This is research. This is discipline. This is work.

Not stalking.
Not spamming.
Not blasting 200 DMs hoping one sticks.

This is strategic.

You’ve booked the camps.
You’ve paid the deposits.
You’ve filmed the reps.
You’ve sent the DMs.
You’ve driven the miles.
You’ve sat in the stands holding your breath like the snap is coming to you.

And still… it feels like it’s not enough.

Camp season is coming.

And if you’re a specialist?
This isn’t optional. This is everything.

June is not when your work starts.
Your work started weeks ago.

Are you behind?

There’s a difference between being online and being recruitable online.

Coaches are on X.
Recruiting coordinators are on X.
Special teams analysts are on X.

But here’s what most young specialists don’t understand:

Coaches aren’t scrolling for hype.
They’re scanning for proof.

If you’re going to use X as part of your recruiting strategy, you need to treat it like a résumé — not a highlight reel for your friends.

Let’s start with what’s quietly hurting more athletes than helping.

Trace sets his steps.

Lets it fly.

The second it left his foot, I knew he had a chance.

It’s good.

It was as if the moment never touched him.

As camp wrapped up, Coach Kohl gathered Trace for photos, then stopped one more time.

“Give it up again for Trace Rudd, Class of 2026.”

This position is uncontrollable by nature.

You can do everything right and still miss. A snap can be high. A hold can be late. A step can be rushed. A protection can leak.

And suddenly, the result looks like failure.

We see it at every level. We saw it all season in the NFL. The best kickers and snappers in the world miss.

Not because they aren’t prepared. But because this job lives on the edge of perfection.

An Off the Uprights Guide for Parents and Players

I wish I could explain this in a sentence or two.

I can’t.

Because scholarships aren’t earned by one kick, one snap, one camp, or one viral clip.
They’re earned by clearing checkpoints and checking boxes—
over and over—
while college staffs are checking theirs.

There’s a moment in every game when the noise fades.

Not because the stadium gets quiet — but because your focus narrows to something no one else around you is watching the same way.

Your specialist steps onto the field.

And suddenly, you’re alone.

Not lonely in a sad way. Not isolated. Just… separated. Sitting in the same stands, watching the same game, but carrying a completely different experience inside your chest.

Where encouragement quietly turns into weight

I need to start this by owning something.

I have been the pressure.

I have been the stress.

Not intentionally. Not loudly. Not in the way most people picture when they think of a parent doing it wrong — but in the quiet, heavy way that comes from caring too much and feeling every rep like it belongs to you too.

For a stretch of this journey, I wasn’t helping.

It took me a few camps to realize it. And the moment didn’t come from something my son said — it came from watching another dad.

For five years, I stood behind the uprights at practices, sat in the stands on Friday nights, and watched my son Trace grind through every step of his specialist journey. From the early days of learning how to strike a ball cleanly to the pressure‑filled moments of late‑game kicks, I saw a side of football most people never notice — the side lived by kickers, punters, and long snappers.