Culture
Passion propelled Laiatu Latu from medical retirement to NFL first-round pick
Pate Tuilevuka could hardly believe what he was seeing. He was only at this tryout as a favor to an old friend, but it didn’t take long to realize he was watching someone special.
A person that big and that strong shouldn’t be that fast. That smooth. The possibilities felt infinite. The heights limitless.
Tuilevuka, the general manager of Major League Rugby’s Seattle Seawolves, thought that with a little training, Laiatu Latu could dominate. He reminded Tuilevuka of New Zealand rugby union legend Jonah Lomu. “Jonah was a huge, massive individual who had incredible speed and power,” Tuilevuka said. “So, as soon as I saw (Latu) … I just knew, ‘Aw shoot, this kid has all of that.’”
It was scheduled to be a three-day tryout, but Tuilevuka had seen enough after only a few drills. He was ready to sign Latu on the spot. But the 20-year-old couldn’t commit.
Latu liked rugby, and he was great at it, leading Jesuit High in the Sacramento suburb of Carmichael, Calif., to two national championships. His coach, Lou Stanfill, who helped set up the Seawolves tryout, described Latu as “clinically merciless.” If an opponent got between him and a scoring opportunity, Latu ran straight through their chest. If a player tried to score on him, Latu caved their chest in.
Of course we dug up Laiatu’s high school rugby highlights. 💥
(via @Hudl) pic.twitter.com/QsfJYla7nW
— Indianapolis Colts (@Colts) April 26, 2024
“He was a man among boys, especially in his senior year,” Stanfill said. “He was 6-foot-4, 250-260 pounds, could run, could hit, could jump. He could do everything and he was coachable in everything.”
But even though Latu could do it all on a rugby pitch, his heart belonged elsewhere. A neck injury he suffered at the University of Washington just months prior was supposed to keep him off the football field forever. But Latu wasn’t ready to accept that, so he turned down Tuilevuka and the Seawolves — and a potentially fabulous life.
“If Laiatu wanted to go play rugby, he would play overseas, and he would be a big name,” Stanfill said. “Everyone around the world would end up finding out who Laiatu Latu is.
“He would play here in the States for MLR. He’d get on the U.S. National Team, and then someone in France, England, New Zealand (would sign him). … He’d be making good money, living in France and playing great ruby.”
Instead, Latu defiantly rededicated himself to a sport that was supposed to be in his rearview mirror. “I told them that my passion is football,” Latu said of the Seawolves tryout. And three years after being told he’d never play football again, he became the first defensive player selected in the 2024 NFL Draft, his passion having become his livelihood.
The text sent shivers down Kerry Latu’s spine.
“Mom.”
None of her four children ever sent cliffhanger texts, so this one-word message from her oldest son gave her an ominous feeling. Soon, she was talking to Laiatu and Washington’s medical staff, trying to piece together exactly what had happened during an awkward practice collision with a teammate in November 2020.
Laiatu remembers it vividly.
“I tackled the running back, and right after that play everyone was still playing and running around because I did it pretty quick,” he said. “So when I turned around, my middle linebacker was running full speed and hit me in my face.”
Latu experienced numbness in his neck and extremities “for like 10 seconds” and initially thought he’d suffered a stinger. Trainers decided to keep him sidelined for the rest of practice out of an abundance of caution. It would be his last rep at Washington.
An MRI later revealed Latu had suffered a significant neck injury, the extent of which he has declined to specify publicly. He planned to sit out the remainder of a 2020 season already in disarray amid the COVID-19 pandemic. The family and university hoped his neck would heal on its own. But as the days, weeks and months went by, nothing improved.
“Eventually, the doctors were like, ‘I think we need to do surgery,’” Kerry said. “And from that point, the conversation started about medically retiring, and that was just gut-wrenching. … I thought maybe Laiatu was gonna have some say in it. But once they started talking about medically retiring him there was no looking back.”
Laiatu underwent neck fusion surgery in March 2021. Washington medically retired him in April.
“We would never want to put anybody in danger of possibly not being able to use his extremities the rest of his life,” then-Washington head coach Jimmy Lake said at the time. “We would never want that to happen to anybody.”
Lake added that the university consulted “five of the best specialists in the country, guys who have worked with different NFL clubs,” before choosing to end Latu’s career.
He was only 20, and he was devastated.
“I can’t imagine what he went through, because even I struggled with it,” Kerry said. “I kept thinking, ‘Not only is he a phenomenal football player, but he’s one of the most humble kids. I didn’t understand. Like, why is this happening to him?’”
It didn’t matter that Latu was weightlifting right up until the day before his procedure, even hang-cleaning a personal best 345 pounds. It didn’t matter that just two months into what was supposed to be a six-to-nine-month recovery, he picked rugby back up and was running and tackling with no issues. It didn’t matter that he was teaching himself pass-rush moves from YouTube videos while trying to flip his nightmare back into his lifelong dream.
“This one time he came to my office trying to explain to me how badly he wanted this,” said Ikaika Malloe, then Washington’s defensive line coach. “My doors are closed and I’m watching this kid break down in front of me. You cannot help but cry as well.”
Malloe remembers looking out his office window at Husky Stadium and often seeing Latu on the field training by himself. He wasn’t allowed to practice or work out with the team, but he prepared as if he was going to play every snap in Washington’s next game.
Malloe said he’s never seen someone as determined as Latu. But when Latu was fighting his way back to football, he wasn’t fighting alone. His coach and his family rallied around him because they knew how desperate he was for another chance.
When Laiatu’s then-8-year-old sister, Aulani, was assigned a school project that was supposed to be all about her. She was asked to fill in the blank: “If I had one wish, I would wish for …”
Her response? ” … my brother to play football again.”
My baby girl’s school project. ❤️😇 pic.twitter.com/FIimi8flWO
— Kerry Latu (@kerry_latu) August 26, 2021
When Laiatu resumed playing rugby in hopes of eventually returning to football, Kerry was a bit startled. All she wanted was for her son to heed the doctors’ orders and take it easy in his recovery, but there he was tearing through people on the pitch.
Each time Laiatu told her he was tackling with his surgically repaired neck, she tried to convince him to dial it back. Instead, he stepped on the gas. And when he wasn’t terrorizing opponents on the rugby pitch, he was ripping through imaginary foes on the football field.
Laiatu joked that his stubbornness was “the good kind,” and after a while, his unwavering self-belief pushed Kerry to do something that hardly anyone in Laiatu’s life was willing to do at the time: She listened. The two began having serious conversations about the possibility of reversing Laiatu’s medical retirement, and when he called Kerry in the spring of 2021 saying, “I’m not done,” she told him she wasn’t either.
Kerry never promised her son he would play football again. She just promised she would try to help.
She knew the outlook was bleak, “but as a mom, I don’t know, you just have this adrenaline in you,” Kerry said. “You want to make things better. You want your kid to be happy, and this is his passion. This is something he was good at. I didn’t think about it after that I just kind of went into go mode, and I just started searching.”
She sought out other football players who had significant neck injuries or conditions that threatened medical retirement but were able to continue their careers. Georgia linebacker Jarvis Jones bounced back and became a first-round pick of the Steelers in 2017. Clemson wide receiver Justyn Ross is a member of the two-time defending champion Chiefs.
As Kerry researched and networked, one name kept popping up: Dr. Robert Watkins, who performed the neck fusion surgery that allowed Peyton Manning to continue his Hall of Fame career. Kerry gave Watkins a call in August 2021, and two weeks later, she and Laiatu were sitting in Watkins’ Los Angeles office. Kerry remembers spending three hours there as Watkins and his staff reviewed all of Laiatu’s medical records and had him undergo several tests before eventually coming to a decision.
When Watkins walked into the room, Kerry and Laiatu held their breath.
“I’m comfortable clearing you,” Watkins told them.
Laiatu immediately broke down.
“I had that moment in my brain every day, and I just wanted to work at being the best at football,” he said. “The fact that it got taken away from me and I got to come back; I really got to prove to people that you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Latu wanted to resume his career at Washington after he was officially cleared in September 2021, but the university chose not to reverse its decision to medically retire him, so he entered the transfer portal. A few schools showed interest, including Cal and Oregon State, but Latu wound up transferring to UCLA. Malloe had been hired by Chip Kelly in December 2021 and advocated for giving Laiatu a shot.
And if the Bruins had any questions about Laiatu’s neck surgery, one of their consultants just so happened to be Dr. Watkins.
Latu was finally able to resume his football career with the Bruins in 2022. He recorded a sack in a win over Washington he had circled on the calendar. But even that moment of redemption couldn’t compare to when Laiatu faced and beat his little brother, Keleki, in UCLA’s regular-season finale.
Keleki, a tight end at Cal, saw Laiatu on his darkest days. Their matchup – the first time they’d ever played against each other – was one of the brightest.
“We were laughing,” Laiatu said. “But it felt really good, too, because as the older brother, I always wanted to show him what success looks like and I wasn’t able to do that for a time. So, when I got back on the field it was like, ‘Damn, he can really look up to me.’”
Keleki said he’s always admired his older brother, even when he was medically retired, because Laiatu embodied dedication and perseverance. Now playing at Washington, where Laiatu started his college career, Keleki knows the odds of earning another snap against his brother in the NFL are slim. But if there is one thing he’s learned from Laiatu’s journey, it’s that the odds don’t matter.
“When he was playing rugby and continuing to work out, it just made me think, ‘It’s not his time (for football to end),’” Keleki said. “So knowing that, I just prayed to God to see if he could give him another chance to play. Because now that he has it, I know he can be one of the greats.”
It didn’t hit him on draft night. It didn’t hit him when he first tried on his Colts helmet. It didn’t even hit him after he bought his mom a new house.
The moment Latu’s status as an NFL player finally sank in came after an OTA practice. The gratitude bubbled to the surface, and he could feel his eyes welling up. “I was just walking back to the locker room and I just started bawling,” he said. “That’s when it really hit me, when I seen that Colts sign on the facility.”
Back-to-back stellar seasons at UCLA convinced Indianapolis’ front office to select him with the No. 15 pick. The expectations are high, but early on, Latu has thrived under their weight.
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Since the pads came out during training camp, Latu has often doubled as starting quarterback Anthony Richardson’s shadow. The rookie has wrecked enough drives to make Richardson admit he’s tired of seeing him in the backfield.
“Just getting around the edge, it’s like, ‘Man, I’m trying to hit the receivers in stride,’ but he’s there in my face trying to make a play,’” Richardson said through a wry smile. “I’m glad we got him in practice so I can get used to stuff like that.”
Colts West Coast area scout Chris McGaha first saw Latu’s dominance on film. Then, during the pre-draft process, he saw the heart that drives it.
“Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper to try to find, ‘Do they really love it?’” McGaha said after the draft. “But his (desire) was pretty easy to see, right? The things he had to go through, the things he had to overcome, it’s a unique story and a unique journey for him. It’s just a testament to him as a person, the kind of special makeup he has.”
Every now and then, Latu thinks about how different his life would be had he closed the door on football and opened it to rugby. He may be in France right now, fresh off an Olympic appearance. But while peering around the field after a recent Colts training camp practice, Latu took a deep breath and came to a simple conclusion about that life: “It just can’t beat this.”
The 23-year-old has a tattoo on his left hand: “Like your last,” his personal mantra since returning to football. He writes the phrase at the top of every page in his notebook during team meetings, always reminding himself of where he was and where he’s headed.
“I made it,” Latu said. “Through all of the trials and tribulations that I’ve been through in my life, I get to say that I’ve made it.”
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photos: Ryan Kang, Christopher Mast, Todd Rosenberg / Getty Images)
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Culture
The Books We’re Excited About in Early 2025
Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | How to Listen
A new year means new books to look forward to, and 2025 already promises a bounty — from the first volume of Bill Gates’s memoirs to a new novel by the reigning Nobel laureate, Han Kang, to a biography of Rosemary Woodruff Leary, the wife and psychedelic collaborator of the counterculture pioneer Timothy Leary.
On this week’s episode, Gilbert Cruz and Joumana Khatib talk about some of the upcoming books they’re most anticipating over the next several months.
Books discussed:
“Stone Yard Devotional,” by Charlotte Wood
“Silence,” by Pico Iyer
“Onyx Storm,” by Rebecca Yarros
“Gliff,” by Ali Smith
“The Dream Hotel,” by Laila Lalami
“The Colony,” by Annika Norlin
“We Do Not Part,” by Han Kang
“Playworld,” by Adam Ross
“Death of the Author,” by Nnedi Okorafor
“The Acid Queen: The Psychedelic Life and Counterculture Rebellion of Rosemary Woodruff Leary,” by Susannah Cahalan
“Tilt,” by Emma Pattee
“Dream Count,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
“Hope: The Autobiography,” by Pope Francis
“Jesus Wept: Seven Popes and the Battle for the Soul of the Catholic Church,” by Philip Shenon
“The Antidote,” by Karen Russell
“Source Code,” by Bill Gates
“Great Big Beautiful Life,” by Emily Henry
“Sunrise on the Reaping,” by Suzanne Collins
We would love to hear your thoughts about this episode, and about the Book Review’s podcast in general. You can send them to books@nytimes.com.
Culture
Grand Slam prize money is enormous. The economics of tennis tournaments is complicated
Four times a year, one of the biggest and most important tennis tournaments in the world sends out an announcement full of dollar signs and zeroes with the words “record prize money” scattered liberally.
The four Grand Slams, the first of which begins Sunday in Melbourne, are the high points of the tennis calendar. Players at the 2025 Australian Open will compete for $59million (£47m) this year — over $6.2m more than last year. In 2024, the four tournaments paid out over $250m between them, while their leaders spent the year aligning themselves with the players who make their events unmissable, whose gravity pulls in the broadcast deals and sponsorships, with their own dollar signs and zeroes.
Led by Australian Open chief Craig Tiley, the Grand Slams led the movement for a so-called premium tour which would pare down the overloaded tennis calendar and guarantee top players always being in the same events, let alone time zones. It would also lock swaths of the globe out of the worldwide spectacle that tennis represents.
The great irony is that despite the largesse and the cozy relationship, the players get a smaller cut of the money at the Grand Slams than they do in most of the rest of the rest of that hectic, endless season — and a fraction of what the best athletes in other sports collect from their events. The Australian Open’s prize pool amounts to about a 15-20 percent cut of the overall revenues of Tennis Australia, the organization that owns and stages the tournament, which accounts for nearly all of its annual revenue. The exact numbers at the French Open, Wimbledon and U.S. Open vary, but that essential split is roughly a constant. The 2023 U.S. Open had a prize pool of $65m against earned revenue from the tournament that came out at just over $514m, putting the cut at about 12 percent. The U.S. Open accounted for just under 90 percent of USTA revenues that year.
The explanations from the Grand Slams, which collectively generate over $1.5bn (£1.2bn) a year, run the gamut. They need to dedicate hundreds of millions of dollars each year to fund junior tennis development and other, less profitable tournaments in their respective nations — an obligation pro sports leagues don’t have. There is a constant need to upgrade their facilities, in the silent race for prestige and primacy of which the constant prize money one-upmanship is just one element.
That dynamic is not lost on players — least of all Novak Djokovic, the top men’s player of the modern era and a co-founder of the five-year-old Professional Tennis Players Association (PTPA).
“I’m just going to state a fact,” Djokovic said during a post-match news conference in Brisbane last week. “The pie split between the governing bodies in major sports, all major American sports, like NFL, NBA, baseball, NHL, is 50 percent. Maybe more, maybe less, but around 50 percent.
“Ours is way lower than that.”
Since 1968, the first year in which the four majors offered prize money as part of the Open Era’s embrace of professional tennis players, the purses have only grown. The 1968 French Open was the first to offer prize money, with Ken Rosewall earning just over $3,000 for beating Rod Laver in the final. The women’s singles champion, Nancy Richey, was still an amateur player, so could not claim her $1,000 prize. By 1973, lobbying from Billie Jean King helped convince the U.S. Open to make prize money equal for men and women through the draws; it took another 28 years for the Australian Open to do so year in, year out. Venus Williams’ intervention helped force the French Open and Wimbledon to follow suit in 2007.
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Fifty years after Rosewall’s triumph in Paris, the 2018 men’s champion Rafael Nadal took home $2.35million, an increase of over 73,000 percent. The year-on-year increases at each major are more modest, usually between 10 and 12 percent, but that percentage of tournament revenue remains steadfast, if not entirely immovable.
The Grand Slams argue that there are plenty of hungry mouths at their table, many more than just the 128 players that enter each singles draw each year.
“Tennis Australia is a not-for-profit and a business model built on significant investment into delivering the event and promoting the sport to drive momentum on revenue and deliver consistently increasing prize money,” Darren Pearce, the organization’s chief spokesperson, said in a statement this week.
Money from the Australian Open also helps fund tournaments in Brisbane, Adelaide and Hobart, as well as the United Cup, the combined men’s and women’s event in Perth and Sydney. Pearce said the prize money increases outpace the revenue growth.
The Grand Slams also point to the millions of dollars they spend on player travel, housing, transportation and meals during tournaments, though team sport athletes receive those as well. Eloise Tyson, a spokesperson for the All England Lawn Tennis Club, which stages Wimbledon, noted that overall Grand Slam prize money had risen from $209million in 2022 to $254m last year, a 22 percent increase.
“Alongside increasing our player compensation year-on-year, we continue to make significant investment into the facilities and services available for players and their teams at The Championships,” Tyson wrote in an email.
Officials with France’s tennis federation, the FFT, which owns the French Open, did not respond to a request for comment.
Brendan McIntyre, a spokesman for the United States Tennis Association, which owns the U.S. Open, released a statement this week touting the USTA’s pride in its leadership on player compensation, including offering equal prize money and the largest combined purse in tennis history at the 2024 US Open. A first-round exit earned $100,000, up 72 percent from 2019. Just making the qualifying draw was good for $25,000.
“As the national governing body for tennis in the U.S, we have a broader financial obligation to the sport as a whole,” the organization said.
“The USTA’s mission is to grow tennis at all levels, both in the U.S. and globally, and to make the sport accessible to all individuals in order to inspire healthier people and communities.”
None of the organizations outlined a specific formula for determining the amount of prize money they offered each year, which is roughly the same as a percentage of their parent organizations overall revenues. That may be a coincidence, though the Grand Slams also have the benefit of not facing any threat to their primacy.
The USTA’s statement gestures at how the structure of tennis contributes to this financial irony. In soccer, countries and cities bid to host the Champions League and World Cup finals; the Olympics changes every four years and even the Super Bowl in the NFL moves around the United States, with cities and franchises trying to one-up one another.
The four Grand Slams, though, are the four Grand Slams. There are good reasons for this beyond prestige: the infrastructure, both physical and learned, required to host a two- or three-week event at the scale of a major year in, year out is available to a vanishingly small number of tennis facilities around the world. There is no opportunity for another organization or event to bid to replace one of the Grand Slams by offering a richer purse or other amenities.
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A year ago, tennis was broken. It’s more broken now
This dynamic has been in place for years and has become more important in recent months. The PTPA has hired a group of antitrust lawyers to evaluate the structure of tennis. The lawyers are compiling a report on whether the the sport includes elements that are anti-competitive, preparing for a possible litigation with the potential to remake the sport.
The ATP and WTA Tours, which sanction 250-, 500- and 1000-level events as well as the end-of-season Tour Finals, give players a larger share of revenue. There is some disagreement between players and officials over how much it is and the methods of accounting; some player estimates hover around 25 percent, while tour estimates can be in the range of 40 percent. Both remain short of the team equivalents in the United States.
On the ATP Tour, the nine 1000-level tournaments have a profit-sharing agreement that, in addition to prize money, gives players 50 percent of the profits under an agreed-upon accounting formula that sets aside certain revenues and subtracts certain costs, including investments the tournaments make in their facilities. The WTA does not have such an agreement. It outlines a complex prize money formula in its rule book with pages of exceptions, not based on a guaranteed share of overall tour revenues.
The tours have argued that because media rights payments constitute a lower percentage of revenues than at the Grand Slams, and because the costs of putting on tournaments are so high, a 50-50 revenue share would simply turn some tournaments into loss-making entities and make tennis unsustainable as a sport.
James Quinn, one of the antitrust lawyers hired by the PTPA, said he saw serious problems with the model, describing a structure that prevents competition from rival tournaments.
Some events outside the 52-week program of tournaments — which see players earn ranking points as well as money — have official status (the Laver Cup is sanctioned by the ATP). But the remainder, such as the Six Kings Slam in Riyadh, which debuted this year and offered record prize money of over $6million to the winner, are not sanctioned, for now providing only a peripheral form of competition to ruling bodies’ control of the sport.
The Grand Slams, ATP and WTA insist this is for the best. They see themselves as caretakers of global sport trying to bring some order where chaos might otherwise reign.
Djokovic doesn’t totally disagree. He understands tennis is different from the NBA. He’s led the Player Council at the ATP, which represents male professionals, and he has seen how the sausage gets made and how complicated it is with so many tournaments of all shapes and sizes in so many countries. At the end of the day, he still thinks players deserve more than a 20-percent cut, especially since the Grand Slams don’t make the kinds of contributions to player pension plans or end-of-the-year bonus pools that the ATP does, nor do they provide the year-round support of the WTA.
“It’s not easy to get everybody in the same room and say, ‘OK, let’s agree on a certain percentage,’” he said of the leaders of tournaments.
“We want more money, (but) they maybe don’t want to give us as much money when we talk about the prize money. There are so many different layers of the prize money that you have to look into. It’s not that simple.”
(Photos: Kelly Delfina / Getty Images, Steven / PA via Getty Images; design: Dan Goldfarb)
Culture
6 New Books We Recommend This Week
Our recommended books this week tilt heavily toward European culture and history, with a new history of the Vikings, a group biography of the Tudor queens’ ladies-in-waiting, a collection of letters from the Romanian-born French poet Paul Celan and a biography of the great German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. We also recommend a fascinating true-crime memoir (written by the criminal in question) and, in fiction, Rebecca Kauffman’s warmhearted new novel about a complicated family. Happy reading. — Gregory Cowles
One of Europe’s most important postwar poets, Celan remains as intriguing as he is perplexing more than 50 years after his death. The autobiographical underpinnings of his work were beyond the reach of general readers until the 1990s, when the thousands of pages of Celan’s letters began to appear. The scholar Bertrand Badiou compiled the poet’s correspondence with his wife, the French graphic artist Gisèle Lestrange-Celan, and that collection is now available for the first time in English, translated by Jason Kavett.
NYRB Poets | Paperback, $28
Wilson’s biography of the German polymath Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) approaches its subject through his masterpiece and life’s work, the verse drama “Faust” — widely considered perhaps the single greatest work of German literature, stuffed to its limits with philosophical and earthy meditations on human existence.
Bloomsbury Continuum | $35
Through a series of vignettes, Kauffman’s fifth novel centers on a woman determined to spend Christmas with her extended family, including her future grandchild and ex-husband, and swivels to take in the perspectives of each family member in turn.
People love the blood-soaked sagas that chronicle the deeds of Viking raiders. But Barraclough, a British historian and broadcaster, looks beyond those soap-opera stories to uncover lesser-known details of Old Norse civilization beginning in A.D. 750 or so.
Norton | $29
Fifteen years ago, Ferrell gained a dubious fame after The New York Observer identified her as the “hipster grifter” who had prowled the Brooklyn bar scene scamming unsuspecting men even as she was wanted in Utah on felony fraud charges. Now older, wiser and released from jail, Ferrell emerges in this captivating, sharp and very funny memoir to detail her path from internet notoriety to self-knowledge.
St. Martin’s | $29
In her lively and vivid group biography of the women who served Henry VIII’s queens, Clarke, a British author and historian, finds a compelling side entrance into the Tudor industrial complex, showing that behind all the grandeur the royal court was human-size and small.
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