September 2025 was a whirlwind watching IShowSpeed and Kai Cenat light up the streams, but damn, if it didn't fly by too fast. Speed's "Speed Does America" tour across 25 states, rolling with his brother Jamal for that family energy and his dad popping in for those feel-good moments—like hyping the plans over the phone or just chilling on the bus—made it all so pleasant and real. From flipping in Chicago's O'Block to massive crowds in Portland and Hollywood chaos, it was pure heart amid the hype. Kai's Mafiathon 3? Legendary, hitting that historic 1 million Twitch subs—the first ever—while uplifting the squad, handing late-night reins to smaller creators like Miles Morales and Office Drummer. Those dudes ran wild with drumming pranks and unscripted vibes, proving Kai's got unbreakable trust in his circle, no micromanaging, just pure squad love. It's that authenticity that keeps us hooked.   

         But let's talk real pride—these two are stacking empires while giving back in ways that hit deep. Kai reportedly pulled in around $17 million from Mafiathon 3 alone, smashing records with over 1 million subs and celeb drops like Kim K and Snoop Dogg gifting thousands. That's not just numbers; 15% went straight to building a school in Nigeria, showing his heart for community. Speed? No exact figures dropped on his tour earnings yet, but with 24/7 streams drawing MJ-level mobs and his net worth hitting $20-30 million this year from YouTube ads, merch, and global collabs, you know he's cashing in big while spending seven figures on the road (tour bus, rentals, fan surprises—he was shocked learning that). More importantly, both are out here helping others: Kai's Streamer University mentoring 120 creators on everything from beefs to improv, Speed bridging cultures with his China tech showcases and now America vibes. They're not just famous; they're building legacies, uplifting Black creators, and proving hustle pays off.   

        What gets under my skin, though, is the media hypocrisy straight up gaslighting us. These same reporters who built Speed and Kai's fame with endless coverage—viral clips, tour hype, subathon breakdowns—now act like they "don't know who they are," playing dumb to downplay their impact. It's the ultimate clout reversal, ignoring how they've outdrawn MLB All-Stars and coined dictionary slang while old heads like Peter Rosenberg from Hot 97 sit there hating for no reason. Dude's quick to cheer for freeing Young Thug and Tory Lanez—fair, but why the shade on these young kings grinding clean? Rosenberg's out here critiquing streaming culture in Drake interviews, calling it a "new lane" like it's lesser, while hyping hip-hop vets. It's selective love: props for the OGs with legal drama, but dismiss Speed and Kai as "brainrot" or immature? Nah, that's gatekeeping from a guy who's built a career on Hot 97's platform. The media spins negatives on their chaos but skips the positivity—like Speed's family tours or Kai's charity subs—while chasing clicks off the fame they helped create. And those washed-up celebs? Still lurking for collabs, treating our boys like trends instead of trailblazers.   

          I'm beyond proud of Speed and Kai, though. At 20 and 23, they're pop culture kings owning 2025, from tour buses to million-sub marathons, all while lifting others up. The haters can flip-flop all they want, but these fellas are untouchable—stacking wins, giving back, and redefining the game. Keep shining, brothers; the world's yours, and we're all witnesses.

        Him (2025), a sports horror film from Jordan Peele’s Monkey paw Productions and directed by Justin Tipping, transforms the cutthroat world of NFL quarterback transitions into a chilling allegory of ambition and betrayal. Starring Tyriq Withers as Cam Cade, a young quarterback recovering from a brutal injury, and Marlon Wayans as Isaiah White, a legendary QB whose mentorship hides a sinister agenda, the 1-hour-36-minute film dives into football’s dark underbelly—exploitation, sacrifice, and the quest to be the “GOAT” (Greatest Of All Time). With a divisive 26% Rotten Tomatoes score and C- CinemaScore, Him doesn’t always stick the landing, but its premise screams inspiration from three iconic NFL quarterback handoffs: Brett Favre to Aaron Rodgers (Green Bay), Drew Bledsoe to Tom Brady (New England), and Joe Montana to Steve Young (San Francisco). By focusing on the behind-the-scenes drama of these transitions—backstabbing, resentment, and power struggles—Him crafts a gripping, if flawed, narrative that mirrors the NFL’s messiest succession battles. Here’s my review, zeroing in on how the film channels the off-field chaos of these quarterback sagas.       

            Plot and Performances: A Nightmare of Rivalry Him follows Cam Cade, a rising NFL star sidelined by a vicious on-field attack and brain trauma, who seeks redemption at the isolated compound of his idol, Isaiah White, an eight-time champion. What begins as mentorship devolves into a psychological and physical gauntlet, with White’s charm masking a predatory plot tied to a shadowy cabal controlling football’s elite. The film’s themes—athlete commodification, CTE risks, and the bloody cost of greatness—draw heavily from real NFL quarterback dramas. Wayans is magnetic, his Isaiah White shifting from charismatic hero to menacing gatekeeper, stealing every scene. Withers delivers raw intensity as Cam, while Julia Fox’s Elsie White, the influencer wife, adds flair but feels underutilized. Visually stunning with a haunting score, Him falters with dim lighting and a sluggish second half, as critics noted, but its real strength lies in amplifying the behind-the-scenes turmoil of NFL’s most infamous QB transitions. 

          Behind-the-Scenes Drama: NFL Handoffs as Horror Inspiration Him’s core conflict—a veteran QB sabotaging his successor—feels ripped from the NFL’s most dramatic quarterback transitions. The off-field chaos of Favre-Rodgers, Bledsoe-Brady, and Montana-Young fuels the film’s horror, turning real-life rivalries into a blood-soaked power struggle. Here’s how each transition’s behind-the-scenes drama parallels Him’s narrative.

1. Green Bay (Favre to Rodgers): The Favre-Rodgers saga (2008) is Him’s most vivid muse, dripping with backstage vitriol. Brett Favre, the Packers’ gunslinging icon with a Super Bowl (XXXI) and three MVPs, announced retirement in March 2008 after 16 years, paving the way for Aaron Rodgers, drafted in 2005 as his heir. But Favre’s abrupt un-retirement in July, demanding his starting role back, ignited a firestorm. GM Ted Thompson and coach Mike McCarthy stood by Rodgers, releasing Favre, who signed with the Jets and later the Vikings, fueling a public feud. Behind the scenes, Favre’s bitterness was palpable—he reportedly threw a helmet in frustration during a 2009 Vikings game against Green Bay, and insiders noted his resentment toward Rodgers’ rapid ascent. Fans booed Rodgers early on, torn by loyalty to Favre, who aired grievances publicly, calling the Packers’ decision a betrayal. Him mirrors this with Isaiah White’s refusal to cede the spotlight, manipulating Cam Cade to maintain control. The film’s horror—White’s cabal orchestrating Cam’s downfall—feels like a twisted take on Favre’s attempts to overshadow Rodgers, who later won a Super Bowl (XLV) and four MVPs. The backstage drama of egos and divided loyalties makes this the film’s closest parallel.
2. New England (Bledsoe to Brady): The Bledsoe-Brady transition (2001) hinges on a brutal injury but simmers with behind-the-scenes tension that Him amplifies. Drew Bledsoe, the Patriots’ franchise face since 1993, signed a record $103M deal in 2001 but struggled (7-19 in his last 26 starts). A Week 2 hit by Jets LB Mo Lewis caused internal bleeding, nearly killing him, and thrust sixth-round pick Tom Brady into the starting role. Behind closed doors, Bledsoe felt blindsided by coach Bill Belichick’s decision to stick with Brady, even after Bledsoe returned for a heroic AFC Championship stint. Traded to Buffalo in 2002, Bledsoe later admitted feeling like a “footnote” to Brady’s rise, with reports of locker-room whispers questioning Belichick’s loyalty. Him echoes this with Cam’s injury (a nod to Bledsoe’s trauma) and White’s manipulative mentorship, suggesting a veteran orchestrating a rookie’s rise for his own gain. The film’s horror twist—a cabal exploiting Cam’s vulnerability—could symbolize the Patriots’ cold, calculated shift to Brady, who sparked a dynasty. The backstage drama of Bledsoe’s sidelining fuels Him’s paranoia about who controls the game.
3. San Francisco (Montana to Young): The Montana-Young handover (1991-1993) is Him’s most cerebral inspiration, with behind-the-scenes tension masked by professionalism. Joe Montana, the 49ers’ four-time Super Bowl champ, was sidelined by elbow injuries in 1991-92, giving Steve Young, acquired in 1987, his shot. Coach Bill Walsh deliberately fostered competition, but Montana felt disrespected when Young was named starter in 1991, leading to a sideline spat in 1992 and Montana’s 1993 trade to Kansas City. Behind the scenes, teammates like Jerry Rice navigated divided loyalties, and Montana’s camp believed the 49ers rushed him out, despite Young’s immediate success (70.8% completion, 105.1 rating). Him channels this orchestrated rivalry, with White grooming Cam like Walsh groomed Young, only to reveal a sinister agenda. The film’s cabal mirrors the 49ers’ calculated succession, but its bloody climax reimagines Montana’s trade as a violent power grab. Young’s Super Bowl XXIX win and MVP status reflect Cam’s potential, but Him twists the drama into a nightmare of control.

Similarities to Him’s Backstage Chaos The behind-the-scenes drama of these transitions fuels Him’s horror, with clear parallels:

• Veteran Resentment: Favre’s public feud, Bledsoe’s sidelining, and Montana’s trade reflect Isaiah White’s refusal to let Cam shine, turning mentorship into sabotage.
• Locker-Room Tension: Each transition split loyalties—Packers fans booing Rodgers, Patriots players questioning Belichick, 49ers stars like Rice picking sides—mirroring Him’s depiction of a fractured team under White’s influence.
• Orchestrated Power Plays: The 49ers’ deliberate QB competition and the Patriots’ swift pivot to Brady echo Him’s cabal, suggesting hidden forces (coaches, execs, or worse) control who rises.
• Injury’s Role: Bledsoe’s hit and Montana’s elbow issues, like Cam’s trauma, show how physical vulnerability sparks succession drama, amplified in Him as a gateway to exploitation.

            Strengths and Weaknesses Him’s greatest strength is how it weaves these real-life dramas into horror. The Favre-Rodgers feud’s raw bitterness infuses White’s villainy with chilling authenticity, making his betrayal feel like Favre’s helmet-throwing tantrums taken to a deadly extreme. Bledsoe’s injury and Montana’s trade add layers to Cam’s vulnerability and White’s calculated control, grounding the film’s cabal in the NFL’s ruthless power dynamics. Wayans’ performance is a standout, channeling the charisma and ego of a Favre or Montana, while the film’s visuals and score amplify the paranoia of backstage betrayals. Yet, Him fumbles in execution. The second half’s pacing, as critics noted, drags, stretching the QB drama metaphor into predictable horror beats. Unlike the real transitions, which resolved decisively (Rodgers’ MVPs, Brady’s dynasty, Young’s Super Bowl), Him’s climax feels rushed, diluting its commentary on NFL politics. The racial subtext—Cam as a Black QB facing a white-dominated system—could’ve leaned harder into Young’s minority status or Rodgers’ fan scrutiny but feels like an afterthought. Still, the film’s ability to turn locker-room drama into a nightmare keeps it compelling. Final Verdict: A Gripping, Messy Thriller Him is a thrilling, flawed ride that transforms the backstage chaos of NFL quarterback transitions into horror. The Favre-Rodgers feud’s toxicity, Bledsoe-Brady’s injury-driven betrayal, and Montana-Young’s calculated rivalry fuel a narrative that’s as unsettling as it is familiar. Wayans’ chilling turn and the film’s bold premise make it a must-see for football and horror fans, but its uneven pacing keeps it from true greatness. Like the QBs it echoes, Him aims for GOAT status but settles for a memorable, messy run. As Wayans said on Instagram, “go see for yourself.” It’s a wild spin on NFL drama that hits hard, even if it doesn’t always score.

     Football’s my heart, torn between Pittsburgh steel and Texas fire. My dad, a Jasper, Texas, legend, was a Steel Curtain beast, winning Super Bowls IX and X as a Steelers defensive tackle. Raised in Houston, I root black-and-gold, Oilers and Texans blue. In September 2008, months after Dad’s passing, I was in Pittsburgh for the Steelers-Texans opener, honoring his legacy in a suite with Steel Curtain icons. The Texans got crushed, but the real hit was Mean Joe Greene—6’4” like me—threatening to toss me over the railing for a Texans cheer. I’d met Joe once with Dad, but this was raw. Charlie Daniels’ fiddle rocked halftime, and I was caught between pride and fury. As a Houston bail bondsman who’s outsmarted the meanest, I wasn’t staying to test Joe.  
   

         September 7, 2008, Heinz Field was a black-and-gold war zone, and the Texans were bleeding out, 38-17. I was in the Steelers’ suite, surrounded by Steel Curtain legends who’d fought with my dad, Ernie , the Jasper Texas-born tackle who crushed quarterbacks. The air was heavy with sadness and Super Bowl stories, but Dad’s January passing weighed heavier. I wore his old Steelers jersey, my Houston heart pounding for the Texans. Joe Greene sat the whole game, a 6’4” giant like me, his presence a storm. I’d met him once with Dad "at a joe's carbs shack ‘70s team event, Joe calling Dad ‘Fats’ with a grin”—but this was no reunion. The Saturday before, L.C. Greenwood and his wife hosted me and my auntie at their home, sharing laughs and memories, a warm contrast to the suite’s edge. Halftime hit, and Charlie Daniels, unknown to me ‘til his fiddle blazed, tore through “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” firing up my Texas soul. In the third quarter, Andre Johnson scored for the Texans, and I yelled, “Let’s go, Texans!” Big mistake. Joe, seated, turned, his eyes like a lineman’s blitz. “Cheer again,” he said, cold as steel, “and I’m throwing your ass over the railing.” The suite went dead silent—no laughs, just tension. I held his stare, my bail bondsman grit flaring—I’ve outwitted Houston’s roughest with smarts—but I wanted to lay Joe out, legend or not. “Mr. Greene,” I said, “my dad, Ernie Holmes, taught me to root for mine.” He didn’t flinch, just stared. I shut up and moved to the other side of the suite, my mood dark, wondering what Dad would’ve done if he’d been there. That old bastard’s words stuck, burning deep. When the game ended, I bolted, sick at the thought of facing Joe again. 

    I hightailed it back to Houston, my heart still racing. Mean Joe Greene’s threat wasn’t a joke—it was a Steel Curtain wall slamming my Texas fire, months after losing Dad. At 6’4”, same as Joe, I felt his weight, but I wasn’t bowing, not with Ernie Holmes’ two Super Bowl rings in my blood. Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” echoed my split soul—Steelers by birth, Texans by choice. As a bail bondsman, I’ve faced Houston’s meanest, outsmarting them with grit, but Joe’s glare hit like a blindside sack. His words stuck, that old bastard testing me when Dad wasn’t there to have my back. I skipped Super Bowl XLIII—Dad would’ve danced in Jasper’s streets for the Steelers’ win, but the thought of Joe made me sick. That day was about carrying Dad’s legacy through a storm. When I hear a fiddle or Steelers highlights, I’m back in that suite, defiance burning. Stand tall against giants, even legends. 
That’s my Mean Joe Greene story—a Texans cheer, a Steeler threat, and a run back to Houston. Ever faced a legend or fought for your roots? Share it below or hit me on X at @LordDarrick. Follow Lone Star State of Mind for more Houston grit, football soul, and raw tales. If you’re a Steelers or Texans fan, or love a real story, share this post and let’s talk tough moments!

End of an Era: NFL's Last of the Giants

The NFL has long been a showcase of incredible athleticism, grit, and sheer physical dominance. Over the decades, the league has celebrated larger-than-life athletes, with towering, muscular players who redefined what it meant to be a football giant. However, as the game evolves, the era of these "giants" — the larger, athletic males who dominated the field — seems to be fading. With a growing emphasis on speed, agility, and versatility, today’s NFL prioritizes leaner, more dynamic players who can adapt to fast-paced, complex gameplay. While the contributions of these massive athletes remain legendary, signaling a golden chapter in the sport’s history, the modern NFL is undeniably moving toward a new prototype of player. The legacy of these football giants, however, will forever hold a special place in the hearts of fans and the history books of the game. Another fascinating shift in today’s NFL is the increasing integration of advanced technology and analytics into player development and game strategy. From wearable performance trackers to AI-driven game simulations, teams are leveraging cutting-edge tools to gain a competitive edge. This tech-driven revolution not only helps players optimize their physical conditioning but also enables coaches to craft more precise game plans tailored to their opponents. As a result, the game has become more cerebral, with strategy and preparation playing a larger role than ever before. While the raw physicality of the sport remains central, the infusion of technology has added a new layer of complexity, redefining what it means to succeed in the modern NFL.