Search Results

Interview by Sydney Cristall | June 11 2026 Stanford Media Day - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports The first time Dara Adeyemi bet on himself, football was not part of the plan. There were no scholarship offers. No transfer portal. No Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) opportunities. Just two parents willing to leave behind everything they had built in Nigeria for the uncertainty of a new life in England. Long before Stanford, before Division I football and before his story became tied to the evolving business of college athletics, Adeyemi’s life began in a small two-bedroom apartment in England after his family immigrated in search of greater educational and social opportunities. The transition forced his parents to rebuild their lives from scratch. His mother, once a professor and teacher in Nigeria, took a job as a cleaner. His father, a rising banker, worked days at the post office and nights in care work. Together, they sacrificed comfort, status and stability in pursuit of something bigger for their children. For Adeyemi, resilience was never something discussed in motivational speeches or locker room slogans. It was modelled for him every single day. Adeyemi Family - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports “Seeing them take that professional hit purely for the sake of giving us a better educational, social and life experience meant a lot to me,” he said. Growing up, hard work was expected. Discipline was expected. Accountability was expected. One lesson from his father followed him everywhere. “One of my favourite quotes from my father is, ‘The results will show,’” Adeyemi said. “Whenever he caught us slacking off, he would look at us and say, ‘The results will show.’” At the time, it felt like a lesson about homework and responsibility. Years later, it became the philosophy that carried him through uncertainty, grief, setbacks and the constant process of proving himself in spaces he was never expected to succeed. Because if there is one defining theme throughout Adeyemi’s story, it is resilience through reinvention. The willingness to keep betting on himself before knowing whether things would actually work out. Growing up in England, sports were never initially viewed as the destination. Education came first. Young Adeyemi - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports Still, standing significantly taller than most kids his age, he was following one questioningly. Do you play basketball? Eventually, curiosity won out. “I got tired of people asking me if I played basketball,” he said. “So I said, ‘You know what? I’m going to play basketball.” What began casually accelerated almost immediately. Within a year, Adeyemi was competing at a high level. Soon afterward, he represented England and Great Britain internationally, travelling across Europe to compete against elite players while seeing parts of the world he never imagined he would experience as a teenager. Adeyemi Representing Great Britain Basketball - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports Basketball opened academic doors as well. The sport helped him earn a scholarship to one of the top academic schools in the United Kingdom, making him the first student there to receive both academic and athletic scholarships simultaneously. From the outside, it looked like basketball had become his future. Internally, Adeyemi viewed it differently. “Basketball had always been a means to an end,” he said. The game gave him opportunities. It expanded his perspective. It gave him experiences and structure. But more importantly, it reinforced something deeper: sometimes betting on yourself means pursuing opportunities even when you do not fully know where they are leading you. Then life shifted again. Around that same period, Adeyemi’s father passed away. The loss changed everything emotionally. It also complicated the next major decision before him. One of his coaches encouraged him to attend prep school in the United States rather than immediately pursue university in the UK. The opportunity sounded exciting, but terrifying. Sports had never been viewed as the guaranteed path forward in his family, and now he would be moving thousands of miles away from home to chase something completely uncertain. Still, uncertainty had never stopped him before. “I love new things,” Adeyemi said. “I love new experiences. I see everything as an opportunity to learn.” So he boarded a plane to Connecticut and enrolled at The Taft School. The adjustment hit immediately. “A three-hour trip and a 3,000-mile trip are two very different things,” he said. For the first time, he was entirely on his own. Different country. Different school system. Different culture. His family stayed home while he tried to build a life in an environment that felt completely unfamiliar. At times, the loneliness was overwhelming. But resilience had already become part of who he was long before football entered his life. Then football entered it almost accidentally. Basketball season had not yet started, and because extracurricular participation was required at Taft, his roommates encouraged him to join the football team. Adeyemi initially viewed it as something fun to try before basketball season arrived. Coaches saw something much bigger. The first time the football coach saw him, Adeyemi was standing in shorts and a tank top. One look at his frame was enough. “I think we can find a spot for you on the team,” the coach told him. At first, football felt completely foreign. Most players around him had spent years learning terminology, schemes and concepts that had become second nature. Adeyemi was trying to learn the rules while simultaneously competing against athletes who had played their entire lives. “I despise being worse at things than other people,” he admitted. That frustration quickly became fuel. The physical side came faster than the mental side. Understanding formations, reading protections and learning football strategy in real time became the hardest adjustment. “Understanding the rules of the game, understanding plays, understanding offensive and defensive structures, it was definitely difficult,” he said. But rather than discouraging him, the learning curve pushed him harder. By January of that year, Adeyemi made another massive bet on himself. He decided he wanted to play Division I football. The timeline sounded unrealistic. He had only a few months to develop enough for college coaches to consider offering him a scholarship seriously. For months, Adeyemi woke up at 6 a.m. every day to train. He studied YouTube clips, worked through drills repeatedly and spent hours trying to catch up mentally in a sport most players had spent their entire lives learning. The work paid off. Within a short period of time, Adeyemi earned seven Division I scholarship offers and committed to Bucknell University. Adeyemi at Bucknell - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports For the first time, football stopped feeling theoretical. It became real. The transition to college football introduced a completely new set of challenges. Adeyemi arrived physically gifted, but still far behind mentally, in a sport most players had spent their entire lives learning. He redshirted his freshman season to understand the game fully. Eventually, he earned playing time and began building confidence before another challenge emerged. Bucknell’s coaching staff approached him about switching from defensive line to offensive line only weeks before the season began. The move demanded another reinvention. Learning offensive football required an entirely different mental approach, and suddenly Adeyemi found himself playing catch-up once again in an unfamiliar environment. Still, he viewed the situation the same way he viewed nearly every obstacle in his life: another opportunity to prove himself. “I’m always hungry for an opportunity,” he said. Weeks later, he earned a starting role. Then came another setback. During practice, Adeyemi experienced severe cramping that eventually led to extensive medical testing. Doctors discovered heart irregularities alongside complications connected to his sickle cell trait and other health concerns. Suddenly, football became secondary. The diagnosis forced him away from the field for weeks and introduced uncertainty that extended far beyond sports. “There were moments where I asked myself, ‘What’s the point?’” he admitted. At the same time, people around him encouraged him to step away from football entirely and prioritize his long-term health. But once again, resilience and belief in himself carried him forward. He returned later that season, put together a strong film, and eventually entered the transfer portal in search of a better developmental environment after experiencing constant coaching turnover at Bucknell. Publicly, the transfer portal often appears glamorous. Commitment graphics flood social media. NIL headlines dominate conversations surrounding college football. Adeyemi quickly learned the reality was far more complicated. “There’s definitely a lot of smoke and mirrors,” he said. Programs sold visions. Coaches made promises. Some opportunities felt genuine while others felt transactional. “I definitely entered with the mentality that I might need to come back,” he admitted. But despite the uncertainty, Adeyemi trusted himself enough to take the risk anyway. At the same time, navigating NIL opportunities forced him to rethink his value as an athlete. “It was interesting attaching a numerical value to my work,” he said. Yet rather than changing his perspective negatively, the process strengthened his confidence. He knew he was still developing. He knew he was still learning the game. But he also believed that his growth trajectory, work ethic, and resilience set him apart from others. Eventually, Stanford emerged as the opportunity that stood above the rest. Stanford Media Day - Photos provided by Dara Adeyemi and Nilson Sports Not because it represented comfort, but because it represented growth. Elite academics. Elite football. Elite opportunity. Another challenge. Another unfamiliar environment. Another moment requiring faith before certainty. Then shortly after arriving at Stanford, Adeyemi’s health challenges intensified again. Additional testing revealed his heart condition had worsened, eventually leading doctors to discover a pulmonary embolism. The diagnosis carried even deeper emotional weight because it mirrored the condition connected to his father’s passing years earlier. Once again, football paused. Once again, uncertainty entered his life. And once again, Adeyemi refused to let uncertainty define him. “If the worst thing in my life is having to take medication and go to school at Stanford for free,” he said, “then who am I to be anything but happy?” Throughout his journey, Adeyemi consistently redirected attention away from himself and toward the people who helped him along the way. His mother. His sisters. Coaches. Friends. Teammates. Families who welcomed him during holidays when he could not go home. “It truly is the definition of it takes a village,” he said. That village helped carry him through every transition. From Nigeria to England. From basketball to football From Bucknell to Stanford. Every chapter of Dara Adeyemi’s life has required him to move toward uncertainty before knowing what waited on the other side. Every chapter required resilience. Every chapter required him to bet on himself long before anyone else fully could. And through every transition, one lesson remained unchanged. The results will show.

Written by Camila Molina | June 6, 2026 | Photo Courtesy of Grandstand Media | Photo by Charles Reagan Festival safety does not end at the security gates. Here are three ways to stay safe and support your festival community at Governors Ball this weekend and throughout festival season, featuring a short interview with William Perry, co-founder of harm reduction non-profit This Must Be The Place. 1. The Hydration Stations. Several free hydration stations are located throughout the festival. Click here to view a festival map. It is recommended you bring an empty water bottle from home to take advantage of the hydration stations. Festival goers may walk thousands of steps in the heat. Hydration is key to preventing serious health issues. 2. Bring Earplugs. Wearing earplugs can protect your ears during concerts. However, if you forget your earplugs, you can stop by guest services for a pair. 3. Harm Reduction - This Must Be the Place Along with protecting yourself, there are also many ways to protect your community. Look on the map for “CP” to locate This Must Be the Place, a nonprofit distributing free naloxone along with key safety information on how to use it. Naloxone is an opioid antagonist. It can be administered as a nasal spray during an opioid overdose as a potentially life saving safety measure. Stop by their booth to get free naloxone and to learn how to administer it, how to identify signs of an overdose, and what to do after you’ve administered it. One of the founders of This Must Be the Place, William Perry, took the time to do a brief interview Friday afternoon regarding festival safety. Q & A disclaimer: This transcript is lightly edited for grammar and clarity. Q: About how many people typically come through these booths for Gov Ball? How many people have you seen so far this morning? Right now it is about 1 p.m. on Friday. A: So 1 p.m. doors have been open for ninety minutes, and I’d say that we’ve probably seen about one hundred and fifty to two hundred people already, as you see, they line up. A lot of people [line up] especially because Gov Ball is really good about promoting our presence, so people see it on social media, and this becomes one of their first stops on their way in. They’ve got it, just a place that they need to stop by, especially at the beginning of the festival. Yeah so, engagement is great, and this is our 4th Gov Ball. It’s gotten better and better each year. Our goal always is to try to 5% of the crowd, and that means if we can get to 5% of the crowd, it means that one in twenty are walking around with Narcan [a brand name for the generic medication naloxone] on them. That’s a pretty safe environment, extremely safe, I would say. And so that’s our goal throughout the weekend, is always 5% and most times we go over that goal, sometimes we reach 10% depending on the festival. This is one that I’m sure we’ll go over that goal that we set for ourselves. Q: Thank you. That’s great. And what’s the most common question you get at the booth? A: I think the most common question that we get is, what would happen if this weren’t an overdose, and I gave this stuff to someone, which is a very simple answer, which is nothing. We know this, because, well, A, it’s my job to know it, but naloxone has been around since the seventies. It’s been used in hospitals for fifty whatever years, and so they know that it only does one thing, which is [to] cover up those opioid receptors. Therefore, if it’s not an overdose, if it’s a different medical condition, and someone does misdiagnose, it’s never going to hurt them. That’s one of the most reassuring things I think to people, because that lets them know, like, “hey, I can jump in and help somebody.” That doesn’t mean they need to, like, dive in at the first moment that there’s something going on, and immediately Narcan someone. But they have that reassurance that it’s never going to hurt them. And so that’s really, like, one of the number one, I wouldn’t say, like, myths to bust. But also, if you want to know about the other myth that we do have to bust, there’s a prevailing thought that people are violent when they wake up. That’s just simply not true. And so we get to explain to them a more compassionate way to engage with a person who may be coming back from that situation, and how to navigate a very serious situation with care and compassion, and make sure that everyone’s safe. And there’s a transfer that happens to an actual medical team, and the person, the person gets to live. Q: Thank you, and you guys give a lot of great information [at the booth], but what are the signs of an overdose, in an environment like this, that festival goers who want to help protect their community should look out for? A: And well I always say, you know, like the first thing you’re looking for is someone who’s falling asleep in a strange time, place, or position, something that makes you say, “what’s going on?” Because that’s what opioids do, is they make a person become drowsy, something that’s a little bit more than they’ve had too much to drink, or they possibly are dehydrated. You know, and maybe those symptoms start off the same, but that’s when you go in and check. What opioids do is they depress the respiratory system, and I explain it in more simple terms. As I say, they’re falling into such a deep sleep that they’re forgetting to breathe. I don’t know, I try to break things down as simply as possible. That’s not really scientific, however, that is what’s going on. And so you see, like blueing or graying of the lips, depending on a person’s complexion. The same thing happens with the eyes. If you can look at their eyes, you see where most drugs dilate the pupils. Anything with opioids in it, causes those pupils to be little tiny pinpoints. That drowsy next to those pinpoint pupils, and that lack of breathing, those are standard overdose symptoms. From there, it’s time to apply the naloxone, which is simply a nasal spray. So, you take it out of the package and you just put it up their nose. It’s like Flonase that saves a life. You put it up their nose to spray, turn them on their side just in case they get sick when they wake up, and then you just start watching. Watching the clock and [the person who may be overdosing]. If it’s an overdose, they’re gonna wake up somewhere between ninety seconds and about 2 minutes or so. Q: Thank you so much. I won’t take up too much of your time. Last question, is there anything else you want to leave me with about safety at Gov Ball, or I guess leave me and anyone who reads this? A: I think the important thing is just keep your friends close. And also this is a huge festival, but for this weekend it’s a community too, and like any. And even if no naloxone is used at this festival, everyone’s going home to a community, and this is just a way to keep your community safer. It’s this very little thing that you just throw in your bag, and hopefully you forget about. But then one day somebody might cry for help. And you’re that person with the exact remedy for that help. And you get to send someone back home to their family and their loved ones, because you have it, and that’s what this is really all about. And we live in some troubled and fractured times, but this is a way of being a part of your community and really just doing your part to help out.

Interview by Christina Winnegar | May 25 2026 The purpose came before the lights did. Sneakers scraping against the pavement outside. The sound of a basketball dribbling in a driveway down the street. The distant sound of laughter carried across the stretch of Nickens Court while the California burned bright across Orangevale. For Kai Wallin, childhood did not happen inside one house. Years of growth, laughter and love unfolded across an entire court. Family all connected by the same stretch of pavement that became the center of nearly every memory he carries in his purpose today. Long before he became a Division I football player, navigating the transfer portal across the web of Power Four programs, Wallin was nothing more than a kid running between houses, growing up surrounded by people who made family feel less like a concept and more like the why behind it all. Nearly 40 years before Wallin was born, his grandparents purchased a large plot of land in Orangevale, California, and built what eventually became Nickens Court, named after the family. Eventually, four homes occupied what was once a plot of land. That environment became the foundation underneath nearly everything Wallin would later become. “I think mainly it was just the core principles of family first,” he said. “Take care of those that took care of you.” It is the philosophy that still follows him to this day, even after years of going through the motions of constantly moving between cities, conferences and locker rooms. Because if there is one defining theme throughout Wallin’s story, it is becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable. At nearly every stage of his story, from the early days in Orangevale, to the present day at San Diego State and everything in between. He had to relearn environments, rebuild relationships and reintroduce himself to entirely new groups of people. But long before the routines of football forced him into unfamiliar spaces, life had already begun preparing him for it. When he was growing up, his father traveled frequently for work, sometimes for extended periods—which he credits with instilling in him a sense of responsibility early, not through speeches or pressure, but through the circumstances. That maturity accelerated after his family moved away from Orangevale into Sacramento following his fifth-grade year. For Wallin, the adjustment felt immediate. Years later, another major change arrived. Jesuit High School. An all-boys Catholic school where many students had spent years growing up together long before Wallin ever arrived on campus. However, he learned quickly how to observe and adapt quietly. The culture felt unfamiliar almost immediately, the change of wearing uniforms compared to not having to while attending public school and the mandatory mass obligations. Still, through it all, the experience ended up shaping him far more than he realized in the moment. Socially, Jesuits forced him to become independent. But rather than resisting the discomfort, he learned to sit in it. That ability to enter unfamiliar environments without panicking would eventually become one of the most essential tools in his football career. Especially once football itself developed into something serious. Growing up playing multiple sports, he kept football off-limits until high school due to a rule his mother set: no tackle football before then. By the time he finally stepped onto the field, the years of anticipation exploded into accelerated success. “It was something that I had literally been waiting my whole childhood to be able just to go out and play and just see what it was about,” Wallin reflected. His previous athletic background helped him adjust quickly to the competitive demands of the game. The list of basketball, baseball and any other sport that taught him how to compete, the art of processing situations with little to no transitional time. Football simply became the sport where all of the different mindset aspects finally connected into talent. Still, even as football became more central to his life, his athletic career never followed the traditional blueprint. Following the conclusion of his high school career, Wallin entered American River College at only 17 years old, expecting a quieter developmental period. Instead, junior college (JUCO) football delivered one of the biggest reality checks of his life. At JUCO, football stopped feeling recreational and took on a deeper sentiment. The locker room included a variety of players from different walks of life: fathers trying to provide for their children, military veterans attempting to rebuild their careers, and players driving hours for early-morning workouts while balancing it all, all in the hope of a better chance. “I think seeing it firsthand, seeing guys just full breakdown, that you can feel people pour their blood, sweat and tears into the game,” Wallin said. “Being a young guy coming from a cushy private school where things were handed to me and coming from that and being thrown into the fire, just sitting back and observing, you know, as I said, I came in thinking, okay, this is development. I’m going to get better, I’m not gonna sit in the back. But I’m going to watch the guys who have been here and see how it is supposed to look, and all the expectations I had about what I would see didn't happen. My mind was kind of just blown.” The experience changed his perspective almost immediately; the grind for development quickly became one of the most important yet unique chapters in his development. Wallin entered the season believing he would likely redshirt and develop physically, but coaches approached him during fall camp with a different message entirely. It was his time. His team needed him. “Being told you’re somebody we need to step up. We believe in you, and you just have to show it; nothing should be handed to you. But this is your opportunity, this is your ticket,” he remembered. The moment accelerated everything. Suddenly, 17-year-old Wallin, competing against grown men, had to mature quickly both on and off the field. The season ultimately proved productive enough to attract national recruiting attention, and his JUCO head coach’s encouragement of the program eventually led him to the University of Nebraska. For the first time in his life, football felt fully professional, fully pursuable. The expectations were higher, the pressure even higher, and the locker room environment felt relentless. Perhaps most importantly, that very room became the first where he truly began to learn what leadership in college football was supposed to feel like. Once he arrived on campus and connected with the coaching staff led by Matt Rhule, the decision became clear. More specifically, the defensive line coach, Terrance Knighton. For Wallin Knighton became far more than just his position coach; he grew to be one of the most influential mentors of his game. “On the field, I think [the most important chapter in his development] was when I got to Nebraska, with my d-line coach, Terrance Knighton,” he reflected. “I was a very raw and young player going in there, and he taught me so much about the game of football that just allowed me to slow the game down and really just understand what my position is and every facet of the game.” Knighton challenged Wallin to think deeper about offensive concepts, tendencies and situational football. Small details that became impactful in understanding the why behind play-calling mattered just as much as the physical reaction to them. But while coaches shaped his development on the field, the veteran players inside Nebraska’s locker room helped shape him off it. He most frequently points to Ty Robinson, Nash Hutmacher and Jimari Butler as among the most influential teammates he encountered throughout his journey. What stood out was not simply their talent but the way they carried themselves. The younger version of Wallin arrived in Lincoln, Nebraska, still chasing individual validation in many ways. Like most younger players making the transition from JUCO to a bigger game such as the Big Ten Conference, he focused heavily on immediate results, instant gratification and proving himself as quickly as possible. Ty Robinson changed that perspective. “100% I think Ty Robinson was the most impactful vet that I had, and it was just something so small as not putting yourself first,” he reflected. “I was a young, naive kid who was just incapable at the time of seeing the bigger picture.” The moment with lasting impact was not public; Robinson had pulled Wallin aside in the locker room and challenged his approach to the game. Since then, the lesson has stayed with him through every stop afterward. After his two years at Nebraska, he had found himself facing another transition. Only this time, the theme of uncertainty felt much heavier. Coaching changes had begun reshaping the program's future. Nebraska’s defensive coordinator and defensive line coach eventually departed for Florida State, forcing the difficult conversations about what comes next in his career. By then, he had already grown significantly as both a player and a person. Nebraska had taught him the fundamentals of leadership, slowing the game down mentally and how to fit into part of something much bigger than himself. But it also introduced him to another side of college football that many people outside the sport hear about in headlines but never really see. The uncertainty with the business side. The constant reshuffling that now defines modern college athletics. When Wallin decided to enter the transfer portal in hopes of landing an opportunity, he did so with a far different understanding of the game than he once had as a 17-year-old arriving at JUCO. What he did not fully realize yet was just how mentally exhausting navigating the portal itself could become, particularly without representation. Publicly, the transfer portal often appears polished with front-facing media; edited declaration graphics, commitment releases, highlight tapes and fresh-start narratives written in social media captions. But behind the scenes, he had experienced something far less glamorous. At the time, he had navigated much of the progress without an agent, relying heavily on relationships, previous coaches and his own instincts while making career-impacting decisions in real time. The instability became apparent quickly. One moment, opportunities felt concrete; the next, they disappeared entirely. Wallin specifically recalled believing Arizona State was becoming a serious possibility in his next chapter. Relationships with coaches were strong. Connections existed in the roster. The direction felt clear until less than 24 hours before a scheduled visit, when everything took a turn. Eligibility changes allowed another player to return, and suddenly, Arizona State had no room. For him, moments like that stripped away many public misconceptions about the portal entirely. “You know, I’m [now] in a blessed position. There are hundreds of other guys who find greener grass in the other pasture,” he said. “But, I think that it is a huge misconception that if you just get in the portal, you’ll get out in the place you want to be. That does not happen for a large majority of guys that get in.” The experience with the portal changed the way Wallin viewed the logistics of pursuing a football career altogether. The portal was no longer only about finding a better football situation. It became centered around trust; in relationships, those guiding you, in understanding that one decision, one phone call or one roster shift should redirect the course of a career. Eventually, Oregon State emerged as the place that felt right. Not because the process had suddenly come easy, but because familiarity mattered. Head coach Trent Bray had previously recruited Wallin out of JUCO, and the opportunity to return to the West Coast, closer to home, carried the emotional weight, too. After a time of uncertainty, he chose to believe in the relationships and those who had believed in him first. “I believe in Trent Bray. I believed in him two years ago. I still believe in him now, and his resume spoke volumes, and that was the biggest driving factor [in choosing Oregon State],” he said. And in many ways, that mindset would continue to shape every major career decision that followed. By the time he arrived in Corvallis, Oregon, the constant transitions no longer felt foreign. At that point in his career, adapting had already become second nature. Still, Oregon State felt different almost immediately, in the best way. There was comfort in returning closer to California, in the familiarity with the coaching staff, and in stepping into a role that felt larger than trying to prove where he belonged on a roster. For the first time in years, things appeared to be stabilizing. Wallin quickly grew close with teammates, particularly within Oregon State’s edge room. Off the field, the group became tightly connected, spending time together outside football facilities in ways that made the relationships feel genuine beyond the game itself. On the field, Oregon State also represented an opportunity for Wallin to apply everything he had learned at previous stops fully. Nebraska had sharpened his understanding of football mentally. JUCO had toughened him emotionally. Now, Oregon State became the place where he believed everything was finally beginning to come together. Then came Fresno State. Second game of the season. A freak injury occurred in the midst of a pileup. And suddenly, the momentum he had spent building disappeared in a single moment. For the first time in his athletic career, Wallin faced a significant injury that forced him off the field entirely. Mentally, the adjustment became harder than the physical rehab in itself. All offseason, he had prepared beside teammates, expecting to show up with them once the day arrived. Instead, he found himself watching from the sidelines while everyone else continued to advance without him. The frustration was expected to couple with the injury, which hit quickly, but alongside that was the perspective. Thankfully, the turnaround for the rehab timeline was relatively quick. But for Wallin, the injury still forced him into unfamiliar mental territory. Football had always been action, but then he was stuck watching instead. Instead of letting that moment define him negatively, he allowed the injury to become another turning point in his growth as a leader. Rather than distancing himself from the team, He leaned deeper into it. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. This isn’t the me show. This is like we’re here to win games, and if I’m out, if I’m down, if I can’t get in the game like somebody else, this is their opportunity, why would I not help them maximize theirs?” he explained. Wallin spent extra time with younger players, met more frequently with coaches, helped study opponents and identify details that could help teammates gain an advantage during games and practices. The sentiment reflected how dramatically his perspective had evolved since arriving at Nebraska years earlier as a younger player still chasing validation. Now, football looked different to him, and so did the role of leadership. The older he became, the more it became clear that his impact was not always directly tied to production. Sometimes, leadership meant refusing to disappear when things no longer benefited you personally. The mentality became a key point throughout his rehabilitation. Oregon State’s training staff helped guide him through the process physically, but mentally, he relied on teammates and the surrounding culture to stay grounded during the recovery period. When Wallin returned against Appalachian State weeks later, the emotion of elation overwhelmed him almost immediately. The return mattered. However, the stability he had hoped for at Oregon State did not last much longer. Coaching changes hit the program midseason, creating uncertainty surrounding the future yet again. By then, moreover, his understanding of the transfer portal had completely changed from the first time he entered it. The first round introduced chaos, the second introduced clarity. He understood now how fragile opportunities could become, how quickly situations could shift, how dangerous it could be for players to enter the portal, expecting guaranteed success simply because social media made it appear glamorous. Wallin had already lived through the emotional instability the portal could create. He had already experienced visits falling through, opportunities disappearing and plans changing overnight. But this time, one major difference existed: He no longer had to navigate it alone. During the second portal process, Wallin began working with BT Thompson and the team at Nilson Sports, relationships that quickly became far more personal than transactional. “Alec [Nilson Agent], BT [Thompson], and all the guys do a great job checking in. It’s not even about football most of the time; there are periods in the offseason where it’s about football and the business side of things. But, you know, they check in with constant communication, which is great,” he said. “So I signed with them, got in the portal, kind of another but not as big of a roller coaster, because I had a team that had my back throughout the whole thing.” For someone whose career had become defined by instability, constant movement in search of opportunities, and transitions, trust mattered deeply. So when San Diego State emerged as a serious possibility, Wallin approached the opportunity differently than he would have earlier in his career. The football side mattered, of course, alongside the move to the Pac-12 Conference, but what stood out most was something harder to quantify in the justification for leaping. Trust. Despite having no prior relationship with San Diego State’s coaching staff, Wallin immediately felt genuine belief during the recruiting process. Conversations felt earnest, and the vision for both him and where he would fit into the program felt clear. And after years of navigating uncertainty, that feeling carried enormous weight. “I think that today being able to say that you trust somebody, especially saying you trust a coach on a team [San Diego State] that you have no contact with, that’s super rare,” Wallin said. Then came another unexpected full-circle moment. His younger sister already attended San Diego State. After years of football taking him farther from home, the sport had somehow led him back to family, back to the roots that shaped him. Off the field, the transfer has given him something he spent years chasing without fully realizing it: Stability. Years ago, he arrived at Nebraska as a young player seeking guidance after JUCO—the one trying to understand how to carry himself inside a locker room. Veterans like Robinson, Hutmacher, and Butler chose to invest time in him when he was still learning to navigate the pressure, expectations, and emotional weight that came with the game. Back then, he needed the direction. Now, younger players look toward him for it instead. For Wallin, the evolution did not happen overnight. It happened through every transition from Jesuit to the Pac-12. Whether it was perspective, leadership, relationships, or trust, every stop left something behind, and every locker room added something new. And slowly with that, the young player, constantly searching for stability, became the veteran player capable of providing it for others. Now, entering a new chapter at San Diego State, there is a certain full-circle feeling to the role he has stepped into. Because somewhere between Orangevale and San Diego, between being the young player searching for guidance and becoming the veteran now offering it, Wallin realized the most important traits he carried from the origin at Nickens Court were never physical at all. Faith. Family. Trust. The understanding that no one reaches the next chapter in their story alone. Years ago, a veteran once pulled him aside and showed him what it means to lead, how to carry himself and how to become part of something much more meaningful than individual success. Now, entering another season, another chapter, he finds himself doing the same for players arriving behind him – athletes trying to navigate the very unfamiliarities he once did. Not because someone asked him to, but because someone had done it for him first. And maybe that underneath is what football ultimately became for Kai Wallin. Not simply a journey to be told across programs, conferences, or cities. But a passing of the Torch of Faith. An inner conviction that illuminates his path during difficult times and relays the guidance once given to him by the people who helped shape a kid from Nickens Court into a man now trusted to guide the next one in his path. For any press/NIL/ or brand inquiries for Kai Wallin, you can contact Nilson Sports.

Interview by Ariana Ottrando | June 3 2026 Harrison Feinberg Credit: Jim Pierce The hallways are quiet at Cabot Physical Education Center on a Monday morning in February — just days before the Northeastern University Huskies’ 2026 Coastal Athletic Association (CAA) baseball season starts and the preseason buzz fades into white noise. CAA Player of the Year and Tournament MVP (2025). Top Male Athlete of Northeastern Athletics (2025). CAA Preseason Player of the Year. The No. 6 outfielder in college baseball by D1 Baseball. The list goes on. Inside his office, head coach Mike Glavine chuckles. “He's a coach's dream,” says Glavine. “And when your best player is your hardest worker, you have something special.” It’s the kind of thing that coaches say about players who have been that from the beginning. Harrison Feinberg wasn’t — at least, not right away. A native of Greenwich, CT, Feinberg first picked up a bat and glove around three years old in tee-ball. Through trials of other sports from football to basketball, Feinberg dabbled in many sports as a kid, but none ever measured up to his love and devotion to baseball. “By high school, I figured out baseball was my sport — just loved it. [I] loved it every day,” he said. “Just loved the game.” The outfielder played three years of high school varsity baseball at King School in Stamford, Connecticut, due to the pandemic, and made an impact from the jump. As a freshman, Feinberg batted .400 with two home runs (HRs). As a senior, he batted a whopping .525, with six HRs, 16 runs batted in (RBIs) and 20 runs scored. And the accolades reflected that, from All-League recognition for both his sophomore and senior seasons, to rankings of No. 6 player overall in Connecticut and the No. 2 outfielder, according to Perfect Game. “I didn't really face good competition, didn't play travel ball… [I] just went to showcases and that's where I got recruited from,” he said. So, it’s no surprise that Feinberg committed to play Division I (DI) at the University of Southern California (USC) early in his high school career. The real surprise is that the decorated and statewide-recognized Feinberg played zero minutes as a DI freshman in 2022. A college freshman getting minimal play time in comparison to the upperclassmen and veteran players is not untraditional in the ladder of DI sports. However, with a track record like Feinberg’s, it is unexpected that he wouldn’t see the field or the plate at all for a full season. On the other side of the country, making no progress towards his development, Feinberg was at a standstill. “Obviously, [I] struggled my first year, didn't play,” said Feinberg. “[I] had to make the decision to transfer, and obviously that was tough just starting over again.” By the conclusion of his freshman year, Feinberg packed up his dorm and returned home to the East Coast. He entered the transfer portal, searching for the next DI opportunity, and landed a spot on the Danbury Westerners of the New England Collegiate Baseball League (NECBL) for summer ball. In 29 games played, Feinberg put up 26 hits, 14 RBIs, and six HRs. Then, Coach Glavine came into the picture. “We had an opportunity to look at his numbers and talk to some people about him, and then we got on the phone and talked to him a little bit to see if he was interested,” said Glavine on Feinberg’s commitment process to Northeastern. “I just really liked the way he played. He looked like, literally, a dog out there, so to speak. Playing like a maniac all over the field and flying around. I got to see his batting practice and watch some power there. And then it was just trying to get him to come here.” Glavine recounts those early conversations with Feinberg four years ago, seeing his potential and assets to improve both Northeastern’s program and his own development. “We're not Power Four (P4). We don't have P4 facilities and all the things that he was coming from [at USC],” said Glavine. “But what we do have is a great culture, and it'd be an opportunity for him to play — and that's what he really wanted to do.” In choosing his new school and team, there were plenty of reasons why Northeastern presented as a perfect fit on paper for Feinberg. “They had a good track record of success in developing guys, like [a] bunch of big leaguers that come through this program,” he said. “Being closer to home as well. Obviously USC was all the way across the country — [I] got a little homesick, I guess. It's [a] different style of baseball here too. More of my game.” As for the culture, Feinberg was right to trust Coach Glavine’s word about the dynamic at Northeastern. “Everyone's in it for each other. Just developing, working hard every day, being a lot more tight-knit than those other bigger programs that are just loaded with talent, but they don't have to play together,” said Feinberg. “Coach Glavine's built a winning culture [and] instills it in us every day. It's definitely something I love to play for.” Harrison Feinberg Credit: Jim Pierce So Feinberg started fresh as a Northeastern Husky for the 2023 season and certainly made his mark as a rookie. In his debut season, he started 39 out of 45 total appearances including all seven of Northeastern’s postseason games that year. He recorded 37 hits, 27 RBIs and 10 HRs — the latter of which broke a previous program record for rookie home runs dating back to 2012 (8). But things took a turn in his sophomore year (2024) with only 28 games played and 19 starts. Naturally, with less play time, Feinberg’s stats took a hit as well: 18 hits, 17 RBIs and three HRs. Defensively, his putouts (PO) dropped from 66 to 35 for a .897 field percentage. On all accounts, not the upwards trajectory that one would expect. At no particular fault of his own, Feinberg just didn’t see the field as much in his second year and it’s extra difficult to stay consistent without repetition. “Maybe I wasn't playing him enough, and some of his struggles, maybe at times in-game, were just not getting consistent at-bats,” said Glavine. “Some guys just aren't going to play every game, and maybe they should have been. I think that was the biggest thing because the work ethic was always there. “His path here hasn't been a straight line, like he didn't have immediate success, and he had to work for it. And I'll say this, he's one of the hardest-working players I've ever coached. He is in the weight room all the time, and he's running. He is full-go every time he practices, like he doesn't take a day off of practice. I have a tremendous amount of respect about how he goes about preparing and playing.” Feinberg’s talent always spoke for itself. But it wasn’t until he got the full-time opportunity to play that both his talent and hard work came into the spotlight and shattered new ceilings. Enter junior year (2025). Harrison Feinberg Credit: Jim Pierce To call Feinberg’s junior season a breakout would be an understatement. He started in 58 of 58 games, posting career highs in 12 categories. He slashed .367/.455/.715 with 37 stolen bases, tying the single-season program record in steals. He put up 23 multi-hit games with 76 total hits, and a team-high 67 RBIs and 18 homers. He also recorded a team-high 18 multi-RBI games, including a six-RBI game in the CAA Championship against the University of North Carolina Wilmington (UNCW) (5/24 – 3-for-4, 2 HR, 2B). As for defense, he contributed 107 PO and a whopping zero errors for a perfect 1.000 FLD%. The accolades that followed were endless: 2025 National Collegiate Baseball Writers Association (NCBWA) First Team All-American, 2025 All-CAA First Team, 2025 All-Eastern College Athletic Conference (ECAC), and many more. In addition to playing consistently, Feinberg pointed to his confidence-building and off-the-field training as other attributing factors to the success of his junior year. “I think just getting my body in as good of shape as possible heading into the year [was] definitely one of the keys to success, and then obviously just knowing that I can achieve what I believe I can,” he said. “I knew that I was talented, but it didn't really show [in] my first couple seasons. Just having the confidence going into the year and just trying to prove something was definitely a huge thing for me… I'm just proud that I've been able to develop myself into who I am today. I'm proud of what I've accomplished.” By the end of the 2025 season, all eyes were on Feinberg. He was showered with awards and recognition at the collegiate level. Yet, Major League Baseball (MLB) scouts were still doubtful Feinberg was ready for the pros and he went undrafted in the 2025 class. “I didn't even think we were going to have him back, so clearly the pro game doesn't value him enough yet,” said Glavine. “So he's going to go out and do it again. And [Feinberg] knows that, and he wants it, and he will. I believe it 100%... I want them to value him as a real baseball player — real meaning he can do it all. He's a complete ballplayer. “You hear comments like, 'Well, we want to see him do it again. We want to see a second great year out of him.' So okay, whatever, he'll go do that… I don't think it bothers him too much. He just wants the opportunity. I think he has a monster year and it just takes care of itself.” Now entering that anticipated senior season, all of the pressure is on Feinberg to have just as successful a year as last’s — if not, better. The attention and expectations on his shoulders are at an all-time high. Nonetheless, he has to tune it all out and focus on his game to do it again, to prove people wrong. “Those accolades and stuff like that, obviously [they] add pressure going into this year, but yeah, kind of just not thinking about that and just having fun every day,” said Feinberg. “The day that playing baseball is not fun — [I] don't want to play anymore. And just working through struggles, if I face them, and then just overcoming them.” Harrison Feinberg Credit: Jim Pierce So as a surprise to some and impressive to many, Feinberg is doing exactly that. In his redshirt senior year, he is having just as remarkable a season as last year’s. As of May 24, in 57 of 57 games started — and counting — Feinberg has put up 74 hits, 62 RBIs and 16 HRs. He leads the Huskies in all three categories, in addition to 222 at-bats (AB), OPS (1.056) and SLG% (.608). In the field, he has recorded 108 PO, topping last season’s 107, and currently holds a .973 FLD%. Feinberg has also broken more program records, including 43 career home runs, the last set by Frank Pesanello in 2009. As of May 12 at the University of Connecticut, he hit another career milestone of 200 hits — just the ninth Husky to do so, and the first since 2021. Ahead of the 2026 CAA Championship, he received All-Conference First Team. When asked about the best aspects of Feinberg’s game, looking back to our sitdown at the Cabot Center in February, Coach Glavine struggled to pick just one. “It's either defense or his base-stealing because he's such a power threat,” said Glavine. “And when he hits the ball, he hits the ball as far and as hard as anyone I've ever seen — and I'm not joking. He's worked really hard on the technique of stealing bases. And then again, his defense — I could play him in left, I can play him in center, I can play him in right, and we're going to get above-average defense. He single-handedly won some games last year on defense, not just with his bat. “And again, I just have so much respect for him because he's worked for all of it.” Nearing the end of the NCAA season and Feinberg’s collegiate career, the next step certainly points to getting drafted and moving on to the MLB. He “did it again.” He’s proved himself, yet again. He had that “monster year” twice. “I think his ceiling is really high,” said Glavine. “So he just has to kick down those walls — and he will.”

Photographed by Josué Cambara | May 30, 2026 Mexico claimed a narrow 1–0 win over Australia in an international friendly as preparations for the 2026 World Cup continue. With 78,479 people in attendance, the Rose Bowl Stadium saw thousands pack the stands in Pasadena, California. Mexico finished with more attacking volume, recording 13 shots to Australia’s 7, while both teams registered 4 saves. Mexico also led in corners, 5 to 3, and had slightly more fouls committed, 10 to 9, as well as offsides, 2 to 1.

by Holly Arend | May 22 2026 Photo taken by Andrew Fielder There is always a strange calm that comes with the final buzzer of a hockey season. After months of bus rides, morning skates and the daily grind of professional hockey, the first week away from the rink is less about jumping into something new and more about slowing everything down. For Lincoln Griffin, that usually starts with time spent around teammates, laughing, catching up and soaking in the final moments of a group that spent an entire season together. "Hockey is around an eight-month-long season," he said. "We spend countless hours together at the rink, on the bus and outside of the rink forming a brotherly bond." When the season ends, that bond makes the goodbye even tougher. The week after the final buzzer becomes a mix of memories, recovery and reflection, knowing you never quite know when that same locker room will be together again. Once his body recovers, Griffin heads home to spend time with family and friends he has not seen in months. After a few weeks away, the game finds him again in a different way. He works summer hockey camps, helping players ranging from 5-year-olds to teenagers as they continue their own journeys. That is not the only place Griffin has kept busy in the offseason. Last summer, he took on work outside of hockey that pushed him into unfamiliar territory. One job was at a car wash his uncle had taken over, where he helped wash cars, paint and reconstruct the building. Another was helping a family friend with granite installation, assembling countertops, kitchen spaces, bathrooms and bar tops. "It was awesome seeing someone's new or old house transform into something amazing," he said. "But those slabs of granite were not an easy lift." Off the ice, Griffin is drawn to things that help him slow down and reset. Fishing, beach days and long walks offer a little more peace than life in hockey usually allows. When he does want something competitive, golf has become a go-to offseason outlet. It gives him a challenge without being too demanding on his body. Another skill he has taken pride in building away from the rink is cooking. After moving away for hockey following college, Griffin found himself spending more time in the kitchen and gradually trying new recipes. His favorite meal to make is a simple one: steak, potatoes and asparagus. Even when hockey is not the center of the day, Griffin still likes to stay engaged with the places the game takes him. Whether it is a restaurant, a bar or another sporting event, he tries to make the most of each city, fully aware that hockey does not always give a player the chance to return. The offseason has also taken on new meaning in recent years, with his niece and nephews now part of that rhythm. During the season, the focus is always on the game. But when he gets home, he steps into a different role, uncle first, hockey player second. Whether he is playing outside with the kids, pushing them on the swing or watching "Bluey" for the 50th time in a day, Griffin says that time gives his offseason a different kind of purpose. "It brings a different excitement," he said. "I try to be the best uncle I can be." That same mindset carries into how he views the East Coast Hockey League (ECHL) and his career in the league. Photos provided by Lincoln Griffin Griffin believes the ECHL plays an important role in developing players who may not yet be ready for the American Hockey League (AHL) or National Hockey League (NHL). It gives young players a chance to adjust to the speed, size and demands of professional hockey while competing against AHL- and NHL-contracted talent. "The ECHL has been trending upward in the past few years," he said. "It pushes each and every player to be the best they can be in hopes of getting to the next level." The grind of the schedule, the travel, the sleepless nights and the uncertainty of trades have all played a role in making him stronger and more resilient. "Every day is a new opportunity to be the best version of yourself," he said. "Although it might seem like a tough situation, I believe it has made me a stronger person and will help me in the long run throughout life." Photo taken by Andrew Fielder Game days have their own rhythm. Morning skate, stretching, a trip back to his apartment, breakfast, a nap and then the pregame meal before puck drop. While he eats, he watches Fortnite streams, a small way of letting his mind go somewhere else before it has to be fully locked in. For Griffin, the off-ice story matters just as much as what happens between the boards. Hockey will always be the thing people judge him on, but the way he treats people, connects with fans and carries himself away from the rink is part of it too. And if he could speak to his younger self, the message would be simple. "Your hockey career goes by very fast," he said. "Just remember you are playing a sport that you love, so always be grateful for every opportunity that comes your way."

By Whitney Randall | May 18 2026 Photos Provided by Southern Utah University Athletics “What advice would I give to somebody who wants to become a flippin' bird? You bleed. You sweat. You cry. You jump for joy. You do everything with this family. And this family is going to be a huge part of your life for the rest of your life. So, embrace it and take it for the challenges that come with it, and embrace those too.” For Scotty Bauman, that idea of family is not just a slogan. It is the foundation of the program he built over decades, and a philosophy he created long before he ever stepped into a head coaching role. Bauman grew up in Price, Utah, a small coal-mining town in eastern Utah, where sports provided structure. Raised by his divorced mother and spending part of his childhood living in a trailer, stability wasn’t always guaranteed. It was something he learned to build for himself. His first connection to gymnastics wasn’t through competition but curiosity. His journey with the sport began with his involvement in ski jumping.The interest started with wanting to learn how to twist better in the air, and what started as cross-training turned into something more intentional and permanent. He began coaching not because it was the plan but because it solved a problem. He needed to pay for training, so he started spotting gymnasts. What he never expected was that he would excel at it or the attention he’d attract. By the time he was in high school, he was working with athletes on advanced skills, catching the eye of college coaches. When a Utah State coach was watching him spot an athlete during a camp in Price, it became the first real turning point. Not because it changed everything automatically, but because it opened up more possibilities and opportunities to learn. It was the first time that Bauman saw that coaching could be more than just a side job or a hobby. Still, he started at Utah State with the intention of going into a medical career. But gymnastics had other plans for him. Under the mentorship of coach Ray Corn, Bauman spent years learning how to build and understand athletes. Over time, coaching started to look more and more like a career. Then, the head coach position opened up at Southern Utah University. “I didn’t really think I had a shot at this job,” Bauman said. “I was 23. I was single. I didn’t know anything.” Even with his age, he was offered the position. Despite his uncertainty, he took it anyway. When he started coaching, there wasn’t immediate success, but instead friction. He joined a program filled with tension and athletes who didn’t trust his process. His first year was defined by conflict, structure, and readjustment. Bauman describes it plainly; it was the year he learned what not to do. It was also the year that helped to build the foundation of SUU gymnastics. The philosophy that exists now is one built on communication, accountability, and respect, but it was built from conflict. From athletes who pushed back, expectations that had to be learned, not just enforced, from learning that culture is not automatically created, it’s built on repetition. The team transformed into something bigger. It became a family built through consistency, accountability, and time. For Bauman, that idea of family was shaped long before his program ever reflected it. When his wife was pregnant, families in his community stepped in without hesitation. They brought meals, mowed his lawn, checked in, and made sure that they were taken care of during a time that could have easily been much more overwhelming. It was never asked for but his community just decided to take care of them on their own. That kindness stayed with him, it became the standard he would later bring into his program. For his team, showing up for each other is not optional, but expected. In gymnastics, success is measured in scores and placements, but inside the SUU gym, there were moments when winning stopped being the point. What mattered was how the team would respond when everything broke down. Photos Provided by Southern Utah University Athletics One of these moments came with Kayla Pardue. Pardue’s injury during a preseason preview was the kind of moment that changed everything. In gymnastics, a lower-body injury can end a gymnast’s career. Even with the best-case scenarios, recovery is uncertain. With Pardue’s injury, she had a 20% chance that she could ever compete again. It seemed impossible. But inside this program, it wasn’t. Training staff and strength coaches stepped in, and her nutrition plan shifted. The medical team, anchored by Bauman’s secret weapon, Dr. Nakken, began mapping a return timeline that few would have attempted. The final ingredient in her recovery was something that can’t be built into protocol: belief. Every small milestone of hers in the gym became a collective moment. In Bauman’s program, recovery is integration, not isolation. With every basic skill Pardue landed, it was a celebration. That response, he believes, is cultural conditioning “You don’t know how lucky you are to be where you’re at,” he often reminds his athletes. Not as a warning but a reminder that opportunity in a Division I program is not guaranteed, and neither is time. Leadership, in this program, is never assigned lightly. It isn’t about scores or status but about trust. Athletes are chosen by how their teammates view them, not just their competitive performance. For Bauman, the most important leaders are the ones that others naturally turn to, the ones who set the standard especially when no one is watching. When those leaders begin to wonder whether they belong, he doesn’t let that doubt linger. Instead he sits them down and brings them back to the people around them, reminding them exactly why their teammates chose them to lead them in the first place. In his program, confidence isn’t built through results alone, but through trust and accountability to their team. That mentality carried into one of the most successful stretches in program history. This season was one defined by pressure, expectation, and what Bauman admits was luck. In the championship run that led to a four-peat, he was blunt about the margins. But luck alone doesn’t explain a team that consistently delivered when it mattered most. It doesn’t explain a floor lineup that could change the team ranking entirely. It doesn’t explain a beam team that, even after inconsistency, can deliver when the stakes are high. What Bauman does credit is cohesion; even when performance fluctuated, the team never fractured. He described this team as the most honest and unproblematic that he has ever coached. They may not have been perfect or consistent, but they have an unbreakable connection. Even when the routines wavered, the culture didn’t. That distinction mattered the most when the season ended with another championship. Even when the team celebrated, their next move was already underway. Southern Utah is moving up to a whole new level of competition, joining the PAC-12 in July this year. For the flippin’ birds, it means a conference with deeper lineups, higher standards, and no margin for inconsistency. For Bauman, the transition, or at least their competition, is familiar. “These are teams we compete against all the time,” he said. “They’re not teams that dominate us.” Even with that margin for error disappearing, their foundation remains. They’ll enter the next season very veteran-heavy. With ten seniors returning, they have already been tested in pressure situations, living through injuries, lineup changes, and have hopes for a five-peat. No matter how they end a season, Bauman always returns to development. In his program, athletes aren’t just recruited, they are created. He finds under-recruited athletes and makes them into All-Americans. He sees the potential that other coaches often miss. He always credits their success as a program to his team and his staff. The assistant coaches who have worked with him for decades. Athletic trainers and strength coaches who bring athletes back to their peak when they shouldn’t have been able to compete again. Administrators who “just find a way” when their team needs something. He credits them more than himself. “I want to sit here and think it’s all me,” he said, “but it isn’t. It’s hardly any me.” In his view, building this team and its success took a village. It is consistency across all roles, a system where everyone understands the standard and refuses to drop below it. That structure is what has allowed athletes to return from career-ending injuries. It has kept their retention close to almost 100%. It is leadership chosen by the athletes, recognizing work beyond just competitive success. This is what made Southern Utah’s identity and culture so difficult to replicate. Photos Provided by Southern Utah University Athletics He also credits Cedar City. For Bauman, SUU is not just a campus or a school. It is a community that has consistently shown up for his program in ways that are beyond any expectation. From donors who quietly support the team, to residents who pack the America First Event Center, creating one of the strongest home atmospheres. The community is not just background support; they are part of the program’s identity. That support is not something Bauman takes lightly. He remembers community members stepping in to help, even when resources were limited. He points to service events like campus-wide service events and team-led community projects, showing that the relationship runs both ways. “We’re part of this community,” he said. “And we want the community to see that we try.” That connection has shaped this program. Athletes learn quickly that they are representing more than just a school; they are representing a city that invests in them emotionally, physically, and consistently. And in return, his athletes show up for that community in the same way it shows up for them. For Bauman, that exchange has never been transactional; it has always been personal. In the end, he doesn’t measure success by championships alone. He measures it by whether athletes feel supported when they are injured, believed in when they are doubtful, and valued even when they don’t feel at their best. Photos Provided by Southern Utah University Athletics That is why the word he keeps returning to is the same one he started with: family. It’s not a slogan or a line but something that shows up in the everyday details. How the team rallies around athletes in recovery, how they vote for leaders based on character, trust, and team belief, and how a small community fills the gym. It’s bigger than just a sport. And maybe that is what makes the program difficult to define from the outside. From the outside, it looks like titles, wins, and rankings. But from the inside, it’s a team built on trust, accountability, and care that extends far beyond just a season. It looks like athletes are learning how to recover, how to lead, and belong to something bigger than themselves. It looks like a coach who, after decades in the same place, still talks about his team the same way he did in the beginning. Not as numbers on a roster but as a family. A family that sweats together, cries together, struggles together, and grows together. Long after that final routine is over, they stay connected with the place and people who built them.

Written & Photographed by Samad Rizvi | May 17, 2025 Mac DeMarco performed his first of two sold out shows in Austin on May 16,2026 at Moody Theater. The last time he was in Austin was almost 7 years ago in 2019 with the crowd clearly communicating this through their apparent buzz of excitement before even getting into the venue. As Tex Crick wrapped up their opening set, Mac DeMarco stepped onto stage with his reflective work pants and red skate shoes starting off with the opening track “Shining” from his latest studio album, Guitar. The crowd's slow rhythmic swaying was immediately yanked away from them with the blasting, angelic retro-synth chords of “For the First Time” setting the pace for the rest of the show. Mac proceeded on with songs across his whole career as a musician albeit laughing and mumbling to himself as he switched between songs alongside doing some microphone throws and laying on the floor. Alternating between songs from Guitar and This Old Dog with some of his older hits thrown in, with the concert coming to an end he played fan favorites of “Freaking out the Neighborhood” and finishing the set out with “Chamber of Reflection”. Mac will go on to play one more show in Austin and then proceed up to Dallas and OKC. Mac DeMarco in Austin photographed by Samad Rizvi for HAZZE MEDIA Set List: Shining For the First Time Sweeter On the Level Phantom Salad Days Punishment 20191009 I Like Her Rock and Roll Finally Alone Still Beating Passing Out Pieces Home No Other Heart Terror Rock and Roll Night Club Heart to Heart Little Dogs March Ode to Viceroy One More Love Song Another One Rooster Freaking out the Neighborhood Holy Moonlight on the River Chamber of Reflection

by Holly Arend | May 13, 2026 Fourth Street Collective did not start as a brand. It started as a conversation that had been happening long before anyone gave it a name. Four sisters, Susie, Mary, Emilie, and Maggie, along with their brother-in-law Andrew, each came in with different paths already in motion. Event planning, tech consulting, accounting, design, and finance. Different cities, different careers, but the same shared idea that kept coming up in conversation. At some point, that idea stopped being hypothetical. This is where Fourth Street began to take shape. I had the opportunity to sit down with the Pilibosians to explore their inspirations, individual backgrounds, and the vision they have for the future of the brand. Every story has a starting point. Take me back to the beginning. When did the first real conversation about creating Fourth Street happen between all of you? It actually started with our mom. She called us over on a warm August morning for breakfast - one of her infamous "family meetings." She knew we had all been individually thinking about entrepreneurship ideas, and she sat us down and basically said there is never going to be a perfect time. You just have to go for it. What stood out most wasn't anything about our resumes or qualifications - she focused on something much more meaningful: the fact that we are a group of people who truly trust each other. We've seen one another navigate highs and lows, persevere through challenges, and consistently show up for each other. She knew our character better than anyone, and she reminded us that kind of foundation can't be manufactured. She told us we already had every piece of the puzzle - we just needed to open the box. And her two questions have stuck with us ever since: Why not us? And if not now, when? Each of you came into this with different careers and experiences. How did your individual backgrounds influence the direction Fourth Street started to take? Honestly, it would have been hard to design a better founding team if we tried. Mary runs her own event planning business, so she brought a real operator's mindset — she knows what it takes to build something from scratch and keep clients happy. Susie comes from technology consulting and strategy, so she's always thinking about how we scale, what the bigger picture looks like, and how we build something that lasts. Emilie is a tax‑specialized accountant known for her ability to command a room, blending technical depth with a clear, confident speaking style to turn complex financial data into conversations that drive understanding and action. Maggie studied art and design at Michigan, so our creative instincts are built in from day one — nothing goes out the door without her eye on it. And then there's Andrew, who comes from a finance background and is the steady, grounding force that keeps the business side of things running smoothly — and somehow keeps the rest of us running smoothly too. What's interesting is that none of us came from fashion or apparel — and we think that's actually an advantage. We came at this from the angle of storytelling, community, and business, not product. That's why Fourth Street has always been bigger than a sweatshirt." The concept of “Join the Family Business” is such a defining part of the brand. How did that message first come together? That was Maggie. She came up with it, designed it, and once she put it out there we all felt that was exactly right. It captures exactly what we wanted the brand to feel like: inclusive, warm, like you belong here no matter who you are or where you come from. Maggie has always been the person in our family who wants everyone in the room. Growing up she was always the one saying ‘just invite everyone, the more the merrier’. That phrase genuinely is an extension of who she is. The fact that it translates so naturally to what we are building with Fourth Street Collective made it feel perfectly right. Naming a brand is often one of the biggest early steps. Where did the name Fourth Street come from and when did it start to feel right? Fourth Street is pretty simple — it’s the four of us. Four sisters. We wanted the name to mean something to us before it meant anything to anyone else, and having it rooted in who we are felt right from the start. And when you pair it with “Join the Family Business,” the whole thing clicks into place. That phrase means two things to us simultaneously — it’s an invitation for anyone who comes across our brand to feel like they belong to something, but it’s also a literal open door for family businesses, big or small, to partner with us and bring their own story to life through a collaboration. That dual meaning is actually at the core of everything we’re building, and it all lives right there in the name. Once the idea started to feel real, the next step was turning it into something tangible. When did you decide that apparel would be the way to introduce the brand? We kept coming back to the question of what the vehicle should be — what's the thing that carries the story into the world in a tangible way. It had to be something people interact with every day, something that sparks a conversation, something you'd actually want. A sweatshirt made sense because it's personal. You choose to put it on. You wear it out in the world. And when someone asks 'wait, what's the family business?' — that's the moment. That's the conversation starter we were looking for. There's also something about a premium sweatshirt that feels universal. It doesn't matter your age, your background, where you live — everyone has one they love. We wanted something that felt like home, because that's what this brand is supposed to feel like. The apparel is the handshake. The story is what comes after. Your first piece is the sweatshirt people are already recognizing. What was the creative process like designing that first product? We knew we wanted to start with something that people would actually live in - not a piece that sits in a drawer or on a shelf. The sweatshirt had to be premium, the kind where you put it on once and don’t want to take it off. Maggie designed the ‘Joined the Family Business” graphic for the back, and then it became about how the front would look and what colorways felt right. The first two - maize and blue, and red and white - came pretty naturally. Maggie and Susie went to Michigan and that colorway made sense because Michigan was their community, their place. Sometimes the first time people react to a product is when it really hits you that something is working. Do you remember the first time someone asked about the sweatshirt or the brand? There have been a few of those moments and they never get old. Maggie wore hers to Yost and had someone literally lift up her hood trying to read what it said. Susie had friends approaching her asking, ‘wait, what is the family business?’ - and the answer being ‘we ARE the business’ was kind of a full circle moment. Those reactions told us we had something. It stands out, it sparks conversation, and that’s exactly what we wanted. A big part of your vision is supporting family businesses. Where did that idea come from and why did it feel important to build it into the brand? We kept asking ourselves: there are so many apparel brands out there, so many sweatshirt companies, what makes us different? And the answer had to be more than just the product. We grew up watching family members build businesses with their hands and work extremely hard. We know what that takes. We started noticing that those stories - the grandfather who started a plant, the family that’s been running a restaurant for decades - those stories don’t always get told. Nobody’s putting a spotlight on them. We wanted Fourth Street to be that spotlight. The sweatshirt is the vehicle, but the story is the point. Family businesses often have stories that do not always get told. What excites you most about the idea of highlighting those stories through Fourth Street? The people behind them. There is a restaurant in Chicago that Susie goes to all the time with her friends - they know there are many family members working there, but nobody really knows how it started, who built it, why they do it. That is the story we want to tell. We think people are genuinely hungry for that right now. There is so much noise on social media, so much ‘buy this, here’s my link’ - and people are starting to see through it. What cuts through is realness. A family that built something with everything they had. That is what we want to put in front of people, and the idea that we get to be the ones to help tell those stories and give back to the community is honestly the most exciting part of all of this. Building a brand together is a different experience than building something alone. What has it been like working on this as sisters and as a family? Chaotic and wonderful, honestly. We are four very different people - different careers, different personalities, different ways of thinking - and that is actually our biggest strength. Mary runs her own business and brings an operational mindset. Susie is an executor who thinks about strategy, scale and purpose. Emilie is our sweatshirt connoisseur and accountant. Maggie is the creative engine. And Andrew is our quiet, steady numbers guy who has somehow survived twelve years with all of us and lived to tell the tale. What makes it work is that we already know each other completely. There’s no figuring out communication styles or building trust from scratch. We can be fully honest, push back, disagree - and then move on. We have the most ridiculous home videos and a lifetime of memories together. We were each other's best friends growing up. So doing this together does not feel like a business decision. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. A lot of your brand is about storytelling and connection. How do you hope people feel when they first hear about Fourth Street or see someone wearing it? We want them to feel like they’re being invited into something. Not sold to - invited and welcomed with open arms. The sweatshirt catches your eye and makes you ask a question, and then the answer opens up this whole world of what we’re actually building. We want people to feel the warmth behind it. To understand that this isn’t just a brand, it is a family that decided to build something meaningful and wants to bring other family businesses along with us. If someone sees one of our sweatshirts and feels even a little bit of that, we’ve done our job. At the heart of everything is the message behind the brand. If someone hears about Fourth Street for the first time, what do you hope they understand about what you are building? That we’re building a community, not just a clothing brand. Fourth Street exists to celebrate the people who build things — families who pour everything into a business, sisters who decide to bet on each other, anyone who has ever looked at the people around them and thought “let’s make something together.” The sweatshirt is just the beginning. What we’re really building is a platform for those stories — a place where family businesses get seen, where community gets celebrated, and where joining the family business means something bigger than just buying a product. And if there’s one piece of advice woven into everything we do, it’s this: you are going to fail. Every successful person will tell you they failed over and over again before anyone ever saw their wins. People see the success—but they don’t see the attempts that came before it. So to anyone on the fence about starting something, our message is the same thing our mom said to us on that August morning: Why not us? If not now, when? Take the chance. Believe in yourself. Open the box. Because at the end of the day, we want to see you win—and we want the family business to grow. You can’t compete with us, because we’re rooting for you too. That’s the power of family. What stands out most after speaking with them is not just what Fourth Street is, but how it is being built. Mary is focused on execution, always thinking about how to turn ideas into action. Susie is the strategist, focused on structure, scale, and long-term growth. Emilie brings precision and clarity, grounding decisions in detail and logic. Maggie leads the creative direction, shaping the identity and visual language of the brand. Andrew brings financial structure and stability, making sure the foundation behind everything holds as it grows. Each plays a different role, but nothing exists in isolation. Decisions overlap, conversations blur together, and the process feels less like a traditional brand build and more like a family figuring it out in real time. Fourth Street is still early, but the foundation is already clear. Not just what they are building, but how they are building it. And that is what makes it matter.

Photographed by Kai Staton-Green | May 9, 2026 Mac DeMarco takes over Agora Theatre in Cleveland, Ohio photographed for HAZZE MEDIA by Kai Staton-Green

Written by Allen Hale | December 12, 2o25 | Opinion I: Introduction As one oft-quoted adage goes, “old habits die hard.” Shedding them can, in some cases, result in the transformation of individuals’ entire mode of being. We need to retain many of our habits, especially the boring ones. Others can consume us entirely. Building them up and tearing them down is never a simple, straightforward task. When undergoing this reconstruction, people often defer to the advice of others. Alongside the prominence of self-help books which line the shelves of Barnes & Noble, there is a particular submarket for literature aimed at nurturing discipline and cultivating healthy, routine behavior, demonstrating how to break and reshape our patterns of (in)action. “Atomic Habits,” Good Habit, Bad Habit,” “Tiny Habits,” “Badass Habits,” the titles go on and on. Academics and essayists alike are no strangers to the topic. Is the desire for this genre in nations like the U.S. to be explained through a Weberian analysis of the Protestant work ethic? A historical account of therapy and self-help literature, alongside their ties to philosophies of moral and religious improvement? Psychiatric science? Something entirely less high-flung or theoretical? There are plenty of potential points of emphasis. Broadly, the social phenomena which have themselves produced a continued demand for these works today can potentially be explored along the following contemporary lines: doomscrolling, bedrotting, excessive screen time and general mental malaise tied to social media; distracted consumption, the attention economy and our dwindling ability to focus; the streaming model’s rise and on-demand, constant access to entertainment. These present-day bad habits nearly all of us have grappled with in one form or another. Spotify is the most prominent way streaming culture captured my attention. I was a longtime participant and, given the app’s prominence, you might be as well. As evidenced by the popularity of self-help literature, engagement in questionable habits despite knowledge of their impact is a seemingly universalizable illness; Spotify is but one current symptom. This much is clear. Throughout its history, the app has pounced on the aforementioned condition while deftly navigating a variety of controversies and criticism. Despite its immense success, the app has also been attacked relentlessly by disparate groups, which Lauren Boisvert rightly termed a continuous “hate cycle” ceasing to reach resolution. Most recently, the rightful outrage which inspired this piece — and has now disappeared from the news cycle — surrounds Spotify co-founder and Executive Chairman (having recently stepped down from his CEO position) Daniel Ek funneling his fortune into defense industries. Ek serves as the founder of an investment fund called Prima Materia, which recently led a round of investment in Helsing; the latter is a defense company that sells AI software aimed at informing and assisting military operations. According to The Fader, this revelation and the disgust it prompted have led a variety of notable artists to exit the platform and pull their music from its immense library. The news broke during late July of 2025, a period in which Israel intensified its genocidal military campaign in Gaza, with some bands specifically denouncing Israel’s actions as a reason to break with Spotify; others cited anti-war or pro-peace stances more broadly. If Ek’s connection to Helsing is surprising, Spotify’s habitual business practices evince a long pattern of disregard for music’s flourishing. These inadequacies crop up in separate areas of the user experience but remain unified in their pervasive carelessness. The neglect emerges at the smallest levels of the app’s profit structure. Spotify has been incessantly criticized for paltry payments and the subpar quality of its services. Although the rate per stream is generally minuscule across music platforms, Spotify’s average premium rate ($0.006 - $0.008) sits below both Apple Music ($0.01) and TIDAL ($0.01284). According to Qobuz, they instead pay $0.01873 per stream as of 2024, according to independently verified figures. Despite offering lower payouts, Spotify does not necessarily incentivize users to join through lowered subscription costs. An individual subscription plan on Spotify will run you $11.99 per month, compared to $10.99 with Apple Music and $10.99 with TIDAL. Their music’s streaming quality similarly fares no better, falling behind competitors. While occasionally bashed for bugginess, TIDAL and Qobuz offer catalogs that rival Spotify’s while one-upping it on quality and, in the case of Qobuz, editorial content offerings. After continuously promising lossless audio’s eventual incorporation, Spotify finally began rolling it out to Premium listeners in select markets this September, likely in an attempt to prevent dissatisfied consumers from jumping ship; widespread incorporation, however, lags behind other outlets. At $10.83 per month with an annual subscription plan, Qobuz allows you to access hi-res FLAC (Free Lossless Audio Codec); the format is similar to MP3 files, but without the accompanying loss in quality owing to compression. MP3 and AAC files are instead “lossy,” the latter previously being used by Spotify. Deezer, a French streaming service, is slightly more expensive, but likewise includes FLAC audio streaming at $11.99 per month — the same as Spotify. TIDAL offers comparable hi-res audio, having initiated a transition to FLAC in recent years. Apple Music’s catalog is also in a hi-res lossless format, although the prior three services are among the best audiophile streaming options, as explained by Derrick Gee. All of these figures culminate in a readily-apparent fact: Spotify is not cheaper for listeners or more rewarding for artists when compared to other popular streaming options. In terms of quality, it has only recently become competitive. On a purely practical level, the app falls flat and fails its users — even before the morality of its business practices is scrutinized. Nonetheless, we are habitual users, repeat offenders. Spotify sits atop the global charts today in terms of its monthly active userbase, servicing 640 million listeners as of January while eclipsing notables like YouTube Music, Soundcloud, Apple Music, Amazon Music, and Pandora. It persists like a phoenix that was never reduced to ashes. Listeners fly like moths to that flame, unable to break free from the pull of our patterned behavior; those habits die hard, scorching us in the process. Still, when its grave falterings are spelled out, their obviousness makes the app’s continued success increasingly confusing, if not borderline baffling. With its main disadvantages and overt lack of ethical consciousness in mind, a question quickly emerges: Why are we still on Spotify? II: Spotify’s history and model Our collectively irrational — yet persistent — allegiance to Spotify needs to be probed. To thoroughly unravel that conundrum, we need to understand Spotify’s historical evolution and success in the face of widespread discontent. Before Spotify even entered the fray, the music industry suffered a variety of calamitous blows threatening its day-to-day operations and enduring future. Around the turn of the millennium, peer-to-peer file-sharing applications like Napster and LimeWire began to increasingly enable the distribution and download of free, pirated music across vast geographic boundaries. A digital revolution in consumers’ mode of interaction with music had arrived. Panic set in quickly, likewise identifiable with previous forms of backlash towards home taping. Observing increased threats to the viability of physical media, a common issue for artists and industry figures alike, Napster was swiftly sued into oblivion by Metallica for copyright infringement and racketeering; a leaked demo by the band had circulated on the platform before its official release. In the fallout, Napster filed for bankruptcy roughly three years after its founding. LimeWire shuttered in 2010 after a federal injunction; the Recording Industry Association of America suggested the software had cost them a catastrophic 72 trillion in damages, eventually resulting in a $105 million settlement. Pandora’s musical box, however, had already been opened. Spotify’s inception in Sweden was structured by similar sociohistorical forces. During the early aughts, the Scandinavian nation earned a reputation as a haven for piracy — The Pirate Bay, for example, was started in the country. As one of the largest sources for such content, Sweden’s position in an evolving market for musical goods was understood to be increasingly shrinking. The country came to be viewed as a sort of digital lost cause, possessing a cumbersome consumer base resistant to purchasing music through traditional forms of law-abiding distribution. Legal struggles and threats remained, though, and stigmas around piracy persisted among both individuals and corporations. Amidst that uncertainty, there was a gap waiting to be filled by a service which promised free access to music alongside a legal, profitable business model for investors. Daniel Ek recognized the opportunity. As a co-founder of Spotify and its current CEO, Ek initially seized upon the futility of legislating piracy away, according to a 2010 profile in The Telegraph: “The only way to solve the problem was to create a service that was better than piracy and at the same time compensates the music industry – that gave us Spotify.” Armed with a background in IT and open-source technologies while entrenched in a culture replete with file-sharing services, Ek envisioned Spotify as a means of capitalizing on examples set by these networks of exchange, legally replicating their appeal through an advertising-based model. “Instant, simple, free,” proclaimed one tagline, bundled up with a sleek image that out-iOSed iOS. As author, researcher and music journalist Liz Pelly observes, the point of interest during conversations throughout the company’s early history was never music-specific, with some suggesting the company eventually turned to the medium owing to smaller file sizes when compared with video. In her landmark study of the app published earlier this year, “Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of Perfect Playlist,” Pelly swiftly details the company’s changing commitments: “Like many other tech companies in the twenty-first century, Spotify spent its first decade claiming to disrupt an archaic industry, scaling up as quickly as possible, and attracting venture capitalists to an unproven business model. In its search for growth and profitability, Spotify reinvented itself repeatedly: as a social-networking platform in 2010, as an app marketplace in 2011, and by the end of 2012, as a hub for what it called ‘music for every moment,’ supplying recommendations for specific moods, activities, and times of day. Spotify made its move into curation the next year, hiring a staff of editors to compile in-house playlists. In 2014, the company was increasing its investment in algorithmic personalization technology. This innovation was intended, as Spotify put it, to ‘level the playing field’ for artists by minimizing the power of major labels, radio stations, and other old-school gatekeepers; in their place, it claimed, would be a system that simply rewarded tracks that streamed well. By the mid-2010s, the service was actively recasting itself as a neutral platform, a data-driven meritocracy that was rewriting the rules of the music business with its playlists and algorithms.” Unsurprisingly, Spotify’s shifting character and ambiguous artistic goals have resulted in friction between musicians and Ek’s business aims. Despite being wealthier than any musical artist in history, Ek has displayed a stunning ignorance to the process of creation: “In 2020, for example, Spotify cofounder and CEO Daniel Ek said that musicians need to release more material to create “‘a continuous engagement with their fans’ if they want to thrive on the platform: ‘You can’t record music once every three to four years and think that’s going to be enough.’” While promising (and delivering users) with an inexhaustible catalog of albums, Spotify’s monetary viability is driven by subscriptions and ads. You listen, but nothing in your “collection” is actually owned by yourself in a tangible sense. As a tech company lacking any veritable allegiance to the interests and pursuits of musicians, Spotify’s mode of all-encompassing participation smoothes over distinct behavioral forms of engagement among unique genre communities and scenes, reducing musical practices — think college radio rock or bloghouse — to a one-size-fits-all model which offers little referent to their histories during listening; the music is presented in a floaty manner, devoid of context or editorial explanation. Regardless of the umbrage one might take with the commodity fetishism tied to physical music ownership, Spotify’s practices seem detached from the interests of both listeners and musicians alike, hardly by or for either group. Upon closer inspection, a litany of related scandals only reinforces this intuition. III: Spotify’s controversies and endurance As previously mentioned, Spotify’s poor payment of artists was a consistent point of criticism faced by Ek. While they benefit from exposure to a massive user base, smaller artists fail to reap the benefits conducive to their future pursuits. Spotify’s seeming ability to level the playing field has, rather than producing a musical meritocracy, resulted in a skewed terrain that maintains only an image of fairness. Instead of turning the industry upside down entirely, familiar faces latched onto the opportunity: per Pelly’s “Mood Machine,” “Spotify was subject to the outsized influence of the major-label oligopoly of Sony, Universal, and Warner, which together owned a 17 percent stake in the company when it launched. The companies, which controlled roughly 70 percent of the market for recorded music, held considerable negotiating power from the start.” The situation has not improved over time. Senior staff writer for Chicago Reader, Leor Galil, notes that: “Last year, Spotify further tilted its playing field toward big stars by instituting a policy withholding payouts entirely on songs streamed fewer than 1,000 times in a 12-month period.” Although Spotify’s curated playlists have become an appealing draw for fans and artists alike, their return on success is often fleeting, failing to encourage deeper engagement with those who occupy prized spots on such tracklists. Despite possessing tools for discovery, Spotify — like TikTok’s and its ability to capitalize on dwindling attention spans — appears unable to fully furnish thorough habits of sustained listener engagement. Similarly, Pelly’s investigation in “Mood Machine” laboriously highlights the degradation of Spotify’s curation efforts over time, limiting the app’s ability to function as an exploratory or informative music platform. Playlist-based discovery is especially key for smaller musicians looking to make the most of Spotify’s streaming features. Discovery Mode, introduced in 2020, even encourages labels to accept a lower royalty rate in exchange for algorithmic promotion. Furthering one’s career as a musician via Spotify involves a reliance upon these recommendation features and their downstream impact on merch and concert ticket sales, as opposed to the money earned through those streams themselves. Spotify’s recommendation features also fester with less visible threats, capitalizing on already-low payout rates for musicians. To continue squeezing out a profit, Spotify has increasingly filled its curated playlists with “ghost artists.” In 2022, an investigation by Swedish daily newspaper Dagens Nyheter revealed that “around twenty songwriters were behind the work of more than five hundred ‘artists,’ and that thousands of their tracks were on Spotify and had been streamed millions of times,” as recounted by Pelly. She goes on to demonstrate how Spotify maintains, “partnerships with a web of production companies, which, as one former employee put it, provide Spotify with ‘music we benefited from financially,’ but also a team of employees working to seed these tracks on playlists across the platform,” with Spotify curators increasingly forced by their superiors to include such songs on their playlists. The music is largely cannon fodder for playlists, making the unique promise of discoverability entirely compromised and rendered hollow. Some of these providers promoting cheap stock music have similarly furnished partnerships with Apple Music and Amazon Music; streaming platforms are subsequently able to enrich themselves by paying less in royalties to these ghost musicians than they would otherwise. Without ownership over any part of the master recordings or their publishing rights, ghost musicians themselves generate far more revenue for Spotify and ghost labels than they would ever see; “I’m selling my intellectual property for essentially peanuts,” one asserted to Pelly. If those who indirectly limit the algorithmic or playlist-based discovery of others’ work are themselves being shoddily compensated, does any musician see benefits? If that sounds egregious, it can still worsen. As AI continues to encroach on the arts, the degradation of Spotify’s curation may be increasingly supplemented with generative content churned out at breakneck paces — the Velvet Sundown incident, in which a fake band with AI generated music garnered thousands of listeners, serves as one warning sign. Pelly argues that Spotify has been readily open about its AI-related intentions, a technology which entirely aligns with the company’s model for success: “During a 2023 conference call, Daniel Ek noted that the boom in AI-generated content could be ‘great culturally’ and allow Spotify to ‘grow engagement and revenue,’” an unsurprising stance given the pride placed in their platform’s machine-learning-powered recommendations. Deezer CEO Alexis Lanternier has instead opined that they intend to “lead the way in minimising any negative impact for artists and fans alike” following a notable uptick in AI-generated content on their platform, as monitored by a detection tool installed at the start of the year. In February, 10,000 AI-generated songs were being added to Deezer each day; the daily totals had increased to 30,000 by February. If the app initially earned its stay by capitalizing on a niche unfulfilled by potential then-competitors like YouTube or iTunes, how has it maintained this position while routinely disservicing musicians and fans every step of the way? In my estimation, Spotify endures owing partly to its sociality and UI, alongside its core model’s early entrenchment relative to competitors — the announcement of direct messages being added to the app is the most recent development in this vein. By offering free modes engagement alongside subscription-based services, the app lowers barriers to initial use and encourages sustained loyalty through features like family or student plans. These features are not uncommon for streaming services. However, Spotify’s early identification of this model’s feasibility — an image and service placed somewhere between piracy and pricy corporate distribution — cemented its preeminence among interconnected, mutually reliant base of users. In recognizing the general mode for their enduring viability and appeal comparatively early historically, Spotify has retained subscribers with deep legacies on the app, initially earned before a swarm of competitors could also catch on. User-to-user interactions like friends lists, blended playlists and shared listening queues in the form of “jams” likewise dissuade interest in non-compatible platforms, or everything that is not Spotify, the listener version of green text bubbles on your iPhone. By possessing an early grip on a listener base eager for free, streamed music, Spotify has subsequently persisted like a black hole of discouragement; using an alternative involves dropping a variety of conferred social benefits. Once the consumer habit sufficiently deepens, abandoning a preference grows cumbersome, even in light of its evidently lacking areas. While other platforms have caught up — such as by delivering their own versions of Spotify’s famed (yet increasingly enshittified) Wrapped feature — having an instinctual jump from the get-go is no small historical advantage for Ek’s empire, a vision for the future of social media-ified music listening conceived in an opportune time and place. Beyond listeners, major players across music labels, A&R and PR have increasingly relied upon Spotify’s metrics as a barometer for industry health and trends, sustained by nearly a decade of the company’s continuous growth. It functions as a resource of inestimable value for powerful players seeking to navigate the techno-cultural disruption of traditional media wrought by the online streaming services, hence major labels’ willingness to partner with Spotify. On a macro level, Spotify’s success is subsequently reinforced by other monied interests. The algorithm might deliver more of what you like, but it has no reason to exhaustively provide what you might love by probing the deep recesses of less commercializable sound cultures. While leaving the app also involves leaving money on the table, the recent exodus among large names in independent music has expanded the question of Spotify’s worth beyond purely musical or economic concerns. King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Deerhoof, Xiu Xiu, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Hotline TNT and others have all left owing to Ek’s monetary investments in Helsing, with the visibility of Israel’s genocidal destruction of Gaza serving as an unignorable inflection point for some. In leaving, these bands sacrifice access to a massive audience in order to distance themselves from any connection with a platform producing profits that are rechanneled into defense industries; like-minded listeners ought to weigh the benefits offered by the app in the same light. Spotify navigated past controversies owing partly to the lack of visible harm stemming from its use. Artists have always been underserved by corporations like Spotify, functioning as the rule rather than the exception. Being shortchanged in a new manner, despite worsening these existing problems, did little to place consumers into a new or pronounced category of blame with regard to their listening. However, even if the overt cruelty of Spotify’s practices has rarely been this explicitly evil in the past — only shady or avaricious by comparison — the causal distance between our actions as listeners and their monetary impact on industries of death remains dispersed and somewhat out of sight. Like the burning of fossil fuels, the effects of Spotify’s continued success results in destruction that is temporally and geographically separated from the harmful action of streaming itself, which — like driving cars or running AC — is deceptively innocuous, normal and habitual in our daily lives. Spotify especially encourages a related form of disconcerted, lean-back consumption via algorithmic programming, background music with playlists for any mood or activity; Pelly emphasizes that the genre playlists seen as most conducive to distracted listening are also those most likely to be plagued by ghost artists’ filler recordings. Because Spotify is accepted to be a socially paradigmatic form of digital life by its users, the app’s faults have been continually dismissed as unfortunate yet inevitable circumstances; marginally better outcomes promised for musicians by other streaming platforms have not been worth the switch for some. For anyone with a conscience, though, that can no longer be the case; recent events have obliterated any validity behind this refusal to correct our habits. With the indifference long shown towards the suffering of fellow humans despite the visible interconnectedness of our online world, the latent danger of apps we use is yet another dilemma wherein it the ordinary is easy to turn a blind eye, more so than the never-ending feed of pronounced crises we are broadcast. If Spotify itself relies on fulfilling the promise of frictionless, inactive forms of enjoyment, challenging their appeal involves undermining societally pervasive forms of cruelty’s passive acceptance, which we have all been socialized to accept. In other words, we are acclimated to the normality of small deeds which, in isolation, appear mild; cumulatively, their impact can instead be linked to calamitous results, such as Ek redirecting his wealth into industries that profit from death. IV: What is to be done? Despite these issues, Spotify will inevitably continue to be used. Aside from the difficulty for many of breaking an old habit or emotional attachment, the departures thus far represent a mere blip for the app, currently unable to ultimately tip the balance of power, even if it sets an inspiring precedent that others may follow. Dozens of artists on the level of Taylor Swift or Drake, for example, would have to leave in order to notably impact the app’s revenue. Leaving itself similarly takes time for musicians to pursue, owing to the web of negotiations regarding their contractual label duties and musicians’ ownership over their work itself; leaving Spotify is not always a choice entirely in the hands of these figures. The obligation increasingly lies with listeners themselves, then. Even if this particular hate cycle is more effective, it remains to be seen if it breaks any sort of adherence we maintain to the platform. Reacting and condemning is not enough: Unshackling ourselves from daily use of Spotify and decreasing the size of the app’s potential audience is a choice only directly enactable by its millions of users. Simply caring is our impetus. I have used Spotify almost every day for nearly a decade, emotionally attached despite my knowledge of its glaring contradictions. It enabled my growth as a music fan by offering a way to enjoy songs without keeping a YouTube page open, a way to make playlists efficiently, a way to partake in music with others. In the past, imagining the end of Spotify was tantamount to imagining the end of streamlined digital music listening itself. For years, it had never been easier to give my music an accessible home. Thankfully, if remaining on Spotify was always simple, it has also never been easier to abandon the app entirely. Although switching to Apple Music involves its own set of ethical concerns, its superior services at a lower cost trounce Spotify on all fronts. With a less scandalous reputation and a newly-released feature that allows users to import playlists from Spotify, Apple has made switching incredibly seamless, a task that once appeared exhausting for those with large libraries. For users looking to immediately change platforms and test the waters, it is likely the simplest option. Those interested in exploring platforms like Deezer, Qobuz and TIDAL can look to services such as Soundiiz or Songshift in order to port their playlists. Furthermore, Spotify’s failures may have enticed you to consider abandoning music streaming platforms altogether. The payout rates that competitors provide are an improvement over Spotify, to be sure. Still, these amounts remain microscopic in the long run, imperfect halfway solutions to broader problems facing the economic survival of working musicians today. To thoroughly support your favorite artists, consider buying from services that monetarily support their output in a direct fashion. Nina Protocol and Bandcamp are two platforms that have succeeded along these lines, in addition to offering great editorial content. If you can afford an $11.99 per month Spotify subscription, buying one LP during the same time duration at the same price point should not be considered an excessive or unrealistic investment. My hope for this piece was not to simply admonish the Spotify users I have routinely identified in this essay, since I belong to the group myself. Rather, having recently transferred my library to Deezer, I hope to offer some starting points for those in a similar position, a way to productively and responsibly channel any internal guilt. As I have hinted, breaking free from streaming entirely could constitute its own article and, given the near-ubiquity of its modus operandi for young music fans especially, I wanted to discuss some options that may feel more familiar for an initial switch away from Spotify — even if buying only physical media or digital downloads, for instance, rewards artists more properly. On both practical and ethical fronts, there is little incentive to continue using Spotify, despite its convenience often trumping these concerns. Breaking a bad habit is never easy, but in doing so, there lies something beyond view worth pursuing. Compared to other perpetual struggles we attempt to correct, abandoning an app which funnels its wealth into AI-powered killing mechanisms is, plainly, no one’s choice but your own — a readily imperative one at that. In a world filled with overwhelming displays of chaos and violence from which we feel disconnected and powerless, staking our claim as devoted listeners is but one minute area where we must begin to push back. It is a small step, but if we cannot muster up the effort, how will we fare when courage is actually demanded of us? Disclaimer: The views, analysis, and opinions expressed in this op-ed are of the writer. All information is for commentary and informational purposes only and is not intended as legal, professional, or investment advice. References to third-party sources and public figures are made for illustrative purposes and do not imply endorsement or verification by HAZZE MEDIA. Source list: Rebecca Richardson, “Ambition, monomania and the seeds of self-help,” bps.org “Speaking of Psychology: Why our attention spans are shrinking, with Gloria Mark, PhD,” apa.org Lauren Boisvert, “Spotify Criticism Is Louder Than Ever, But Will It Make A Real Difference This Time?,” vice.com Natalie Sherman, “Spotify founder Daniel Ek to step down as chief executive,” bbc.com Walden Green and Matthew Strauss, “Deerhoof to Remove Music From Spotify,” pitchfork.com Nora Wang, “All the artists leaving Spotify,” thefader.com Aya Batrawy, Anas Baba, and Abu Bakr Bashir, “As Israel turns its focus to Iran, the death toll mounts in Gaza — and hunger deepens,” npr.org “Israel intensifies Gaza City attacks, forcing starving Palestinians to flee,” aljazeera.com “BYE SPOTIFY,” deerhoof.com Matthew Strauss “King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard Leave Spotify,” pitchfork.com “How Music Streaming Platforms Calculate Payouts Per Stream 2025,” royaltyexchange.com Carrie Marshall, “Qobuz reveals how much it really pays per stream, and I want to see more of this transparency to help us spend money more ethically,” techradar.com spotify.com apple.com tidal.com tidal.com qobuz.com newsroom.spotify.com “The Best Music Streaming Services in 2025,” audioadvice.com support.spotify.com deezer.com “The Best Music Streaming Services in 2025,” audioadvice.com “The Best Music Streaming Services in 2025,” audioadvice.com instagram.com Tom Newman, “Top 10 music streaming platforms by monthly active users in 2025,” routenote.com Sam Law, “Metallica vs. Napster: The lawsuit that redefined how we listen to music,” kerrang.com Kirsten Acuna, “The RIAA Claimed LimeWire Owed Them 72 TRILLION Dollars,” businessinsider.com Stephen Heyman, “Sweden's Notorious Distinction as a Haven for Online Pirates,” nytimes.com Eric Alper, “Learning to Listen,” thebaffler.com Stephen Heyman, “Sweden's Notorious Distinction as a Haven for Online Pirates,” nytimes.com Eric Alper, “Learning to Listen,” thebaffler.com Rupert Neate, “Daniel Ek profile: 'Spotify will be worth tens of billions,'” telegraph.co.uk Eric Alper, “Learning to Listen,” thebaffler.com Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Eric Alper, “Learning to Listen,” thebaffler.com Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Daniel Griffiths, “What the Ek? Spotify founder is richer than any musical artist, ever,” yahoo.com Leor Galil, “Time to dump Spotify,” chicagoreader.com Stuart Dredge, “Spotify CEO talks Covid-19, artist incomes and podcasting (interview),” musically.com Eric Alper, “Learning to Listen,” thebaffler.com Megan De Mar and Mikayla Price, “Chicago artists pulling music off Spotify over concerns about pay and AI-generated content,” cbsnews.com Geoff Bennett and Jackson Hudgins, “Musicians push back on dwindling payments from streaming service,” pbs.org Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Leor Galil, “Time to dump Spotify,” chicagoreader.com Leor Galil, “Time to dump Spotify,” chicagoreader.com “How Music Streaming Platforms Calculate Payouts Per Stream 2025,” royaltyexchange.com Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org “DN avslöjar: Svenska fejkartisterna som tog över på Spotify – större än Robyn,” dn.se Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Tara Bellucci, “The Velvet Sundown: The AI Band Controversy Explained,” berklee.edu Aneesa Ahmed, “Deezer reveal that 28 per cent of music uploaded to platform is fully AI-generated,” nme.com Aneesa Ahmed, “Deezer reveal that 28 per cent of music uploaded to platform is fully AI-generated,” nme.com “Introducing Messages, A New Way To Share What You Love on Spotify with Friends and Family,” newsroom.spotify.com Hua Hsu, “Is there any escape from the Spotify syndrome?,” newyorker.com Liz Pelly, “The Ghosts in the Machine,” harpers.org Hua Hsu, “Is there any escape from the Spotify syndrome?,” newyorker.com “‘You Feel Like You Are Subhuman’: Israel’s Genocide Against Palestinians in Gaza,” amnesty.ca Emma Graham-Harrison, “Israel committing genocide in Gaza, say Israel-based human rights groups,” theguardian.com Tatiana Cirisano, “Some artists are leaving Spotify (again). Here’s what’s different now,” midiaresearch.com Bernd Debusmann Jr. and Natalie Sherman, “Apple lawsuit: US accuses tech giant of monopolising smartphone market,” bbc.com Jazz Monroe, “Apple Music Now Lets You Import Playlists From Spotify and Other Streaming Services,” pitchfork.com

Written by Elliot Heath | May 8, 2026 | Opinion In the past decade, Apple has cemented itself in modern culture. Features like Airdrop, Apple Pay, and iMessage games have helped distinguish the global tech company from its competitors, leading to increased sales and wide adoption by American youth in particular. Indeed, a Bloomberg survey showed that 79 percent of respondents in the 18-24 age bracket used iPhones, compared to just 13 percent who used smartphones from Samsung, Apple’s biggest rival worldwide.1 With such a prevailing lead, Apple appears to have captured the collective consciousness of Generation Z. The storied debate of Apple versus Samsung phones has reached a clear winner in the United States, and Apple has emerged as a near-unrivalled force as its signature products — the iPhone, MacBook, AirPods, and many more — slowly become the default for young consumers.2 But beneath the tech behemoth’s success lies a slew of serious allegations that continue to tarnish its image.3 Apple has come under fire in recent years for harmful business practices against both workers and consumers.4 5 The Department of Justice (DOJ) filed a lawsuit against the company in March 2024 for violating antitrust laws, alleging monopolistic actions that allow Apple to stifle its competition and drive up prices.6 Although the lawsuit remains ongoing, it speaks to a growing nationwide sentiment many of us have had for years: As Apple’s stranglehold on the industry tightens, the user experience diminishes.7 “The new iOS is like getting a present from the relative who knows you the least,” Sloane Crosley wrote in a piece for Wired, referring to Apple’s most recent software rollout.8 The company also had to suspend an AI tool that summarizes headlines in January 2025 after a host of news organizations criticized it for generating misinformation.9 And a quick perusal through tech-centered Reddit threads over the past few years will show just how frustrated many users have felt with Apple’s trajectory.10 With all the headaches and irritation, it’s time to reconsider our reliance on the tech giant and how we can combat its predatory practices. Traces of the Apple monopoly start small, but they build up to something much larger. One of the most common gripes from Apple loyalists is that texts from other brands appear green and limit messaging features, which the DOJ lawsuit uses as an example of the company's objectionable business moves.11 Someone using a Samsung phone can still correspond with an iPhone user, but is not able to directly play iMessage games via GamePigeon,12 use the “reply” function to specific messages,13 send Apple Cash,14 or engage with a host of other features that have come to define modern messaging. These inconveniences, however minor, can alienate users of other brands and make it seem as though Apple is the only viable smartphone option. Green texts are just one in a host of tactics that result in curtailing competition. In the past several years, Apple has designed a sizable line of software to be incompatible with other smartphones.15 The DOJ lawsuit targets the Apple App Store in particular for its monopolistic overreach,16 citing its efforts to prohibit cloud streaming apps and super apps,17 18 both of which are programs that would allow users to conveniently access a range of online services without having to rely on the iOS system. Super apps, also known as everything apps, are mobile apps that centralize a variety of digital tools to an individual’s account, effectively housing several “mini apps” in one.19 WeChat, for example, one of China’s most popular apps, allows users to message, shop online, reserve movie tickets, and play video games all in one place.20 Cloud streaming or gaming apps, alternatively, use an outside server to operate its hardware, which works even when the phone that hosts the app doesn’t have the adequate computing power or storage.21 Essentially, a user can run a complex app with high-powered software, including many video games, on a less complex smartphone because of the remote cloud connection. Apps with “mini apps” and cloud connections of their own would be a great way to preserve people’s digital lives across different smartphone models while saving money on expensive software and hardware — and for that reason, threaten user reliance on Apple products. It’s the same pattern with services like the Apple Watch and Apple Wallet. In connecting to an iPhone, Apple bars any smartwatch — that is, a watch that connects to the internet, is able to receive notifications, and tracks user health — made by a third-party software from accessing the full range of features offered by an Apple Watch.22 Similarly, the company blocks any non-Apple digital wallet — a service that centralizes access to credit cards, contacts, and IDs in one place to auto-fill information and keep track of payments — from performing pivotal functions like tap-to-pay and in-app payment, features that would provide healthy competition to Apple’s built-in system and allow users to access their digital wallets regardless of what kind of smartphone they use.23 As Apple decisively sweeps its opponents in the American youth market, the company uses the opportunity to do what monopolies do best: cheapen the quality of the product and inflate prices as soon as consumers think they have no other alternatives. Apple famously removed the headphone jack from the iPhone in 2016,24 effectively forcing users to purchase wireless devices like Airpods for listening. The same year, it eliminated all non-USB-C ports from the Macbook,25 which means that tools like flash drives, SD cards, and HDMI cables can’t connect unless through an adapter that has to be bought separately. And as of 2020, iPhone packages now arrive with no complimentary charging block,26 requiring yet another outside purchase from consumers. While the company’s proponents have claimed such moves serve purposes aside from profit, such as increasing water resistance, optimizing space for other device features, or reducing environmental impact,27 Apple consumers seem to always bear the financial brunt of these decisions rather than the tech giant itself. All the while, Apple continues to raise prices on the iPhone.28 It is able to do so precisely because of its alleged monopoly over the industry; even while rival brands like Samsung, Google, and Motorola release products with lower costs,29 30 31 Apple’s presence in the American market is so ubiquitous that it can feel as though its competitors hardly matter. Even for buyers who do pay attention to price tags, switching to a cheaper brand when all your devices are from Apple is unfeasible given the iPhone’s incompatibility with non-Apple products. Perhaps even more sinister are the divisive effects of Apple’s smartphone dominance on our collective culture. A 2025 All About Cookies survey showed that 36 percent of Android user respondents said they have “felt negatively judged” because of their smartphone, while 22 percent of Apple user respondents admitted to thinking less of someone when their text messages appear green.32 These stigmas have even seeped into dating, with 23 percent of iPhone users reporting it would be a “dealbreaker” if a potential partner had a non-Apple phone. While tiny differences in messaging functionality may seem trivial, they add to a growing pileup of factors polarizing American youth,33 eating away at our social fabric. As the years go on, Apple’s calculated veneer of an in-touch, culturally relevant modern tech company begins to break down, slowly revealing the company’s true colors. A monopoly’s goal, ultimately, is to obtain maximum profit through complete market domination.34 With no viable competitors or government regulation, a company can do nearly anything it wants to achieve that goal, throwing away any notion of consumer satisfaction in the process so long as it provides a product people can’t live without. Apple has not yet gotten to this extreme — but it’s getting closer and closer. While organizations such as the DOJ have already taken aim at Apple, it is worth considering what young consumers can do at the bottom level. It may be impossible to avoid using Apple products, but organized pressure campaigns, which range from protests and letter-writing to collective outcry via social media, against the company’s domineering practices can still help shift the tides against Apple’s public favorability, forcing it to change its trajectory before it’s too late. And on an interpersonal level, people should not be blaming or stigmatizing other smartphone users for problems that a tech company worth trillions of dollars deliberately put into place — otherwise, we fall into the same pattern that gave Apple so much power in the first place. In an age where our devices and the tech companies that control them take up so much of our everyday lives, emphasizing our own agency as human beings is more important than ever. Source List Disclaimer: The views, analysis, and opinions expressed in this op-ed are of the writer. All information is for commentary and informational purposes only and is not intended as legal, professional, or investment advice. References to third-party sources and public figures are made for illustrative purposes and do not imply endorsement or verification by HAZZE MEDIA.

Interview By Emily Kulyk | May 8 2026 Stadium lights flicker on as crowds fill the stands before Mario Easterly takes the field. Under that glow, he comes alive with a similar intensity. He carries every version of himself that led to this moment, shaping the player he has become. There is a steady strength to him, both physical and emotional, as he steps onto the turf. As a child, he may not have expected to stand under those lights, taking in all the game would offer. But he hoped for it. He played for the wins, and learned from the losses. Photos Provided By Nilson Sports and Mario Easterly Growing up in Pennsylvania, he could be found on either a mat, a diamond or a field. Athleticism seemed like it came naturally. The athletic qualities were a reaction, something that made up who Easterly was, and they transmuted once he stepped into his zone. With seven sisters, the Easterly house would be loud and filled with love, bursting with support. It gave him space to grow not only as a person but also as an athlete. He carved his own path, specifically as an athlete. Practices weren’t just a weekly commitment; they centered on traveling and playing on elite teams, which demanded a lot from a child. He pushed himself through tough moments, which were the building blocks for something more. He held a desire and grit that was rooted in something more. The people who helped him create his why were found on the sidelines. “You will always know when the Easterlys are around because of the amount of passion and the enthusiasm they cheer with,” he says. It was not only the skill but also the support that would be the groundwork on which his young career would be built. The sacrifices they made cleared a path for Easterly. “Each day, I strive to be a better person not only for myself but also for the people around me,” Easterly says. It almost seemed easy how he would transform into a player from each sport. Each with their own required skill, differing from the others. He fit the bill for each. There wouldn’t be just a single goal; there would be many. As the love for those sports had continued to grow, so had the competitive nature. He wanted to do more than was asked of him. He was excited to compete, and no one had to remind him to bring the passion that fuels his spirit. Photos Provided By Nilson Sports and Mario Easterly Despite the success on the field, the same couldn’t be found for school. He had some trouble, which led him to transfer schools. He was taken from something familiar and now had a longer commute to school every day, picturing how to make the most of what had been presented to him. In this new environment, he gained something larger than what he left behind. This new beginning proved to be a contributing factor to the success he found in the grand scheme of things. The stage was set, and he was now playing at a school with a notable football program, which had created new opportunities for him. This couldn't be taken lightly anymore. He saw the evidence of how it worked for others. NFL players had passed through those very doors and took on the responsibilities that came with playing at that school. Easterly would be doing the same, walking those halls, running onto the field with the idea of what he could become. Seeing how those around him got the ticket to the next level, which focused his perspective on figuring out how to get there. He wondered how he could punch his ticket for the ride as well. With each pass and play, the idea of who he could be was unfolding before him, which would offer hope that taking a chance would give him something in return. Photos Provided By Nilson Sports and Mario Easterly With the playing time he had, he saw both sides of the ball, safety and receiver. Not even the increased workload would slow Easterly down. The role he stepped into kept growing with each play. He had been proud to show what he could do. The time on the football field didn’t feel like enough. He found time to compete in another wrestling and baseball season. It wasn’t luck; maybe it wasn’t even validation, but it was something that would prove he had qualities that could be built upon. His sights were set on the brighter lights of a college football field. Knowing offers were on the table fueled the work he was putting in. Premature college offers are often reserved for athletes who are demonstrating something that may have people look twice. Those players usually have a certain something that cannot be described solely by stats or highlight reels. It would instead be an encompassing feature presentation on who they are and what they do. By this point, Easterly wasn’t average. A college offer came early in high school for him. There wasn’t anyone to tell him what he needed to do or how hard to work to do it. He simply did it, time and time again, showing up to leave everything he had with the sports he cherished. Not much could stop him from achieving what he had set out to do. Many athletes shared those ideas about their goals before the pandemic took hold. This led to sidelining athletes everywhere, including Easterly. Seasons were cut short, or didn’t happen at all. He was up against a feeling he hadn’t felt very often, which would be boredom. “I wasn’t able to compete, which is what I was so used to. From the time I was six to now, 15 to 16 years old, I know I was bored,” He explains. He took the extra time, and simply put it back into himself. He figured out ways to get himself ahead even if there was a level of quiet he hadn’t been used to. It was a moment that laid the work that supported the mindset, grit and investment. From where Easterly stood, slowing down seemed foreign, and it had been a tough moment that he couldn’t fix by just putting in another rep or some extra time practicing. The boredom would eventually fade; slowly and cautiously, football would return, and Easterly had a positive outlook on things from where he stood. It would be like starting an engine again. The hope is that it will run again. But in what condition, and would it run smoothly? He found ways to get back to the place that meant everything to him. He saw how his hard work paid off. The proof was found in the stacks of offer letters that began showing up at his home. There was no wrestling season, but baseball went on. With baseball being a second love for Easterly, it gave him pause in deciding what route to take in college. “I started to realize football is my thing,” he says. The summer going into his senior year, Easterly knew what it would mean to be committed to a college. Wondering how a looming decision would play out, one that cements an idea around what his future would look like. Getting to that point was something to strive for. In a funny happenstance and as a nod to his dad (who gets credit for much of Easterly’s success), his commitment to Old Dominion University was made on August 10th, his dad’s birthday, who knew the meaning it would hold for his son to show up on a college football field and play, just as he did. Highs and lows are tangled within every good story. Easterly finished not only his high school football career with a state championship game under his belt. He competed in the PSFCA Big 33 Football Classic, an All-Star game between Maryland and Pennsylvania's All-Star football teams. Having these meaningful moments reminded him of his love for sports. He was happy to deliver on them during some of his last chances to play high school football. It had been wrapped up in the best way it could. For how hard Easterly had been working, it’s not surprising that he would conclude his senior year with 15 touchdowns and 1100 receiving yards. He had one more box to check as his high school time had come to an end. Easterly was busy, but not too busy that he couldn’t give back. There was a little time left for work in the community. Easterly took on working with kids with special needs. Senior year ended with a well-rounded experience that sets up the next chapter. High school was in the past, and ODU had come into focus. He saw an opportunity to build a role on the team. His position had officially been changed from receiver to safety. Starting at a new school will come with a new system. Diving into that college system and playbook would be different from what he’d already been used to in high school. Of course, the fundamentals of football are the same. The story was a familiar one. But it wasn’t the entire story. It was all falling into place in front of Easterly. He was taking on something larger than himself. He wasn’t sizing up in the way he once was. He was trying to compete in a role he hadn’t fit into yet. It was a tough moment to shake. The pieces he had weren’t fitting into place, and that was becoming increasingly frustrating. Easterly learned how to navigate and take another step beyond what everyone else had been doing. He knew what he wanted to do, what he wanted to accomplish as an individual. But that would mean investing in himself time and time again to get there. Being the best wouldn’t get him to the level he expected of himself. He needed to find a path that would bring him there. Photos Provided By Nilson Sports and Mario Easterly Freshman year, more or less, was about learning rather than playing when it came to the work on the field. He played in four games and had several tackles. It wasn’t ideal, but it offered some understanding of what needed to be done off the field to take his game from where it was to where it needed to be. It was the first step. The quick glimpses in between had not been enough to satisfy the lingering desire to be better and to get him more time in the environment that meant everything. He labeled the time as bittersweet. But taking the time to learn had importance; the playing time would come back to him. While it was difficult to spend a good amount of time sitting on the bench his freshman year, it was taken in stride. He put his head down, regrouped and got back to work. He saw what he needed to do and did it, setting him up for more game action in his sophomore year. He wondered how he could get more from himself. If it meant doing whatever it took, Easterly would sign up. There wouldn’t be time for an inner critic, a lonesome voice that seems louder than the rest. Easterly had a vision that pushed past anything else that would challenge him. Late nights in the film room studying plays were an important part of getting skills to be replicated on the field. “It made a huge difference, and I realized what I put in was what I will get out,” Easterly said. There was never a question about talent; that was always present. But the transition wasn’t as he had originally thought before getting on campus. Transferring the skills he had watched in a quiet room and getting them to translate them was not part of the workload he expected when he took time to get himself ready for a game. Having a moment to reflect on what kind of player he wanted to be led him to the success he wanted. He had channeled what he learned on and off the field and found the solution worked. It was an investment worth making. He hadn’t asked for permission. He saw what was his and knew it would be his to take. By taking a step back, not in his game, but in how he faced the game, he was going further. Elements were unfolding naturally, and there was a bubbling excitement. He wouldn’t chase the outcome. A slow, steady method would bring him what he wanted. He found a rhythm in a game that would also serve as something to go back to when he needed the reminder of what he was capable of. The first matchup of that season was against Indiana, which would go on to win the National Championship. Along with the win, Easterly used that as a benchmark in how he’d play against some of the best. It meant something to accomplish this, knowing what he had faced. With the knowledge he could now reach a new level, he expected that of himself each game. That gave him some reassurance. In no way could he relax; it meant the opposite: he would be showing up to that standard every time. It would be the goal post he’d need to run towards. It was also a reminder that he could play at the level he knew he was meant to play at. Both physical and mental ideas finally merged as Easterly believed they would; the point where the proof caught up was reached. Those ideas surrounding his game, including preparation, mindset, and confidence, were pillars that supported the game he knew he could show up and play. The crucial part was that it worked. In the end, it was a moment that set the tone for the season and led ODU to a bowl game win. With the extra time he was putting in now, Easterly was seeing his performance change. It had simply been the hard work that would pay off. It was a puzzle to be solved, but once he accomplished it, the reward was in the performance. With a new season, he was now finding consistent success in his game, one he himself had been happy with. This last season, his redshirt junior year, he started all 13 games, completed 80 tackles, those tackles were team-leading, completed his 1st interception, additionally, 4 pass breakups, and forced fumble rounded those stats off. Photos Provided By Nilson Sports and Mario Easterly An athlete's mindset is vital, especially for him. The wins don’t come as easily and accumulate until the mindset changes. Challenges can be overcome. If it wavered, it regained a steady beat and came back, and probably came back stronger. Along with mindset, preparation keeps him locked in on his goals and his own game. “Being able to play with conviction is most important, and that starts with preparation,” he said. If he were able to go back and tell himself something, it would be to “invest as much as possible and dive deep beyond,” Easterly adds. As busy as his schedule is, he shows up with plans to give back. His spare moments are few these days, but he knows their importance. The initiatives are different. The mission of giving back could be another consistent element in his game. Easterly works with the Read Across America program, where he visits elementary schools and reads a story to a classroom full of kids. He also stops by a local middle school, where he finds himself on the sidelines more than on the field. This time it’s for the best. He’s coaching and offering valuable insight to bright-eyed, young football players. If his teammates were going to describe Easterly, they might mention that he’s a leader, supportive and encouraging, which makes sense since he’s using those to work on his own career, along with supporting young athletes. He continuously developed as an athlete, but it wouldn’t be surprising if that has bled over in helping him develop as a person. “The most beneficial piece of my development has been my maturity and my understanding of the game—the Xs and Os of football. Being intentional in any given situation,” Easterly said. Applying what he’s learned has revealed another level of motivation and intention, allowing Easterly to show up every day. In 2023, Easterly found motivation through a heartbreaking moment. His uncle James passed away unexpectedly during the season. Easterly had to keep showing up through a difficult moment. He would honor his uncle by doing what he had built his game on, an instinct that was rooted in those ideas and behaviors. His uncle had played football at Georgia Tech. He felt like the best way to honor his uncle was to keep showing up to play the game they both loved. It was a type of camaraderie he hadn’t felt before as he honored his uncle. The challenges he faces are handed over to God and a man who is always ready with an answer: his dad. Hopefully, taking on the National Football League, along with additional community initiatives, Easterly has a stacked final year. Along with ensuring that his final year at ODU is well spent, he leaves knowing he left everything on the field. The NFL is within reach, and the excitement, much like his game, continues to rise. He is expanding his focus beyond football, developing business plans and working to open a sports complex that will keep him tied to his college town of Norfolk, Virginia. Those opportunities were made possible through Name, Image and Likeness deals. Each chapter has brought challenges and questions, but Easterly has consistently answered both. His story is defined by hard work and a willingness to invest in himself. He has only increased his value on and off the field, and that investment is proving invaluable. For any press/NIL/ or brand inquiries for Mario Easterly, you can contact Nilson Sports.

Gallery by So Kim | May 4 2026 AFC Toronto and the Halifax Tides drew 0 - 0 at BMO Field on May 3rd in their Northern Super League home opener.

Photographed by Orchee Sorker | April 24, 2026 The Maine brought a wave of nostalgia and energy to Marathon Music Works on April 24. The night was stacked with openers—Moody Joody, Grayscale, and Nightly—but Moody Joody set the tone early with a performance that felt both intimate and electric. Their set was expressive, visually dynamic, and deeply connected to the crowd. As the night built, each act added its own layer, but The Maine delivered fan favorites with newer material, all carried by a crowd that knew every word.