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It’s a week after he won the Masters, and Scottie Scheffler is hanging out at his local Royal Oaks Country Club in Dallas, making it abundantly clear that he can beat a bunch of middle-aged men’s asses in pickleball.

He’s with his normal crew, a group of 45-to-65-year-old insurance salesmen and finance guys in Dallas he has been playing money games with for years. They just finished a wolf hammer match on this Friday and are hanging out with adult beverages. And suddenly Scheffler, 27, is in a heated argument with two of the men, convinced he could beat them both in pickleball. Both of them against just him.

“They are going back and forth like two teenagers. And he’s digging in. This is serious to him,” says Frank Voigt, a Royal Oaks member and part of this crew. He’s known Scheffler since he was 6.

Because Scottie Scheffler wants to win. No, he really wants to win.

As Scheffler has risen to No. 1 in the world and become the undeniable dominant force in golf, a narrative has formed that he’s boring. Ho-hum. And that he doesn’t produce much personality in front of a camera.

He’ll attempt to claim the second leg of a potential grand slam this week at the PGA Championship, but it’s an open question of whether he’s a marketable enough star to cross over at a time when pro golf badly needs something to cut through two years of petty infighting. The fallout from the creation of LIV Golf in 2022 has created unprecedented wealth in the men’s professional game and splintered the PGA Tour locker room into factions divided on its next steps. There is as much conversation about what committees recognizable stars like Tiger Woods, Jordan Spieth and Rory McIlroy sit on as there is their chances of competing week-to-week.

But Scheffler’s little secret is that he’s not boring. He’s one of the most competitive people on the planet, a “venomous” trash-talking former basketball player who rakes in money from club members, annihilates tour pros in money games and used to run so hot his Texas coach worried it would get the best of him.

And the Sunday before he won his second Masters, he sat around with a bunch of close friends and admitted he was overwhelmed. Much the same way it had been two years before, waking up with the lead at Augusta National had proven to be one of the hardest parts — dealing with in his mind about what was to come, and what could go wrong.

“I wish I didn’t want to win as badly as I did or as badly as I do,” Scheffler told them.

The evolution of Scheffler is in the ways he’s smoothed those edges, channeling that competitive fire to become a focused, seemingly emotionless machine on the course, where he has won four of his last five tournaments. Still, the narrative is not the reality.

Texas coach John Fields was chatting with Scheffler’s caddie, Ted Scott, recently about this very thing.

“Ted, everybody thinks Scottie is this laid back guy and really relaxed,” Fields said.

“Coach,” Scott laughed. “You know that’s not true.”

The Texas Longhorns golf team was at a match play event at Texas Tech in 2015, Scheffler’s freshman year. He and match play partner Beau Hossler arrived to the par-5 11th hole and launched their drives. Hossler reached the shorter ball first and took a look down. Sure it was not his, he kept walking to the ball farther up the fairway with a little spring in his step. He thought he outdrove the soon-to-be NCAA freshman of the year by 20 yards.

Scheffler walked to the first ball, assumed Hossler correctly recognized it was not his own, and hit it. Immediately after, Hossler looked down at the remaining ball and said, “This is not my ball.” The way NCAA match play works, if you hit the wrong ball, you immediately forfeit the hole.

Scheffler exploded. He sprinted the 250 yards to the front of the green, picked up the ball, ran all the way back and, “basically throws it at Beau’s feet,” Fields said.

“It was like a volcano went off.” They bickered all the way back to the green and as they made their way to the next tee box.

“As we step off that tee box, I said, ‘Beau, we are not going a step further until you apologize to Scottie.’ He’s like, ‘Why do I need to apologize? He’s the dumbie that hit the wrong ball!’,” Fields said.

Texas returned to Texas Tech for an NCAA regional later that season. By then, Scheffler was on his way to all the freshman accolades, but his game was starting to dip. He was on the back nine, and he hit a bad shot into the Texas wasteland. Scheffler was so angry he took a swipe at a bush with his left hand.

“Unfortunately, that bush was a Mesquite bush with thorns,” Fields said. “And that thorn went right in the left side of his thumb, underneath his fingernail. So you can imagine how much pain.”

But the thorn was so deep he couldn’t pull it out. Scheffler just had to keep playing. But Fields wasn’t with Scheffler’s group at the time. He had no idea of any of this, and Scheffler didn’t tell him.

Texas went on to dominate the regional and advance to the NCAA Championships. A week or so later, Fields walked around the local Byron Nelson PGA Tour event and ran into Scheffler’s dad, Scott.

“I’m really upset with you guys,” Scott said.

“OK, for what?”

“They haven’t been able to fix Scottie’s thumb!”

“What’s wrong with Scottie’s thumb?” Fields asked.

The thorn was so deep the trainer couldn’t get it out. Scheffler decided to just make sure it wasn’t infected and play the national championships with the thorn in his thumb. He’d hit a shot. Ice it. Hit a shot. Ice it. For five rounds of competition. When they later went to a surgeon in Dallas, he had to stitch it up and said if they had done it earlier, Scheffler would have been sidelined for the rest of the run.

“That, for sure, tells you how competitive he is,” Fields said. “First, how competitive he was that he got so angry he took a swipe at a bush. And second, persevering basically for 15 days of serious pain and almost having a chance to win a national championship.”

Sean Payton stared across the water, debating how to play the long par 3 at TPC Louisiana in New Orleans, as Scheffler just tore into him.

They’re playing a money game during a Wednesday pro-am before the 2022 Zurich Classic with Drew Brees, PGA Tour pro Ryan Palmer and some other business people, and Payton was hitting into the wind on the 17th hole. The 160-yard shot was playing more like 180, so the NFL coach was prepared to take a conservative angle to the right of the green, away from the water.

Scheffler wouldn’t let that happen. “Go for the pin,” Scheffler playfully heckled him with a cheese-eating grin. “Come on. Are you scared?” It’s what he did all day, needling Payton and Brees each chance he could. Payton did not take the bait on this one.

It did not matter. Scheffler still hit a 38-foot putt to win. “We had to pay,” Payton joked.

“I can tell from his demeanor and just kind of the way he approaches competition or a challenge that he’s had some pretty significant competitive background,” Brees said, “and it makes sense that a lot of that came from basketball. I can feel that confidence and that swagger with the way that he plays.”

Troubles with his putter kept Scottie Scheffler from winning for the last half of 2023, creating frustration for the Dallas native. (Michael Reaves / Getty Images)

Scheffler’s old basketball coach at Highland Park, David Piehler, recalls having to tell the then-No. 1 junior golfer in the country to stop throwing his body (Scheffler now stands 6-foot-3) in front of bigger players coming down the lane. He didn’t want to be the guy ruining Scheffler’s golf career.

This isn’t just how he is in a playful celebrity pro-am, either. It’s him all the time.

It was a Tuesday practice round before the Genesis Invitational in February, and money was on the line, so by the time their drivers left their bags Scheffler’s lips were moving. This time, Tom Kim was a target. “Be nice today, guys,” his caddie Paul Tesori said with a sigh.

While the specifics remain unclear, Scheffler quickly needled Kim about how he won money off him in their last game. But really, he gave Kim flack for just about everything he said or did.

Kim is a baby-faced 21-year-old rising star from South Korea whose mix of innocence and earnestness has attracted a large following already on tour. He moved to Dallas and was quickly taken under the wing of Scheffler and other Texas-based pros. Scheffler really does help Kim, the latter unafraid to pepper the former with questions. They’re authentically close — Kim was waiting on the 18th green when Scheffler won his second Masters last month. But Scheffler also likes to beat Kim. And he likes to remind him of it.

“Scottie will let him get some place, and then Scottie eliminates him,” says Randy Smith, Scheffler’s longtime coach. “Because Tom is such a cute kid. He’s so funny. But Scottie will kill him with facts.”

He recently brought Kim and Si Woo Kim to play Royal Oaks. They got to play the wolf hammer game with the traditional crew. Scheffler shot in the low 60s. Tom Kim shot a 74 with no birdies. “They wore his ass out,” Voigt said. Smith said Scheffler hasn’t stopped reminding him of it, reaching the point that Kim came back to Royal Oaks without Scheffler to redeem himself. “He came back here about three weeks ago and he’s like, ‘I made four birdies!’” Smith said.

“It’s kinda cute to watch Scottie with little Tom,” Voigt said. “He worships Scottie. Scottie is his big brother.”

The thing about Scheffler — the thing that makes those Royal Oaks games so informative — is he is a trash talker of the highest order. Smith called it “venomous. Absolute venom. But there’s no angst.” It’s all simultaneously nice but relentless. Vicious with a smile. He’s always been that way, often called an “ungracious winner” as a 10-year-old challenging Smith’s handful of PGA Tour clients.

At Texas, Scheffler loved to talk trash with his teammates. Most people spoken to for this story take it back to his basketball background.

“He’s a reserved golfer, but in other sports it’s pretty hilarious the amount of trash talking that goes on,” Scott said. “He should have been a basketball player. But once the competition is over, he just wants to be with his family and friends. A very normal dude.”

So here is the No. 1 player in the world, and he’s not playing with members his age at Royal Oaks, or a litany of fellow pros. No, he has his group of people he loves. “And they don’t kiss Scottie’s ass,” Colt Knost says. “They’ve known him since he was 7.”

And he annihilates them. If they’ve played 100 games, he’s maybe lost in wolf hammer five times. And while they play that, Scheffler also plays all of them individually in match play. They don’t win those. They have hemorrhaged money to their buddy for years on end. Knost, one of Smith’s former clients and now an on-course reporter for CBS, remembers seeing Scheffler, his first professional season on the Korn Ferry Tour, come play a PGA Tour event on a sponsor exemption, and he already carried a Trackman device to the driving range.

“Damn, Scottie,” Knost said. “Spending that money already?”

“Frank bought it for me,” Scheffler quipped without missing a beat.

One time, Voigt was in a good battle with Scheffler, and Voigt made what he admits was a ridiculous par on No. 16. “Scottie is just ragging on me about what a horrible putt it was, that I hit the top of the ball and it was terrible. I’m like, ‘Well, it went in.” Scheffler then had to make a 10-12 foot putt for a big pay day. He, of course, made it.

“It takes a little bit of the seriousness of everything going on and adds a little levity and lightness to it,” Smith said. “I think he enjoys the heck out of it … But he does not like to lose.”

It reached the point Randy Smith could set a timer to it. When a young Scheffler lost any sort of  contest, he’d storm away, near sprint. Then, like clockwork, he’d be back 15 minutes later, ready to challenge people to a new game.

“You’d almost have to restrain him if he lost,” Smith said.

See, Scheffler’s family moved to Dallas when he was 6, and growing up at Royal Oaks working with the great golf coach Randy Smith meant the luxury of hanging around with PGA Tour golfers such as Justin Leonard, Ryan Palmer, Colt Knost and Harrison Frazar. Scheffler wanted to be like them. He always wore pants because the pros wore pants.

He’d sit and watch Leonard for an hour or two straight without saying a word, just soaking it all in like a sponge. Knost loves to tell the story of Scheffler sitting and watching while he practiced bunker shots for 15 minutes. Knost then went to pick up the balls, and he saw a ball land next to the hole with spin. He looked over to see Scheffler and asked if it was him. “How’d you do that?” Knost asked. Scheffler said he just watched.

This 9-year-old kid would challenge them to anything and everything. Putting contests. Chipping games. Nine-hole matches. Bunker battles. And he won far more than you’d imagine. He’d beg the pros to let him play Royal Oaks from the back tees, but they told him he couldn’t hit long enough. He kept pleading, so they said fine. Could he reach any of the par 4s in two shots? No. But his game was so composed and smart he’d manage the course and played par for nine holes.

Stories of Scottie Scheffler’s inner fire predate even his 2014 arrival at Texas. (Tom Pennington / Getty Images)

Smith used to make his players do a putting drill where they’d have to make a certain number of putts in a row. First from three feet, then from six feet, then nine, 12, and 15, and they couldn’t leave until they made them all in a row. Well, one day Frazar was out there for what Knost remembers as five hours. He could not finish the drill.

Then Scheffler got out of school, showed up at the course and said, “Hey, let me try.”

Scheffler got it on his first try.

“Harrison wanted to rip his hair out,” Knost said.

But when Scheffler lost in those days he could not handle it. The thing Smith to this day credits him for, though, is how he might run hot but he doesn’t carry it with him.

“He gets rid of it so fast you wouldn’t know he lost,” Smith said. “That’s the sign of somebody who’s got it together.”

John Fields remains fascinated by the marriage between Scheffler’s different parts of his personality. Scheffler is both this hyper-competitive assassin and somebody who takes immense pride in separating golf from his life. Golf is everything to him when he’s out there. When he leaves the course, his focus is simply his home life with his wife, Meredith, or hanging with his normal, non-professional golf friends.

Fields talks with awe as he looks back on Scheffler’s finish at the 2021 match play event in Austin. This was the year before Scheffler’s breakout. He made it to the final with Billy Horschel, only to lose on the 17th hole.

The tournament had a cart waiting for the Schefflers to take them back to the clubhouse. Fields and his wife, Pearl, waited to give him their love. And 10 or so 10-year-old kids shouted for autographs and gear. Before he talked to friends and family, he spent time with the kids. He laughed and joked, giving them signatures and all the attention they’d want. You wouldn’t know he lost.

Then he hugged Fields and Pearl and talked for a moment. All still seemed fine.

“Then he got in the golf cart, and I could see he completely exploded,” Fields recalled. “The tears came to his eyes. He was so angry that he had lost, and it was borderline suffocating.”

It blew Fields’ mind. To see Scheffler lose. To see him go through the time with the kids and him and act so composed, now knowing what was actually boiling inside. Scheffler could separate them until it was time to feel it. Then he felt it, and he could move on and forget it forever.

“It’s there,” Fields said. “It’s still there. And it’s never, ever gonna leave.”

Scottie Scheffler is going for his third major championship this week at the PGA. (Maddie Meyer / Getty Images)

Scheffler is on top of golf. He’s been the best player in the world for roughly two and a half seasons. But this spring he’s reached a new level, turning more of those weekly top-5s into wins. Since the beginning of March, he’s won the Arnold Palmer Invitational, Players Championship, Masters and RBC Heritage, and finished T2 in his other event. His level of dominance is suddenly getting compared to Tiger Woods and other greats of the era. And through it all, Scheffler has seemed so normal, downplaying it at all costs.

The next step is what happens when winning becomes so routine. How do athletes of that stature keep themselves deeply motivated?

Smith thought the question misinterpreted the entire thing that makes Scheffler great.

Scheffler is not one of those golfers seeking what Smith calls “a magic bullet.” He’s never looking for the quick fix or something to solve everything and make him perfect. He doesn’t believe in it. Scheffler believes in going into each day trying to get a little bit better. It sounds so corny while explaining so much.

But he goes back to Scheffler’s putting woes in 2023. He remained the best player in golf, yet he had a ridiculous 15 top-5 finishes to three wins, all while being one of the statistical worst putters on tour. He got asked about it each week. It took a toll on him. For the first time in his career, he was being criticized.

But Smith said Scheffler always viewed it as a down-the-road, long term process. He’d try to improve one little detail on a certain day or work on a putting feel the next day. But he wasn’t going to do anything rash. Scheffler knew if he took the time to address it properly, he’d be the better player in the long run. Now, he’s putting at his best rate in two years and winning everything.

“Just trying to get a little better at this, little better at that,” Scheffler would tell Smith.”And that’s all I need.”

The future of Scottie Scheffler is this era’s superstar competing against himself. It might not be reliant on the field or a true rival. It’s all so simple. He’s going into each day trying to beat the version of himself that started the day. And if he does that forever, he’ll be tough to beat. Because Scottie Scheffler only wants to compete.

(Photo illustration: Sean Reilly / The Athletic; photos: Andrew Redington, Jared C. Tilton / Getty Images)

Catching was a family tradition, so when Red Sox backstop Reese McGuire was 8 or 9, as he recalled, he tested out his new catching gear in the backyard on Christmas. As he crouched in the grass and baseballs caromed off his forearms, his grandfather told him: “It takes a tough kid to be a catcher. You have to enjoy the bruises.”

“We’re all kind of crazy, I think, to get back there,” said Diamondbacks catcher Tucker Barnhart, who has spent the last 11 seasons as a target squatting behind home plate.

Catching is not for the faint of heart — or thigh or wrist or toe or hip or knee or hand or shoulder.

Around the league, most catchers are banged up, always hovering on the edge of the injured list.

Late last month, Angels catcher Logan O’Hoppe was dealing with a black-and-blue shoulder, leaving him hardly able to lift his arm after absorbing a foul ball. His backup, Matt Thaiss, had a bruised hand after catching José Soriano’s 98-mph sinkers. Then O’Hoppe left a game last week after taking a foul ball to the hand. Giants catcher Patrick Bailey took a foul ball last month on the exposed area of the toe where the foot shield doesn’t quite reach. Three days later, he landed on the concussion injured list after taking a foul ball to the face mask. Red Sox catcher Connor Wong also recently dealt with a bruise under his toenail. Wong went on to describe a previous bruise to the teardrop of his quad, which made crouching painful and, well, crouching is a key part of the job.

“It’s our duty to be that tank back there and roll with the punches,” Wong said.

And for over a century, they have, accepting the bruises and strains that have come with the long-established territory. But as the game evolves, the demands of the job are making it even more hazardous; catchers have shifted closer to the plate to aid with pitch framing, but as The Athletic’s Katie Woo wrote last week, that has caused a rise in catcher interference calls and has opened up catchers to more punishment.

Last week, Cardinals catcher Willson Contreras was struck by the swing of New York Mets’ J.D. Martinez and has a broken left arm to show for it.

“There’s always a risk being a catcher,” Contreras said after the injury. “Could have been something different. It could’ve been off my knee, it could be a concussion. That risk is always going to be there.”

Add it to the list. There’s a reason Barnhart and other veteran voices, including the thick Boston accent of Cleveland bench coach Craig Albernaz, can be heard on the first day of spring training every year relaying a familiar message: It’s all downhill from here.

“The amount of excitement,” Barnhart said about the dawn of a new season, “and, ‘Man, I feel great’ — and then Day 2 happens.”

They won’t return to 100 percent until the depths of winter, after they’ve recovered from every foul tip, every achy muscle, every nick and bruise in every nook of the body. The job is unrelenting and unforgiving; the pain and danger are ever-present.

And yet, for a team to succeed, so much necessarily falls on a catcher’s sore shoulders. They build a rapport with each pitcher. They know their tendencies and what’s been clicking. They know how they’ve attacked certain hitters in the past. They see the scouting reports on every single member of the opposing roster. That’s quite the learning curve for any fill-in, and Barnhart said it’s why catchers are so motivated to avoid time off.

“You have to have, for a lack of a better term,” Barnhart said, “a ‘f— it’ mentality.”

“If you cut my arm off,” said Guardians catcher Austin Hedges, “if I can play, I’m gonna go f—ing play.”

Well, as long as it’s his left arm, he clarified. He still has to throw the ball back to the pitcher 150 times a game, a tall order if he’s limited to his non-throwing hand.

Hedges scrolled through thousands of photos on his phone one day last week in search of evidence of the gnarliest bruise he could find. He located one that occupied nearly his entire right thigh, one with rich shades of indigo, plum and mulberry. He shook his head and laughed. The culprit? One single foul tip.

Austin Hedges’ thigh bruise. (Courtesy of Austin Hedges)

“The foul balls seem to always hit you in a spot where you don’t have gear or have the least amount of gear,” Barnhart said.

In 2022, Hedges suffered a low ankle sprain while lunging toward first base. Two weeks after that healed, he suffered a high ankle sprain as he tumbled into the dugout trying to corral a pop-up. His heel turned a dark violet and his ankle ballooned in size. He struggled to rotate while batting. He couldn’t comfortably position himself behind the plate or push off his backside, which resulted in him long-hopping the ball to second when trying to nab a base-stealer.

“You’re in pain, but you never get to shut it off,” Hedges said. “If you can play, you play. There’s no hesitation. You see how people react to getting hit by pitches. It doesn’t feel a whole lot better getting a foul tip off flesh. Then you just have to come back and act like it’s not even a thing.”

Austin Hedges’ swollen ankle. (Courtesy of Austin Hedges)

In June 2011, Chris Gimenez was scheduled to catch Mariners ace Félix Hernández one afternoon, but during batting practice the day before, Gimenez strained his left oblique. Seattle’s starting catcher, Miguel Olivo, experienced leg cramping that night, so Gimenez, who could barely inhale without cringing in pain, had to fill in for the final six innings.

For Gimenez, there was no dodging the pain in his side, especially when trying to corral Michael Pineda’s upper-90s heaters and when applying a tag at the plate on an assist from Ichiro. Gimenez tried to drop down a bunt when he batted since swinging proved unbearable. Chipper Jones shouted at him from third base, asking why he was bunting with two outs, but Mariners manager Eric Wedge had instructed Gimenez to do whatever caused him the least suffering. Seattle just wanted to keep Gimenez physically able to crouch behind the plate. He headed to the injured list the next day.

Albernaz was listed at 5-foot-8 and 185 pounds as a player, small stature for a catcher.

“I got plowed over a lot,” he said.

He also knew he couldn’t afford to sit out when granted a chance to play since he was an undrafted free agent who waited nine years for a big-league opportunity.

At one point, he thought his playing career had ended early, thanks to loose bodies in his knee getting wedged in his joint and leaving him unable to crouch.

Albernaz’s fellow coach in Cleveland, Sandy Alomar Jr., lasted 20 years as a major-league catcher. He has the battle scars to prove it. He underwent six surgeries on his left knee and three on his right.

“If you want to be a catcher,” Alomar said, “you’re never going to be 100 percent. Ever.”

Even now, he has a bone spur in his left foot from years of absorbing foul tips.

Even with all that catchers of Alomar’s generation had to deal with, it was rare for them to be struck by the hitter’s backswing. That has become an increasing problem for the modern catcher, as was highlighted by the Contreras injury.

Tigers manager A.J. Hinch said that teams are trying to walk the line between asking their catchers to steal strikes via closer-to-the-plate pitch framing, and putting them in dangerous situations by inching a bit too close.

“We do want our guys close enough to be impactful with the low strike but not walking into harm’s way,” Hinch said. “It’s a tough balance when the incentive to do it is real and the risk is extreme.”

GO DEEPER

Catcher’s interference calls are skyrocketing in MLB. It’s putting players at risk

Even as the risks become more intense, there are teams and individuals trying to find ways to make catching less of a burden on the human body. Hinch noted teams are searching for methods intended to “chip away at some of the physical responsibilities” of catching, whether altering their stances or adding bullpen catchers to lighten their to-do list. Giants manager Bob Melvin suggested everyday catchers like J.T. Realmuto are an endangered species.

With that in mind, some catchers have dropped one knee to the dirt to save the wear and tear on their knees, but several catchers and coaches stressed it’s not a cure-all. Hedges said it places more of a burden on his ankles, and it makes his inner thighs more vulnerable to foul tips.

“There’s nowhere for it to miss you,” said Jerry Narron, the Angels’ catching coach, who suggested catchers need “a football mentality.”

“It just seems like there’s always something that’s hurting,” Barnhart said.

“You feel like if you play a guy two out of three,” Melvin said, “that’s about as far as you can go with it.”

On Sept. 9, 2021, after socking a pair of solo homers against the Nationals, then-Braves catcher Stephen Vogt blocked a ball in the dirt, twisted his body and attempted an off-balance throw to third, where Juan Soto was trying to advance 90 feet. During his throwing motion, Vogt felt a pop in his hip. He couldn’t squat. Two muscles had ripped off his pelvis and he had a sports hernia. He needed season-ending surgery, which had him contemplating retirement after his team marched to a World Series title.

“You get beat up every single night as a catcher,” said Vogt, who now manages the Guardians. “It’s just part of the job.”

When Vogt made a mound visit during a recent series in Houston, he told catcher Bo Naylor: “Man, you’re getting your butt kicked tonight.’”

Naylor said nothing is more irritating than a foul ball off the hand. He added that he’ll occasionally be completing his pregame routine on a foam roller when a sharp pain pops up unexpectedly. That’s when he cycles through every possible pain-inducer from the previous night.

“Wait, why does this hurt? Oh yeah, I got a foul ball there last night,” he said.

McGuire said he wakes up “every day” with a mysterious bruise or ache. On April 30, it was his thumb, from a foul tip that struck his mitt at an awkward angle. Adrenaline fueled him the rest of that game, but it was stiff when he woke up the next day; he hadn’t realized how hard he had jammed it.

“Most of us have some sort of thumb injury,” said Cubs catcher Yan Gomes, who uses a protective guard and a stockpile of tape for added security.

All of them, not most, have some sort of something. Hinch, who caught for parts of seven big-league seasons, said it’s “the reason we all look like hell when we’re done playing.”

In August 2018, Joey Votto joined the Reds’ injured list, and Barnhart and Curt Casali, the club’s catchers, shared some of the first-base duties in his absence. For the catchers, it was like a spa day.

“We’d always joke with each other,” Barnhart said, “that, ‘Man, if my body always felt like this and I got to go to the plate, this is a great feeling. You don’t have to squat down. You’re not worried about getting hit. All you have to do is stand at first base and catch the ball? That’s it? My body feels great.’”

— The Athletic‘s C. Trent Rosecrans, Chad Jennings, Stephen J. Nesbitt, Sam Blum, Cody Stavenhagen and Andy McCullough contributed reporting.

(Top photo of Contreras suffering a broken arm: Dilip Vishwanat / Getty Images)

In Steve Smith’s third year as UCF’s director of player development, the school started prepping for the upcoming revolution.

Soon, for the first time, college athletes would be able to make money off their name, image and likeness.

“They all call me ‘Smitty,’ and they said, ‘Smitty, you need to make sure none of our athletes jeopardize their eligibility prior to this being passed and going into effect,’” Smith recalled.

UCF’s compliance department mentioned then-starting star quarterback Dillon Gabriel, who wanted to launch a clothing brand. It was Smith’s introduction to NIL, and it opened his eyes to uncharted territory and what he considered boundless opportunities. A few months later, in August 2021, he pivoted careers and became an NIL agent.

Smith formed his own LLC and registered with the state of Florida as a sports agent. His first client? The easygoing left-handed QB from Hawaii.

Smith, and others who saw need and opportunity, joined an industry where everyone is navigating an evolving marketplace. It goes beyond setting up partnerships with brands, as Gabriel, who transferred to Oklahoma and then Oregon, has had with Old Spice, Sonic and others. The collision of NIL with the transfer portal has created its own cycle of competitive matching between school and player, in which NIL deals are part of players picking new programs.

Collectives affiliated with schools often offer packages ranging from the tens of thousands to, in the biggest cases, the millions, in exchange for social media posts, public appearances or autographed memorabilia before or after a transfer signs with his new school.

The spring portal window closed in April after being open for two weeks. In that span, more than 850 scholarship football players entered the portal. In total, more than 2,600 scholarship college football players entered the transfer portal this offseason looking for a new home.

Because of challenges to the NCAA in federal court, rules prohibiting NIL deals from serving as inducements to attend particular schools are no longer enforced, and athletes are allowed unlimited transfers and immediate eligibility.

When it comes to the portal, some agents, several of whom spoke with The Athletic on the condition of anonymity, said landing the biggest deal with collectives is the priority for some players. But some agents said they’re not trying to squeeze the most money out of what is essentially college free agency — their aim is to help athletes create a marketable brand by looking at the big picture.

NEWS: Top QB Jaden Rashada is entering the transfer portal per his agency Disruptive Sports @disruptivesport @henryorgann pic.twitter.com/jIiZnG3FN2

— Cameron Wolfe (@CameronWolfe) April 18, 2024

Agents’ involvement in the transfer portal has been more visible, with players citing or thanking their agencies on transfer announcements and reps speaking on their behalf to reporters regarding offers and visits. But their roles appear varied with a broad range of qualifications and involvement.

A common saying, even by the agents themselves, is that anybody’s aunt or uncle can act as an NIL agent.

Players, coaches and agents say publicly the “football fit” comes first when players seek to transfer. And getting on the field matters for long-term aspirations. But the money, either to stay at a current school or pick a new one, makes the process more complex.

“I don’t think most kids go in the portal for money,” said Russell White, president of Oncoor Marketing, who represents college athletes in the NIL space, as well as NFL and NBA players. “They just want to make sure they capitalize on that piece.”

That’s where agents can come in.

Chase Moss, CEO of First Class Prospects, said a common blueprint to get players entering the portal more attention is to release information to recruiting sites or reporters with a large online following. That’s when staffers from schools often follow the player and/or agent on social media and begin to work on this round of recruitment.

“We don’t have them commit until we have (an NIL) deal, because otherwise there’s no point,” Moss said.

When a player enters the transfer portal, how do they know what they should be worth? The specifics of deals usually remain private.

“That’s based on conversation and experience in the marketplace,” said Jeff Hoffman, whose agency, Everett Sports Marketing, has represented 2024 first-round NFL Draft picks Marvin Harrison Jr., Brock Bowers, Xavier Legette and others. “It’s talking to other agents, collectives, and having relationships to have an understanding of where people are being offered in that pay band to know where my guy should be.”

During open transfer windows, just hearing what players are being offered can prove invaluable.

“The beauty of the portal is, once you get in, a ton of schools can contact you, and that’s where the information just flows,” White said.

Last fall, Nebraska coach Matt Rhule told reporters that the anticipated going rate in the portal to sign a starting-level quarterback in NIL funds is anywhere between $1 million to $2 million.

Star quarterbacks, running backs, wide receivers, some tight ends and some defensive standouts make the most, said the director of a power conference collective, speaking on the condition of anonymity, and some of the best-run collectives can pay well for first- and second-stringers, and sometimes beyond. Agents who spoke to The Athletic said they were aware of which programs’ collectives appear to have the most money to spend on NIL — and which ones don’t.

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Agents say they can protect players from signing bad deals. Negotiations can include elements like use of a car, pay for parents’ travel to games and disability insurance. Without representation, some players transferring this offseason, Hoffman said, may not have a full understanding of how deals can work.

“Let’s use a round number: I’m going to transfer, and I’m getting paid $100,000,” Hoffman said. “Half of that is going to my car and my apartment. The other $50,000 is breaking down into monthly payments. I have to pay taxes on that, so that’s taken out. So let’s say after that I am down to $36,000 and getting paid $3,000 a month. For that $3,000 a month, I need to attend 10 events, post 15 times on social media and provide 10-20 signed pieces. It’s just not viable. It’s not commensurate with the pay.”

But using an agent can also come with potholes. In December, The Athletic detailed how a disconnect between former Syracuse linebacker Leon Lowery and his former NIL agents nearly derailed his transfer to Wisconsin.

“I would say most are working in the best interest of (their clients), in terms of making more money,” one agent said. “But what percent are good or make good decisions or help them? I would say few.”

Some parents, agents say, have pushed their children to enter the portal in search of a heftier paycheck or have negotiated built-in stipends for themselves in NIL contracts.

One agent told The Athletic of parents or family members handling negotiations: “It seems the assumption is, ‘We could do this on our own.’”

In recent years, many high-profile programs created the role of a general manager who helps bridge the gap between coaches and collectives. If a player is wanted by a staff, a GM will inform a collective CEO to be prepared to reach out to the player or the player’s agent.

Said one agent: “When it comes to NIL conversations, it’s collectives. We’re not really dealing with coaches. But at the same time, I do talk to coaches. ‘Hey coach, our guy is thinking about entering the portal. Is this somebody you’d want in your locker room? How quickly could he get on the field for you? What holes do you need to fill?’ So we talk about on-the-field stuff. I’m not saying coaches don’t talk about money, but it’s typically not what is discussed.”

Said Smith, now part of Legend Agency: “Once you have your school and somebody likes it and is a good fit, then the conversation really does come down to: What is market value right now? What other offers have you received? Here are the deliverables, are you on board with those deliverables? And then the collective has to understand, does this person add value to what else we’re trying to do?”

One common issue agents and collectives alike have faced is misunderstanding of worth in the NIL marketplace.

In the middle of bowl season in December, there were more than 1,800 players in the portal. Some agencies offer consultations to players or negotiate short-term NIL contracts just to see what the process is like.

“Not everyone is going to make a lot of money,” Smith said. “It’s like the real world. Not everyone is rich.”

The biggest opportunities are there for big-name players like Gabriel, who can harness the full power of NIL, more along the lines of how many expected NIL to work before the rise of collectives. At Oklahoma, in addition to partnering with the Crimson and Cream OU Collective, Gabriel had existing deals with EvoShield, Rock ‘Em Socks and more. He’s retained a few preexisting deals since moving to Oregon.

Dillon Gabriel settled in at Oregon this spring ahead of his sixth season in college football. (Eric Evans Photography / Courtesy of Oregon Athletics)

Aided by Smith, he’s become involved with local NIL deals, including a roofing company and a clothing brand called Ducks of a Feather, which allows participating athletes to profit off merchandise sales. It was launched by the Oregon collective, Division Street, headed up by two former Nike executives.

Similarly, Notre Dame’s Riley Leonard is represented by Peter Webb and Doug Young and their NIL agency, QB Reps, which represents only quarterbacks. The duo has 20-plus years experience in sports marketing and coaching at various levels. In addition to Leonard, they represented former Oregon QB Bo Nix.

“When a kid goes into the transfer portal and has all these different opportunities from these different schools, slowly we’re just able to build an evaluation process at every single school, but only for quarterbacks,” Webb said. “If you’re a five-star quarterback that goes to Alabama, Clemson or LSU or Oregon, we’re going to know exactly what that looks like.”

Webb and Young, who also worked with Leonard while he was at Duke, said he has 10 NIL partnerships, including Gillette, EA Sports, Topps, Leaf trading cards and Rhoback apparel, with more in the pipeline. Mission BBQ, one of Leonard’s first local partnerships, is 10 minutes from Notre Dame Stadium in Mishawaka, Ind. The new Fighting Irish starting quarterback is already in high demand.

“This is a different story when Riley is arriving at Notre Dame than if he’s arriving at some other school,” Young said.

Exact numbers of NIL agents aren’t known. Most states require agents to register, but qualifications — and enforcement — are light. Some agents hope to represent players who make it to the NFL, where agents must be certified by the players association.

The range remains predictably immense. Some players like Arizona State wide receiver Raleek Brown and Tulane wide receiver Mario Williams have hired Jay-Z’s Roc Nation to represent them. Then there are some who hire agents whose websites listed in their online social media bios still don’t work. Some go it alone.

“We still have kids making $100,000 or more that aren’t using NIL agents for negotiations,” said the collective director, who estimated maybe 10 to 15 percent of the 150 deals his group strikes a year are negotiated by agents.

The commission taken home by agents can vary greatly, too. While the general consensus ranges anywhere from 10 to 20 percent on NIL, some agents can take a cut as low as 5 percent. Some take no commission on deals negotiated with collectives. One agent who spoke to The Athletic said no agent should be going above 20 percent under any circumstance.

The collective director said the running joke of “someone’s aunt or uncle” doesn’t always refer to nefarious intentions or bad endings. Oftentimes it works out just fine. But he added regulation in the NIL space is needed across the board.

The NCAA is working to build and maintain a voluntary registration portal for agents and other professional NIL service providers — a pet project of NCAA president Charlie Baker. Several agents who spoke to The Athletic doubted it would make much impact.

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NIL continues to evolve. A proposal by Baker could lead to collectives moving in-house and schools paying athletes directly. The many lawsuits putting pressure on the NCAA may lead to a new model of athletes as employees who collectively bargain.

“The players should like ‘the wild west,’ because that’s where you can maximize. Others don’t because it’s not mutually beneficial at the moment,” Gabriel said. “However, I think there’s definitely changes on the way. I know this is not sustainable long term.”

(Top image: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; istock)