught Whitehead how to constructively break down film and the nuances to emphasize. Bowles, a defensive mastermind known for his exotic pressure packages and a master gameplan that made the Chiefs' offensive onslaught mortal in Super Bowl LV, would dissect opposing offenses. From fire zones to Cover Three and Cover Four, Bowles utilizes a variety of coverages to keep offenses off-kilter, which subsequently increases each player's workload. Rapone harps on fundamentals – analyzing every possible run read and alignment, along with the art of reading the quarterback. The tandem stimulated mental growth for Whitehead.

"I did not know much about studying ball and studying route combinations and Coach Bowles taught me a lot with all of that," Whitehead exclaimed. "He is one of the smartest coaches that I have been around. Then, Rapone is very technical. They are different but they balance one another. Rapone taught me every run block that you need to know, and he would dive into the defense, what we are doing. Then, Coach Bowles does a great job of telling you what the offense is going to do.

"After you leave here, you know every defense. Rapone taught me to read the line so you can tell if it is a run or pass quicker, and we do that drill every day at the start of practice with Rapone on that because it is so important to the safeties in the defense. Coach Bowles calls the call and then he tells you why. So, if I hear a call, I know the reason behind it. It is going to be for one or two things and that raises your antenna and makes you play faster. Being somewhere else and then coming back, it slowed everything down. I got to bring what I learned here over there [Jets]. I feel like I know the game even more now."

Ahead of the 2022 season, Whitehead signed a two-year deal with the New York Jets in free agency. While in New York, he sought to destigmatize his game from the restrictive 'box safety' label he heard reference to during free agency. Whitehead played in a different scheme with the Jets and was often placed in the post, contradictory to his home near the line of scrimmage in Tampa Bay. In the new role, Whitehead played in and started all 34 of the team's games during that two-year stretch. He amassed 186 tackles during that span along with six interceptions and 17 passes defensed, including career-highs in interceptions (four) and tackles (97) in 2023.

In New York, Whitehead displayed his range, often sitting back in Cover Four. His 321 and 286 snaps in pass coverage in 2022 and 2023 were the two highest totals of his career (blitzed 1%). He shattered the preconceived barriers and paved his own path as a multi-faceted weapon. Whitehead silenced the outside narrative and bet on himself.

The evidence arrived in the form of a seemingly unconquerable feat against the Buffalo Bills in Week One. Whitehead intercepted Josh Allen, a top-five quarterback in the NFL, not once, not twice, but three times. A blend of two conflicting schemes attributed to the rare accomplishment. On the first two picks, Whitehead was lined up in the post and tracked the ball downfield, preventing touchdowns. On the third, Whitehead jumped the corner route and came away with the pigskin. What was ingrained with the Jets – ball drills and preventing the big play over the top – contributed to the first two interceptions. What he learned from Bowles' aggressive philosophy featuring safeties working the over and corner routes during practice until it becomes ingrained in coverage, spurred the third.

"A lot of what he was able to accomplish with the Jets was because of what was instilled in him with the Bucs," noted teammate Bryce Hall. "We would see him make these interesting plays in practice. Now, I come here, I see how we play and now I understand because of the system here in Tampa. We ran like four coverages in New York, and we were going to master those. Here, we run like 15. I think what was good for him in New York was that he got to sharpen those four things. He polished his game and the technique with what he played in getting to the post a little bit and playing man coverage and understanding the nuances and beaters in that. Then, in that defense, you would see the same thing and it would become simplified. You would know what they were going to do, and you could play fast. In New York, the assignment was easy, so you were looking at the offense and diagnosing what they were doing and playing fast. He became more aware of certain looks and the nuances of covering. Now, he can take that to the Bucs with knowing weaknesses."

While with the Jets, Whitehead distanced himself from the baseless parameters placed on his game, proving his worth as a complete safety that checks every box. That same determined mindset that Whitehead used as fuel on the field became the antidote that prevailed in his life amidst unfathomable tragedy. In 2022, the crossroads arrived on October 31; a day that will forever be imprinted on Whitehead's mind, but one he would do anything to forget.

"Will you hurry up and get home?"

"Are you going to be home?"

"You need to get home."

On the way to the mall – a far distance from his residence in New York – Whitehead's phone lit up like a Christmas tree in the backseat of the car, as texts from his father flooded the screen of his phone. A gnawing sense of dread began to fill his stomach and Whitehead rerouted the driver towards home. Each mile marker felt like an eternity, waiting for the inevitable to strike. Before the life-changing words were uttered, Whitehead sank into the seat and stared blankly out the window. Someway, he already knew the numbing devastation that had occurred. He internalized the unimaginable horror, still pleading with God for it not to be true. Thirty seconds later, his dad called.

"Just come home," Greg managed to say. "Noah passed."

"This has to be a joke," Whitehead said to himself. "There is no way."

Over 300 miles away on the 7100 block of Hermitage Street, Whitehead's brother, Noah Wilkerson, was shot and killed inside a vehicle and was pronounced dead at the scene. In a single instant, Whitehead's life shifted on its axis.

He arrived back at the house, not ready to face reality. As the words pierced again and the disillusion faded, Whitehead sat in silence. He went upstairs to be isolated and drifted through the minutes as if living someone else's torment. Whitehead attempted to make sense of what happened, knowing the answers would likely never come. Introversion became his initial coping mechanism, and, in that space, Whitehead's mind unraveled as vivid memories and emotions consumed him. Death still seemed incomprehensible.

Back in the dimly-lit room – an encapsulation of the solemn topic – the word "legacy" resonates. Whitehead lets out a devilish grin as Noah's contagious smile, comically awkward stretches and hype speeches play in his mind. Noah and Jordan both morphed into a replica of their dad, Greg, in both personality and communication. All were notorious procrastinators, responding to texts the next day or calls days after the fact, which only infuriates Antonia. Leaning on the desk, Whitehead exudes strength, presenting the inverse of a man who has endured an unquantifiable loss. After contemplation, Whitehead begins to try and quantify the immeasurable impact of his late brother.

"I always think back to playing sports with him," Whitehead detailed. "It is definitely going to be hard now without him, especially Halloween. This is how it is now. The life he lived, most people would judge or say, 'Oh, that is how he is, because of the lifestyle. But I would say he is more how I am. He was just happy all the time and was respectful. He loved me and always talked about me. People hated him because he would always brag, 'Oh my brother is about to get a pick this game,' and was always hyping me up, even if I played bad. He was my hype man, and I will always have the video of him after the Steelers game saved. He was there in attendance, and I got two picks that game. I have never seen him so hyped for me.

The weeks after Noah's death proved to be the most formative of days as the Whitehead family began the process of acceptance and absorption. The sole act of grieving requires perseverance of the acutest kind. In contrast to sports, it poses a duality. In grief, there is not a finish line to cross. Instead, there is an alteration of self, a new definition of family dynamic and reawakened outlook on life. It is a silent, overwhelming weight that is carried daily by affected loved ones. There is no rubric to mourning. Loss is ironic because it stays, grasping its host with a stranglehold. Grief is the price one pays for experiencing love – why its devastating presence is always felt, even, unconsciously. Time heals but grief is an avalanche that comes unexpectantly, without reserve, and sweeps victims off their feet. The external world moves on, but for Whitehead, Noah's legacy emboldens him. In escaping down memory lane, in the vividness of dreams, or in the mannerisms of Noah's children, Whitehead finds his brother and a sense of peace surrounds him. Although frozen in time, those mental recollections provide beauty amidst the breaking.

"We did not live together when we were younger," said Whitehead. "Noah lived in Pittsburgh, and I lived outside in Aliquippa. We got to see each other all the time and then when I got older and went to college at Pitt, I was able to be around him a lot more. When I got to the league, he was around supporting me. So, our bond grew as we got older, and it was the same with my sister. My bond grew with her as we got older and now, I am grateful that we still have each other. It is a blessing because it made me closer to her. Life happens. We did as much as we could to help Noah and get him out of certain situations. Now, I appreciate my family and my parents more, along with my dad. He is more aware, and we now have an outlet to open up. We live for each other."

The Whitehead family prioritizes intentionality, making a concerted effort to check in on one another, fashioning an unbreakable connection. From a family cruise, road trips, to a father-son bonding experience at a Chris Brown concert, the Whiteheads cherish time spent together.

Rather than dwelling on anger or the crippling path of 'what if,' he makes a daily choice to focus on the positive, trusting his struggle. Now, gearing up to take the field for his encore with the Buccaneers, Whitehead is guided by a newfound sense of purpose. During the increased down time that accompanies an NFL offseason, sleeplessness and depression can become suffocating. Football has always been a sanctuary for Whitehead – a place to unwind and work off suppressed stress and anxiety. In recent years through soul searching, he has developed another safe haven to unpack unvarnished thoughts: therapy.

"It can be hard," admitted Whitehead. "The first day we started OTAs, it felt so good just to play football and it was a stress reliever. You don't think about anything besides what is going on the football field. Not getting beat. In the offseason you have time and have to find things to help you cope with your thoughts and everything. I can do yoga or talk to a therapist. A therapist goes a long way, and it is helpful to get your thoughts across to someone who is unbiased – it helps me."

Back on the field at Central Valley as the throng of camp attendees clears out, Whitehead remains, enraptured by the hard-nosed aura surrounding him. His red Balenciaga Phantom sneakers morph into the grass and Whitehead's eyes dance as he motions through the art of pursuit angles.

Long stride.

Short stride.

Chop chop.

Finish.

He has performed the tackling maneuver so many times it has become second nature. However, today, the routine walk-through signifies a paradigm shift. In a juxtaposition from his career introduction to now, Whitehead will soon sport another digit in red and pewter for the Buccaneers. The chapter closes on 33 and a new era begins as the page flips in Tampa Bay. In 2024, Whitehead will resurrect the numeral he wore in high school – 3, intertwining the past and present. Whitehead, a linchpin of the Bucs' defense, is grit personified. As he turns to exit, Whitehead flashes his patented smile, daydreaming of his next teeth-rattling hit.

A vintage player in the modern era.