Every Friday night, I dig my own grave under blinding lights and deafening cheers. With each hit, I carve deeper into the earth, pain shooting up my spine as the world freezes. I am not alone in this cemetery. All of us are digging together, each collision another shovelful of dirt over our shoulders. Around me, I watch my brothers stumble off the field, their eyes glazed after they fall to the ground. They wander off and struggle to form words, only to shake off the trauma and rush headfirst into the next play. The crowd cheers, but our real enemy is brain tissue rattling inside our helmets. Our football team suffered more concussions last year than any player should witness. The coaching staff brushed each one off as another "part of the game." But as the quarterback, I felt responsible for every hit my teammates took. If concussions were our true enemy, I felt compelled to tackle it head-on. My bedroom floor disappeared beneath stacks of printed NIH studies and notebook pages covered in circuit sketches. I wondered if I could measure exact impact forces inside helmets in real time, so players could be pulled out immediately rather than risk further injury. A week later, I was burning my fingertips on my dad's ancient soldering iron in our garage. I fried more circuit boards than I assembled and became well acquainted with "syntax error." But through every failure, the glazed eyes of my concussed teammates kept me pushing forward. That drive didn't come from nowhere. Growing up with a Brazilian mother and a Korean father, I moved to London in third grade and found myself the only minority student in nearly every classroom. Those years were lonely and I never quite fit the mold anyone expected. But when I got to the garage and started building, something shifted. In STEM, there was no mold. My background did not matter. My accent did not matter. What mattered was whether the line I coded executed or whether the circuit I built worked. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere because I was creating something real. After practices, my teammates gathered to test my prototype. Josh, our linebacker, wore my wire-covered helmet while I monitored my laptop, waiting to see if the dashboard would register his collisions with the tackling dummy. As spikes appeared matching the times of his hits, I exhaled a breath I had been holding since those long nights in the garage. Over the next few months, HeadSmart went from garage prototyping to lab testing under Virginia Tech Professor Dr. Jim Egenrieder. I sat hunched over the same 3D printer every week, fingernails stained black with ABS dust, transforming a wired mess into a sleek module that fit snugly inside helmet padding. HeadSmart soon became the talk of the team. Teammates shoved each other for a turn wearing it after practice, huddling around me the same way they did when I called plays. The fire of innovation was catching on, and I felt a victory greater than any on the field. At Cornell this fall, I'll be studying Operations Research and Information Engineering. I plan to use data modeling and real-time analytics to scale HeadSmart in protecting more athletes like myself, and find other ways to help my community thorugh innovation. I look forward to collaborating with peers at Cornell to tackle more systemic problems that others overlook, channeling empathy into action just as I did with HeadSmart.

Friday nights under the lights are what people see. What they don't see are the Tuesday mornings at 5:45 AM when I'm the first one in the weight room, or the film sessions I lead, where we break down our previous games and prepare for the next. Being a quarterback has taught me what Bill Scotti understood from both sports and business: success requires showing up every single day, especially when no one's watching. The role forces constant communication. I'm calling out protections at the line, adjusting routes based on defensive looks, and making sure everyone knows their assignment. In the huddle, I need to read the room. When to crack a joke to ease tension, when to be serious, and when someone needs encouragement. This is teamwork at its purest form, and it has taught me that no one succeeds alone. What football has really taught me is how to handle pressure and failure with resilience. Fourth quarter, down by six, everyone in the stadium watching. You either freeze or you execute. I've thrown my share of interceptions in crucial moments. You can't let one mistake compound into another. You acknowledge it, learn from it, and move on to the next play. That's the toughness Bill believed in, not just physical, but mental. The ability to take a hit, get back up, and lead your team forward. The discipline football demands has shaped my character. Early morning workouts when I'd rather sleep in. Film study when I'd rather relax. Extra reps when my arm is tired. These aren't glamorous moments, but they're where character is built. Bill Scotti knew this from running his business. The work ethic you develop when nobody's applauding is what carries you through the tough moments when everyone is watching. Football has also taught me genuine selflessness. As a quarterback, my statistics mean nothing if we don't win. I've learned to celebrate the running back's touchdown that came from my block and to put the team's success above my own recognition. Leadership isn't about the spotlight. It's about serving the people who depend on you. The tenacity required in football translates to life in ways I'm still discovering. When you're facing a defense that's dominated you all game, when your body is exhausted, when doubt creeps in, that's when you find out who you are. Every tough practice, every loss we studied and learned from, every moment I had to dig deeper than I thought possible has built the person I am today. Football taught me that character is earned through showing up, owning your mistakes, and genuinely caring about the people depending on you. Bill Scotti lived these values in his business and his life. Those lessons stick with you long after the final whistle blows.