The air is thick with anticipation. The boisterous crowd at Raymond James Stadium erupts – a competing force to the mental chess match taking place in the trenches below. Linemen stoically walk into position. Yaya Diaby glances to his left and a recollection occurs. The words of his coach echo in his head: "If the receiver puts his inside foot up, that means he is going to crack block you." Diaby motions with his left arm to signal the defensive unit. He takes a slight step to the left and then like a statue etched out of stone, becomes stationary. Time stands still as the noise from spectators softens to a mild ringing in his ear, drowned out by the sound of an exhale. The ball is snapped, and collisions begin. Jacksonville's receiver drops in an attempt to chip Diaby, but instead he effortlessly powers through the shoulder of the blocker and drives him backward. Keeping his eyes disciplined on the congestion, Diaby diagnoses the end-around and clips Calvin Ridley's legs, dropping him for a loss in the backfield. He delightedly throws his fist into the air, basking in ecstasy. That moment, triggered by a flood of flashbacks that chronicle Diaby's tumultuous journey to the NFL, is laced into his mental archives.
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On the grass at North Clayton High School, Diaby demonstratively stands in the middle of the practice field and takes a mental photograph. Every step he takes in his remarkably white New Balance sneakers conjures up fragmented clips from his sensational rookie season for the Buccaneers and his high school playing days. In an instant, the past and present collide. Diaby and his towering physique present the antithesis of a once-too small defensive end from Riverdale, Georgia. As the rehearsing high school drumline plays North Clayton's fight song in an almost too-perfect full-circle moment, the Bucs' outside linebacker is hit with a realization. Although formed amidst trials, it is a startling revelation that illuminates Diaby's perspective.