By Fatima Crespo
It all started with peer pressure.
No, not the bad kind, the “my older brother does it, so I also have to” kind. At the age of five or six, Ja’Naz Williams found himself on a football field, probably drowning in oversized pads, wondering why he was there. The answer? His older brother played, so naturally, he had to play, too. That first year was rough. He was tiny, confused, and not enjoying himself. So, being the logical child he was, he quit.
End of story, right? Nope.
His mom had a different plan. See, Williams had a bit of an anger problem, the kind that gets you into trouble when you’re young and full of energy with nowhere to put it. So, what did she do? She threw him right back into football, hoping it would burn off some of that extra aggression.
At first, it was brutal. He was small. He barely played. Every practice felt like a personal attack from the universe. But somewhere along the way, something weird happened; he started to like it. Like, really like it. One minute, he was just trying to survive, and the next, he was analyzing plays, watching videos, and acting like he was a guest analyst on ESPN. Football had officially taken over his brain.
Going into high school, Williams [the omniscient narration, though personal, also seems to demand a more distant reference; while it might seem less familiar and less intimate, using just his last name works not only journalistically but tonally] assumed he’d stay local, play football with the same kids he grew up with, and keep things simple. But reality had other plans. In eighth grade, he played in an All-Star game and demolished the competition. It was probably the best game of his life. Next thing he knew, some fancy private school coaches were asking him, “What are your plans for high school?” He named a few schools nearby, assuming that was the obvious move.
“Why don’t you think bigger?” they asked.
Bigger? Bigger than Paterson, New Jersey? What did that even mean?
Next thing he knew, his mom was deep in conversation with these coaches, looking at him like she had just seen the golden ticket to a better future. And even though they could barely afford it, they worked something out; his athletic performance would take care of the rest. And so off to Saint Joseph High School he went.
In his freshman year, he found himself in a new school an hour from home. On the first day of practice, he showed up feeling good until he saw the starting running back. This dude was already built like an NFL player. Twice his size, twice as fast, and probably had a mortgage and a 401(k). Williams, on the other hand, was 5’4” and built like a middle schooler who got lost on the wrong field. It was like stepping into a whole new world where suddenly he wasn’t “that guy” anymore. Back home, he was a standout. Here? He was just another fish in the ocean, and the sharks were circling.
Back home, people assumed he was living the dream. He was at a top-tier school, playing for a great football program. But they didn’t see the cost. He left behind everything. His friends, his neighborhood, and most of all his comfort zone. And as much as people said they were proud of him, there was a shift. He wasn’t the same “Paterson kid” anymore. That’s how they saw it, at least. Friends and neighbors started treating him differently, as if he had become too good for them. The reality? Williams was just trying to make something of himself. Meanwhile, at his new school, he wasn’t exactly thriving socially either. He didn’t fit in with the rich kids who had everything handed to them. He didn’t have their clothes, their cars, their weekend getaways. He was just existing, floating in between worlds, not quite belonging to either.
During Williams’ sophomore year of high school, he was thrown into his first varsity game because the universe and two benched running backs decided it was time. The opposing team wasn’t exactly elite– more like aggressively average– but that didn’t stop Williams from lighting up the field. He gained five to six yards every time he touched the ball. Big breaks, total domination. He showed up like he belonged out there. But even after all that, he didn’t feel the spark most players talk about. Football didn’t feel like a dream or a calling. It just felt… easy. He was comfortable, almost too comfortable. Still, that game taught him something deeper: he could be as good as he wanted to be. His success was in his hands. There was no ceiling, only the level of effort he was willing to put in.
Then came the night that changed everything.
After a wrestling match, on the way home with his family, something random and terrifying happened: a mattress in the middle of the highway. It must have fallen from a car beforehand. Before they could react, they hit it. The crash shook them all up, leaving them rattled but, miraculously, mostly unharmed. As tragic and unexpected as it was, the accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise. During the post-crash medical checkups, doctors discovered that his mom was showing signs of kidney failure—something they might not have caught until it was too late. That crash, as scary as it was, may have saved her life.
That was the moment everything shifted.
Back home, he didn’t have friends. At school, he didn’t fit in. His mom was sick. His world was falling apart, piece by piece. The only thing that made sense, the only thing he could still control, was football. It stopped being just a game. It became survival. His lifeline. If football had accidentally found him, then it was going to be the thing that saved him. That first varsity game may have shown him what he was capable of; now he had a reason to push harder, a reason to fight. The game wasn’t about touchdowns or trophies anymore. It was about getting out. About making the pain, the struggle, and the chaos mean something. Football wasn’t just his path; it became his purpose.
If you ask Williams why he chose Western New England University, he won’t hesitate to set the record straight; he didn’t. His mom did, out of a handful of schools, including UMass and Montclair State University. He had his sights set on Montclair. But his mom hit him with the classic “get out there and grow” speech as if he hadn’t already been living the commuter life an hour from home during high school. He thought he was out there. Confused but obedient, as all good sons are when their mom has “the look,” he packed his bags and headed two and a half hours away to Western New England University, still trying to figure out how that counted as leaving his comfort zone when he hadn’t felt comfortable in years. In the end, though, he admits begrudgingly and with a smirk that she might’ve been right. Being tossed into a brand-new environment forced him to open up, meet new people, and build a new kind of community- one not built out of convenience, but out of connection. The transition from high school to college? Smooth as butter. He was already used to being uncomfortable, so college just felt like an extension of his mom’s master plan.”
As he transitioned into college football, Williams expected a new level of intensity, a more competitive environment that would push him to grow as an athlete. Instead, he experienced something entirely different. The shift from high school football to college football was less of an elevation and more of a disappointment. {“It felt like a step backward,” he reflected. The drive to compete and improve wasn’t as present as he had hoped; instead, it often felt like players were maintaining, not striving. For a person like Williams, who thrives in environments where challenge breeds growth, this lack of intensity felt like playing a video game that became too easy, too dull, repetitive, and uninspiring. Instead of growing, he struggled with the absence of consistent, meaningful competition.
One aspect of college football that provided the test he needed, however, was the structure and demands of summer camp. For Williams, summer camp became more than conditioning and practice; it served as a filter. It separated those who love the game from those who simply like being around it. For him, those intense two weeks are designed to reveal character: who truly wants to be there, who is willing to endure discomfort, and who is committed to growth. “If you can give everything for just 14 days through exhaustion, soreness, early mornings, and long meetings, that’s a reflection of how much you want it,” he explained. For him, football is about passion. Without passion, none of the hard parts are sustainable.
When Williams first stepped onto the college football field, he brought more than just cleats and confidence; he also carried an academic interest in communication and a surprisingly sharp sense of self-awareness. It turns out that learning about interpersonal dynamics and media theory pairs well with competitive sports. Who knew? From an outside perspective, majoring in communications looks like giving decent speeches and maybe not freezing up during presentations. But for Williams, it’s become a whole lifestyle. In both football and communication, you’re constantly learning how to deal with people and, occasionally, getting disrespected in the process. It builds character. But it’s all connected. Communication theories teach you why people act the way they do. Football teaches you how not to punch them when they do it. Growth!
But making these connections wasn’t always easy. Williams wasn’t always cool with messing up. {Back in the day, if a pass didn’t go right, he’d mentally spiral like a dramatic rom-com protagonist in the rain. Anger issues? Sure, he had them. But now? He’s in his “Let It Go” era, and Frozen’s Elsa would be proud. But behind the confident front is a real challenge that shaped his journey: academics. After a solid freshman season getting game time, traveling, and contributing, Williams was sidelined for his sophomore year. Not due to injury. Not for lack of talent. It was because his grades didn’t meet the standard. That year off? It wasn’t just frustrating. It was defeating. Especially considering that, deep down, he already felt disconnected from the way football was run where he was. The system didn’t match what he was used to. The coaching style, the energy, and the execution all felt foreign.
And yet, he stayed.
Not because he felt like it, but because Williams doesn’t quit. He might complain. He might be over it. He might stare at the ceiling, asking the universe, “Why me?” But leave? Nah.
Williams may have questioned everything. He may have mentally checked out more times than he could count. But he refused to walk away. When he starts something, he finishes it. The truth is, the hardest part of being a student-athlete isn’t just the physical grind; it’s the mental weight. People assume it’s just a tight schedule and a few sore muscles. But try juggling school stress, coaches acting wild, drama from home, and a group project with people who think “athlete” means “dumb.” And while the term “student-athlete” sounds balanced, Williams knows the “student” part can feel like a game itself. Learning is not about how smart you are, it’s about effort. If you can memorize a formula long enough to pass the test, you’re good. But that doesn’t mean it’s fulfilling. It just means you’re surviving. Other people see the performance in the classroom or on the field; they don’t see the nights spent wondering if any of it is worth it.
Pressure from coaches? Teammates? Family?
Williams doesn’t let anyone else’s expectations define his path. He has already done more than most people expected of him. He doesn’t chase other people’s goals. He chases the better version of himself from yesterday. Comparing himself to Micah Parsons and Myles Garrett? Sure, some players might. But Williams is just trying to beat the Williams from yesterday. That’s the real matchup. Yesterday’s Naz Williams should be nervous. In sports, his competitive mindset shines. But in life? It kinda leaks out like a slow drip of chaos. He’s not necessarily trying to outdo you… he just has to know if he could outdo you. For research purposes.
Beyond his sarcasm and the self-imposed rivalries, football has been personal. So personal that Williams has had moments on the field where all the blood, sweat, and perfectly executed assignments led to… nothing. That’s the kind of stuff that will break a man. At times, Williams has cried over football. Not in an “I fumbled the ball and I’m sorry for myself” way. In an “I did everything right and still got benched like I insulted someone’s grandma” way. Because sometimes in football, you’re not just fighting the guy across the line, you’re fighting for your place, your effort, your worth. And that hits differently. So yeah, tears happened. Deal with it.
And then, there’s track.
Many people who know Williams assume he joined the track team at Western New England University because his mother, an Olympic-level sprinter with more medals than a small country, passed down the athletic flame. She didn’t. In fact, track is the only thing she never coached him on. She would ask him why he ran the way he did while casually eating a sandwich. But would she help? Absolutely not. That’s because track, for his mom, was personal. Sacred. The one thing she didn’t turn into a lecture. So Williams carved out his relationship with the sport. While his mom ran, Williams threw the shot put.
At first, track was just a training tool for football. Bo Jackson did it. Nick Chubb did it. Why not him? But as time passed, it became something more. Not about legacy. Not about medals. But about growth. Track became the one place where the only person Naz Williams had to beat was last week’s Naz Williams. And unlike in football, where a perfect play can still get you chewed out because someone else missed a block, track was fair. Honest. Measured. And while track and football may seem like distant cousins in the athletic family, both challenged him in different ways. Football broke him mentally. Track rebuilt him quietly. In football, every play is life or death (at least emotionally). In track, every practice, every competition was about setting a personal best. Failing to do that on one day was an invitation to do better the next.
Now, as his college years end, Naz Williams reflects on what it has all meant. Why keep pushing? Why not just be like everyone else and retire early, coast through senior year, and chill? Because for Williams, this is goodbye. The real one. Track isn’t about chasing his mom’s dream. It’s not about impressing coaches, teammates, or even whatever scout may or may not be watching from the bleachers with a clipboard and a bad attitude. It’s about doing something for himself one last time. “In less than a year, I’ll be retired,” he says dramatically. “Like full-on, real-world retired. No more warm-ups. No more bus rides. Just vibes and taxes.”
After graduation, Williams envisions a career that blends his love of football with creativity. He is interested in sports media, video editing, marketing, and working with teams behind the scenes. Football has helped him develop one of the most essential, yet overlooked, life skills: the ability to communicate and collaborate with people from all walks of life, regardless of differences. Whether he ends up coaching, managing content, or building marketing strategies, he knows the discipline and adaptability he learned from football will serve him well. Eventually, he hopes to give back to the sport in some capacity, possibly through coaching. As he puts it, “You have to give back to the things that give your life.”
Williams wants to be remembered not just as a talented athlete but as someone who never gave up. At one point, he nearly walked away from football, but he didn’t. He chose to stay, to finish what he started, and to give the sport everything he had. “I just want people to remember that I kept fighting,” he said. “No matter what happened, I never quit.” That persistence, more than any record or highlight, is what defines him; it’s what he hopes leaves a lasting impact on the people who shared the field with him.
But what truly drives Naz Williams is a bit unexpected. While many athletes are fueled by external validation or proving people wrong, he is motivated by something more personal: proving himself wrong. “I have a million ideas and plans,” he says. “All of them sound great in theory. But doing them? That’s where I’ve struggled. So now, I’m chasing action. I’m trying to become the guy who doesn’t just talk about what he wants but the guy that does it.”
And if this was his last time ever suiting up? His final moment of glory under the stadium lights? Williams would walk away with one thing: a smile. The word is even tattooed on his forearm: Smile. Not for the aesthetic. But for the meaning. Smile because you don’t know what’s next. Smile because you made it through. Smile because even when the world’s falling apart, it messes with people’s heads when you look like you’re having fun. And that’s just elite psychological warfare. This is Naz Williams. Not just a football player. Not just a student. But a walking contradiction of hustle and humility, of chaos and clarity. His story is just starting. And if you were to ask him what comes next? He would probably just grin, shrug, and smile.
