Nick Bosa, who happens to be built like a baby rhinoceros, is chasing me.
I’m moving as fast as my 41-year-old legs can churn through the uneven sand. We’re on a private beach in South Florida, and there is a prop football in my hands, a detail that seems irrelevant at the moment because there is a hint of malice in Bosa’s eyes. It’s like a predator about to run down its prey.
In theory, Bosa is chasing me as part of a photo shoot for this magazine. Prior to this, we’d been tossing a football back and forth for 10 minutes, my creaky-but-capable dad arm lofting passes in the direction of his giant frame. But then, to spice things up, the photographer wondered if we might turn up the intensity a bit: How about Bosa comes flying at me and I’ll try to evade him, like I’m a helpless Big Ten quarterback and he’s, well, himself?
With a mixture of apprehension and adrenaline I agree, and now the chase begins (although calling it a chase is, at best, generous).
For the most part, Bosa has the temperament of a tiki bar happy hour regular—mellow, bemused and carefree. But the look on his face has me wondering whether his football instincts are about to override reason.
It’s been more than six months since Bosa knocked someone off his feet, laid him out like a human wrecki