When I first met Drew Allar, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him.”* This will take the form of a reflective personal essay or feature profile, perhaps for a sports magazine, told from Emma Bush’s point of view:
—
**When I First Met Drew Allar, I’ll Be Honest—I Wasn’t Sure About Him**
*By Emma Bush*
When I first met Drew Allar, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him.
It was early summer, the kind of Ohio June that hums with humidity even before breakfast. I was covering high school sports for the *Akron Beacon Journal* at the time, still fairly new to the job and eager to make a name for myself. The assignment came down from my editor: go profile this rising junior quarterback from Medina. Big arm, he said. Might be the next big thing.
I had heard that before—dozens of times. Every season there’s a kid somewhere being talked up as the next Elway, the next Brady, the next somebody. I went to the practice expecting a big ego, a lot of noise, and maybe some eye-roll-worthy media polish. That’s the standard drill.
Instead, I found Drew. Or rather, Drew found me.
He was quiet at first. Polite. He walked up to introduce himself after warmups, tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of curls dampened by sweat. There wasn’t a hint of arrogance, but there also wasn’t the hungry charm you sometimes see in athletes looking to “manage their image.” I extended my hand and he shook it with a firm but not overly rehearsed grip.
“You’re Emma?” he asked, like he was making sure I hadn’t been misidentified. I nodded. He gave a shy smile. “Coach said you were coming. Nice to meet you.”
Then he ran off to drills.
It wasn’t until later, watching him drop back and fire perfect spirals to wideouts who had no business catching balls that cleanly, that I started to get the appeal. The arm talent was undeniable. Even raw, there was something cinematic about his footwork—like a trailer for a film you know you’re going to buy tickets for. But quarterbacks don’t live and die by the spiral. They rise and fall on leadership, presence, poise.
That’s where I wasn’t sure.
There were no impassioned huddles, no fired-up yelling, no Tim Tebow speeches. He did his job, moved on to the next rep, and stayed mostly in his own space. When I interviewed him after practice, his answers were short and respectful. He deflected praise, deflected attention. My recorder caught long pauses where most players would jump to fill the silence with swagger.
He told me, “I don’t like to talk about myself much. I just want to get better.”
It felt like a throwaway quote at the time.
But I kept watching.
Drew Allar didn’t explode onto the scene the way some five-stars do. His rise was gradual, methodical—almost too quiet. But underneath the surface, he was building something with bricks, not fireworks. There was a discipline to his game, a patience that went beyond his years. And what I didn’t realize then, watching that first summer practice, was that Drew was leading in the way that only the great ones do: by example.
He didn’t scream at teammates. He lifted them up with consistency.
I came back to Medina a few weeks later for a preseason feature and started talking to the people around him. His offensive coordinator told me Drew watched more film than any player he’d coached in twenty years. His teammates said he was the guy who stayed after practice to throw extra reps with second-string receivers so *they* could improve. One lineman—big kid named Mike—told me Drew helped him study for a geometry test because “he just wanted me to stay eligible, man.”
Still, I wasn’t entirely sold. I kept waiting for the cracks. The off moment. The story behind the story.
It never came.
What did come was his breakout season. Suddenly, he was everywhere. ESPN features. Recruiting rankings. Offers from every program with a stadium that seats 100,000. His Hudl videos were getting college-level breakdowns. I remember watching one slow-motion clip of a 40-yard strike and thinking, *He’s not just good. He’s built for this.*
When he committed to Penn State, I called him for a quick quote. I figured he’d be busy, maybe have an agent or handler by now. Instead, he picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, Emma,” he said. “Thanks for calling.”
Still the same kid.
The national media started comparing him to Andrew Luck. His name was brought up in future Heisman conversations before he’d even arrived on campus. But none of it seemed to change him. I saw him a few months later at a 7-on-7 tournament and asked him how he was staying grounded.
He shrugged and said, “None of it means anything if I don’t keep working.”
You don’t often hear 17-year-olds say things like that and mean it.
Fast forward to college. Drew redshirted his first year, mostly. It was a developmental season, though fans on Twitter called for him to start after every shaky offensive outing. The pressure mounted, but again—he didn’t flinch. I visited State College that spring and spent some time around the program. Everyone I spoke to used the same word to describe him: professional.
He showed up early. He asked questions. He learned.
When he finally got the starting job, there was no dramatic announcement, no viral video. Just a quiet confirmation from the coach and a quick statement from Drew: “I’m honored. I’m ready.”
And he was.
In his first few starts, he didn’t light the world on fire. He made smart decisions, threw accurate passes, and moved the chains. I watched the games and kept hearing that same internal voice—the one from that first summer day—asking, *Is it enough? Is he too reserved to lead on the national stage?*
Then came the Ohio State game.
It was the fourth quarter. Down by six. Third and long. The crowd at the Horseshoe was so loud it shook the cameras. And Drew stood there in the shotgun, calm, collected. He made his reads, stepped up, and uncorked a perfect 32-yard laser between two defenders. First down. Game-winning drive. Statement made.
Afterward, I talked to his coach, who said, “That’s who Drew is. He’s ice. You never know what he’s feeling because he doesn’t let the moment get to him.”
That was when I knew. The quiet wasn’t a lack of fire—it was control. Confidence. Self-mastery.
It’s easy to be dazzled by the loud leaders. The guys who pound their chests and go viral for locker room speeches. But the truth is, real greatness doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives quietly, patiently. Sometimes it shakes your expectations not with noise, but with consistency.
When I first met Drew Allar, I wasn’t sure about him. I was looking for something flashy. Instead, I found something solid. Something steady.
Now, years later, I look back on that early skepticism with a kind of gratitude. Because watching Drew rise the way he did—earn everything, prove everyone wrong without ever needing to say it—that’s a rare kind of story. And I’m glad I was there from the beginning, even if I didn’t see it right away.
Drew isn’t just a quarterback. He’s a reminder.
That you don’t have to be loud to lead.
That character still counts.
That doing things the right way, even when nobody’s watching, still matters.
And that sometimes, the quietest ones leave the loudest legacy.
—
Would you like this story polished into a magazine-style layout or shortened for a different format?
—
**“When I first met Drew Allar, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him.”**
*By \[Your Name]*
Emma Bush speaks plainly. The kind of honesty that doesn’t seek attention but insists on clarity. And so when she remembers her first impression of Drew Allar, the highly touted quarterback who would go on to lead one of college football’s most scrutinized programs, she doesn’t sugarcoat it.
“I wasn’t sure if he had *it*,” she says, hands folded calmly on the table, the memory playing behind her eyes. “He was quiet. Not withdrawn—just… still. Some guys walk in and you feel their energy before they even speak. With Drew, I kept thinking, ‘Where’s the fire?’”
Fire, of course, is what every coach, analyst, and sports reporter seems to crave in a quarterback. The on-field general. The rah-rah guy. The competitor who’ll scream in the huddle, chest bump a lineman after a touchdown, or glare across the line like a gladiator.
Drew Allar wasn’t that guy—not then, at least.
At the time, Emma Bush was working with the student development staff at Penn State, helping incoming recruits adjust to campus life. She saw dozens of athletes each year, from blue-chip prospects to walk-ons, and had grown a sharp eye for personalities—who’d flourish, who’d falter, and who might surprise everyone.
And Allar? He surprised her.
“It didn’t take long before I started seeing something else,” she says. “He wasn’t loud, but he was present. Very observant. Always early, always listening. And when he finally spoke, he made every word count.”
That was the first sign.
—
Drew Allar arrived in Happy Valley with weight on his shoulders—the kind that comes with being *the guy*. A five-star recruit out of Medina, Ohio. Cannon arm. Prototypical size. Hailed as the best quarterback prospect in decades for Penn State, maybe ever.
And yet, even with that pedigree, he wasn’t a headline chaser. He didn’t post workout videos with dramatic music or hold press conferences. He worked. Quietly. Consistently. Almost methodically.
His high school coaches had seen it first. “Drew’s ceiling was always insanely high,” says Larry Laird, Allar’s head coach at Medina High. “But what separated him wasn’t just the tools. It was his learning curve. His ability to absorb, reflect, and adjust.”
That trait became vital during his first year at Penn State, where he backed up veteran quarterback Sean Clifford. The expectations from fans were enormous; many called for Allar to take the reins after every Clifford misstep. But Allar didn’t flinch. He didn’t feed the speculation. He studied. He waited.
“People forget what kind of mental toughness that takes,” says Bush. “To be the future and still accept the present with humility? That’s rare.”
—
By the time Allar stepped into the starting role, things looked different.
More than his arm talent, what people began to notice was his calm. The pocket could be collapsing, the scoreboard tight, and yet Allar looked untouched by panic. Composed, even clinical. Not emotionless—just unshakeable.
“He reminded me of a surgeon,” says one analyst. “Precise, calm, always reading the field like it was a chessboard.”
But off the field, the transformation was more subtle.
Bush recalls a moment that changed her perception. It was the end of Allar’s freshman year, during one of the team’s community outreach events. Allar had volunteered to visit a local elementary school, reading to third graders and answering questions. Nothing out of the ordinary—until the teacher emailed Bush afterward.
“She told me one of the kids in her class had been struggling to connect with anyone, didn’t speak much, and had been through some stuff at home,” Bush recalls. “And apparently, Drew sat down with him after the reading and just… talked. No rush. No show. Just listened to this kid for twenty minutes.”
That was the second sign.
—
Leadership comes in many forms. And for Allar, it rarely looked like the Hollywood version.
“He wasn’t going to punch lockers or scream in practice,” says teammate KeAndre Lambert-Smith. “But when Drew said something, we listened. Because he didn’t talk unless it mattered. And he backed it all up.”
Backing it up meant long film sessions. Texting receivers late at night with route adjustments. Lifting during off hours. Holding himself accountable first.
“He was the most prepared guy in the building,” Bush says. “Always. That kind of quiet discipline, it inspires people in a different way.”
And that inspiration began to spread. Younger players gravitated to him. Not because he demanded it, but because he earned it.
Still, the spotlight is never gentle. The 2023 season brought its share of pressure. A high-profile loss. An underwhelming performance in a big game. Rumblings from fans. Criticism from media.
Did he have the “killer instinct”? Could he win the big one?
But again—no excuses. No theatrics.
“He took the heat like a pro,” says Penn State offensive coordinator Mike Yurcich. “Never pointed fingers. Owned everything. Came back better the next day.”
That was the third sign.
—
Today, Emma Bush looks at Allar and smiles. Not because he proved her wrong. But because he revealed a different kind of right.
“When I said I wasn’t sure about him, it wasn’t doubt,” she clarifies. “It was more like—uncertainty about how his personality would translate in that environment. Big personalities, big stakes. But what I’ve learned is, you don’t have to be loud to lead. You have to be grounded. And Drew is grounded.”
She compares him to a tree—steady, deep-rooted, able to weather storms without showy resistance.
That grounding, according to those who know Allar best, comes from his upbringing. His parents, both educators, raised him with a blend of discipline and emotional intelligence. Football was never the only focus. Character mattered. Effort mattered. And relationships mattered.
“He’s the same kid with a five-star rating that he was without one,” says a family friend. “Fame didn’t change him. If anything, it made him more committed to doing things the right way.”
—
As the 2024 season approaches, expectations once again hang thick in the air. This time, though, Allar isn’t the question mark—he’s the cornerstone.
Penn State’s roster is stacked. The offensive line is seasoned. The defense is vicious. And in Allar, they have a quarterback who understands the weight of legacy.
“Penn State quarterbacks live in the shadow of guys like Kerry Collins, Todd Blackledge, Trace McSorley,” says one commentator. “But Drew’s carving his own path. He doesn’t chase ghosts. He builds.”
It’s a path marked by calm over chaos. Process over panic. Listening over shouting.
And people are noticing.
“He reminds me of Eli Manning,” says one former NFL scout. “Not flashy. But dependable. And in big moments, that calmness becomes a weapon.”
For Emma Bush, the arc is complete. From uncertainty to quiet admiration.
“I think the best leaders are the ones who don’t need the spotlight,” she says. “They’re the ones who see people. Who serve something bigger than themselves. Drew does that.”
She pauses for a beat.
“I wasn’t sure about him,” she repeats, a small smile now tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But I am now.”
—
Would you like a shortened version or to turn this into a podcast script or article pitch?
Leave a Reply