EmailPrintOpen Extended ReactionsTHE SOCKS WERE a small thing. But for Jay'shawn McCloud, they were a necessity he did not have. In middle school, his football coaches made sure he had a pair for a game.Football had begun to offer McCloud a glimpse of a future, a different, more optimistic one than initially considered. His father had been incarcerated since McCloud was a toddler and wasn't a part of his life. His mother was raising five children and was stretched to the breaking point. Before McCloud reached his teens, they had been forced out of their apartment. The siblings were separated, and McCloud and his mother ended up in a cramped room at an extended-stay hotel on a busy state road outside Jacksonville, Florida.Extended-stay hotels exist as an option of last resort for families who have nowhere else to go. They are not homeless shelters per se, but are populated by the same desperate demographic and the facilities suffer from similar structural indignities.McCloud, 18, said he lived with his mother in the hotel for three months. After he left, she remained for three months more.All the while, football offered something more than a place to play. His middle school coaches occasionally bought him meals and helped provide necessities. Later, his high school head coach became an advocate and a steady presence in his life, monitoring his grades, intervening with school counselors and giving him reasons to stay on the team.For years, McCloud's living arrangements were in flux. In eighth grade, he moved in with the family of a teammate, Landon Martin, and stayed with them until his sophomore year of high school, when he left Florida to live with his grandmother in Gary, Indiana. A year later, he returned to Florida and moved in with an aunt. When she fell ill months later, he went back to the Martins. Through the upheaval, McCloud and Martin remained teammates on the Clay High School Blue Devils, where both have emerged as standouts."So many people have helped me," says McCloud who plays on the defensive line. "My coach is 100% the reason I got recruited from the start. He's such a great person to talk to. He just helps me out a lot."Buying socks was never part of a coach's job description. Under the rules governing scholastic athletics, some of the modest financial assistance McCloud's coaches provided, including money for rides, meals and even socks were, strictly speaking, against the rules. But coaches often find themselves doing far more than teaching X's and O's.Players have always needed this kind of help and the coaches who intervened risked their livelihoods. A practice of goodwill was essentially criminalized.But there seems to be a change in the thinking regarding coaches and the ways they are allowed to assist underresourced kids. Florida has eased some of the restrictions that once limited how coaches in all high school and middle school sports can help players.In May, Gov. Ron DeSantis signed the "Teddy Bridgewater Act," named after the former NFL quarterback and Miami high school football coach. The law allows head coaches to spend up to $15,000 of their own money, per team, annually on certain forms of assistance. This includes rehabilitation services, physical therapy, food and transportation.Beyond meals, Clay head coach Jeff Gierke arranged meetings with school counselors, connected him with tutors, oversaw his recruitment, which also included offers from Temple and Wake Forest, and made sure McCloud kept showing up. The help he received from his coaches was essentially a bridge, a way for McCloud to stay afloat until his relationship with the Martin family became something resembling a family. The support paid off. McCloud is on track to graduate high school after the current semester and enroll in college early, where he plans to study psychology.For athletes facing instability at home, this help can mean the difference between staying connected to a team and walking away. But for coaches, there has always been an inherent risk. Many of these gifts fall under the impermissible benefits umbrella, where a coach risks suspension or termination.Gierke says he has never been sanctioned and now spends very little of his own money. Before he had a family he says he was more generous about taking kids out, sometimes spending a few hundred bucks out of his pocket.In recent years, high school and middle school coaches across all sports often find themselves responding to needs that address an athlete's broader welfare. It's a long simmering issue, especially now against the backdrop of a shrinking social safety net.FOR PARENTS PRESSED up against the sharp edge of financial ruin, navigating the never ending 20 dollars here, or 50 dollars there requests from young athletes can tip the scales.Those working class, and often poverty class, families are sometimes forced to rely on federal and state safety net programs to keep the proverbial lights on. Over the last several years, these programs have been gutted across the nation, especially so in red-leaning states.The federal H.R. 1 Bill, signed into law in 2025, is the latest uppercut to these programs. In the last year Louisiana has seen a 19% drop in the number of people eligible for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits according to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities. Arizona has seen a 7% enrollment decrease - approximately 136,000 people - in the state's Medicaid program.Florida has some of the nation's most restrictive unemployment assistance rules, with lower benefit limits and shorter durations than almost anywhere else in the country. The state's longstanding refusal to fully expand Medicaid has also left many low-income families without access to affordable health care.Recent federal cuts to SNAP have further weakened the safety net. The new rules make SNAP a benefit people must continually demonstrate they deserve. Many adults must now prove they do 80 hours a month of work, volunteering or job training to continue receiving benefits. Those who fail to meet the requirement can receive benefits for only three months in a three-year period before losing them.Recipients must provide pay stubs or a letter from an employer documenting their work hours and income, a relatively simple task for someone with a steady paycheck. But the verification process can be much more difficult for self-employed workers and those juggling multiple jobs or irregular hours.For kids like McCloud, these policy changes can rupture their lives. Behind the mundane statistics and election season talking points are the lives of actual people being thrown into the balance."We will likely see a rise in food insecurity, more Floridians without health coverage, and more families being pushed below the poverty line as a result of the 2025 law," said Sadaf Knight, CEO of the Florida Policy Institute, a nonpartisan research and advocacy organization.In the five months after new federal restrictions on SNAP took effect last year, the number of Floridians receiving benefits fell by more than 277,000, or nearly 10 percent, according to the Florida Policy Institute.Similar declines were reported across the country, with some of the deepest drops in the Deep South. The Southern Poverty Law Center reported that between last July and February of this year, SNAP enrollment fell 5.5 percent in Alabama, 6 percent in Georgia and 9.5 percent in Mississippi.Tuesday's election results may lead to a reversal of some of the more stringent policies, but in the meantime, the pressure on the safety net is likely to grow. Beginning in October, states now have to shoulder a larger share of the administrative costs of running SNAP, adding to the financial strain on programs serving low-income families.The effects of a fraying safety net extend even to Clay County, a fast-growing and relatively prosperous suburb of Jacksonville. Large subdivisions of single-family homes now sprout from former timber forests, bringing new money and development to the once rural community. The county's median household income of nearly $88,000 is well above the statewide median of $74 568, and its 9.1 percent poverty rate is well below the state's 12.6 percent.But those figures obscure the financial strain facing many families. Beyond those officially counted as living in poverty, 29 percent of US households earn more than the poverty threshold of about $31,000 for a family of four but still do not earn enough to cover the basic costs of living, according to United Way research. The organization calls these households ALICE, an acronym for Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed.Bill Bland, managing director of The Food Pantry of Green Cove Springs, about two miles from Clay High School, said the number of people seeking help has crept up recently. The pantry typically provides a monthly allotment of four bags of groceries, supplemented with seasonal produce and sometimes meat and eggs. But demand has surged 30 percent in the past three months, he said."Everything costs more right now, and people are having to make choices between maybe making a car payment or buying food," Bland says. "We're kind of an emergency stopgap. Everybody's got their own story. Somebody may have lost a job in the family. Somebody may have gotten sick. It runs the gamut."For coaches, that need can show up in their players in ways that others do not see."I've coached at affluent schools. I've been at inner-city schools. I've been in private schools," Gierke says, who is active in the Florida Coaches Coalition, which advocates on behalf of high school coaches. "And you know what? There are always a couple kids who need help."According to Gierke some players just come out and ask for help. "It's like, 'Coach, can I get a shirt?' Or 'Coach, can I wash my clothes here?'" he says. "They'll do it discreetly. They'll just bring you a backpack, and you do it for them in the morning."Other times, coaches recognize the need without being asked. Many students are embarrassed by their circumstances, and over time, coaches learn to spot the signs and offer help quietly.Early in his coaching career at another school, Gierke had a star running back who he learned was sleeping in a shed behind a relative's house. "His mom couldn't take care of him anymore, and he went to go live with an uncle," Gierke recalls. "Uncle's like, yeah, you can sleep in the shed."Once the coaches learned of the boy's living situation, they arranged for him to stay with the family of a teammate. He went on to play football at the University of Tennessee."He's doing really good now," Gierke says.For many coaches, helping a player in need means providing a meal, a ride or, in especially difficult circumstances, a place to live. But Bridgewater's efforts to support players at his alma mater took on a far greater scale, raising questions about where help ended and competitive advantage began.IN 2024, BRIDGEWATER became head coach at Miami Northwestern Senior High School, a storied Liberty City institution that has produced generations of athletic stars and prominent figures in entertainment and politics. He led the team to a state championship in his first season. The following summer, he disclosed the extent of his spending on the team, bringing his efforts into conflict with the rules governing high school and middle school sports in Florida.Before the start of the season, Bridgewater posted a fundraising appeal on social media, saying he had spent several thousand dollars of his own money on the team. He said he spent $700 on Uber rides for players. He also spent $14,000 on a four-night preseason training camp, $9,500 on team-branded clothing, $2,200 a week on pregame meals, $1,300 a week on physical therapy services and $300 a week to line the football field."Help me carry the load so I no longer have to take from my personal funds to keep smiles on these young [men's faces] and remind them that they matter," Bridgewater wrote on Facebook.The post raised questions about whether he had violated the rules.Bridgewater, who threw for 75 TDs and over 15,000 yards for six teams, earned an estimated $66 million over his 12-year career. He was spending a substantial sum of his own money on a team fresh off a state championship at one of Florida's most storied programs.His generosity raised a difficult question for the officials who regulate high school football in Florida. When does helping players become an advantage that can attract top talent?"What Teddy Bridgewater was doing led some people to say he was recruiting because kids were taking Ubers from 45 minutes away and all this other stuff," Gierke says. "But at the same time, he had the means to do that because of what he has achieved in his career. And he was looking out for his kids."Bridgewater did not respond to several requests for comment.After returning to the NFL with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers for the 2025 season, he defended his actions to reporters, saying he knew from experience what it was like to at times be hungry, or need a ride. He said he was simply giving his players what they needed."When I decided to coach, those players became my sons, and I wanted to make sure I just protect them in the best way that I can. Miami Northwestern is in a tough neighborhood, and sometimes things can happen when kids are walking home," he told reporters. "I was just trying to protect them, give them a ride home instead of them having to take those dangerous walks... I can't change who I am because of the rules."But the rules did not make an exception for good intentions. After an investigation, the Florida High School Athletic Association allowed Miami to keep its championship even as it determined that Bridgewater had violated its rules on benefits. In the wake of the association's findings, Miami Northwestern suspended him from coaching.The sanctions ignited a furor among supporters of the school and left other coaches confused."Let's be honest. How many coaches can give $15,000 to their teams?" says Rodney DuBose, athletic director and assistant football coach at Oakleaf High School outside Jacksonville. "Still, I stand on the table and applaud what that man did. We all do what we can for our athletes. In my mind, it becomes an impermissible benefit when you do things only to win ball games, or to get players to come to your school. When that's your motivation, impermissible benefits follow."DuBose knows first-hand how much a coach's help can mean. Growing up in a rough section of Bridgeport, Connecticut, he was a star wide receiver when his high school coach offered him a glimpse of a different life. Each summer, when the coach went on vacation, he paid DuBose to house-sit and care for his three dogs."He would say I'm going to give you this amount of money and I will see you in a week," recalls DuBose, who went on to play college football at Sacred Heart University. "I was in a neighborhood where I was hearing pop, pop, pop. But when I got to my coach's house, he had a pool. He had a big screen TV. I saw a whole new world."DuBose's experience helps shape how the coaches look after players at Oakleaf High. When a player is invited on an informal college visit, but his parents cannot go along, DuBose or head coach Christopher Foy makes sure he gets there. If an athlete cannot afford sweats or other team gear, the coaches find a way to provide it."We have one kid that if we can get them to college, his NIL is going to be more than we're going to make for the next 10 years," Foy says. "So, (if) we have to drive him to a visit, we do it."Sometimes, the help has nothing to do with money. Last season, the father of an Oakleaf player had his work visa abruptly revoked. Facing possible deportation, he went into hiding. The player began arriving late for school because each morning he had to drive his mother to her custodial job at another school across the county. Oakleaf officials were on the verge of removing him from the rolls when he explained his circumstances to his coaches. DuBose and Foy intervened, persuading school officials to adjust his schedule and move his free period to the first period of the day, giving him more time to get to school. The student graduated last spring."That's the kind of thing we do all the time," DuBose says.Luther Campbell, the Miami music impresario who helped make the rap group 2 Live Crew a national phenomenon in the late '80s, had spent more than two decades mentoring and coaching young football players in South Florida before resigning from coaching earlier this year to launch an ultimately unsuccessful bid for Congress. He considered the rules that led to Bridgewater's removal unfair and set out to change them.During his coaching career, Campbell said he paid mandatory insurance premiums for some athletes, bought others meals and sometimes paid for players to get taxi and Uber rides home from games and practices. Such assistance, he said, was common among coaches.The alternative, Campbell says, was sometimes leaving players stranded in dark parking lots in dangerous neighborhoods. Coaches faced a choice between finding a way to get their players home safely and leaving them to fend for themselves."Say we have a night game in Homestead, which is an hour and a half away, and the game is over at 10 PM. We get back home about 1 AM and the parents don't come to pick a kid up. What are we supposed to do?" Campbell says. "It's technically illegal for us to give the kid a ride. Are we supposed to leave him standing outside in the dark in a blighted neighborhood? This situation with Teddy was a widespread problem. And we needed to address it."Campbell took his concerns to State Sen. Shevrin D. Jones, who introduced legislation to establish rules governing the help coaches have long provided their players."Firing someone for doing something that could change a child's life is a reach," Jones says. "I felt like we had to do something about that." - As the bill moved through the legislature, State Sen. Corey Simon, a former Florida State football star who played eight years in the NFL, offered his own example of the kind of help his high school coach once gave him."I learned how to drive a manual transmission because my coach back in high school let me borrow his Nissan," Simon says. "He said, 'well, it's a stick. And I said, 'Well, coach I don't know how to drive a stick.' And he says, '...I need to teach you how to drive my car.'"The legislation passed with overwhelming bipartisan support. It stipulates that help to athletes must be provided in "good faith," parents must give written consent, and the spending must be reported to the Florida High School Athletic Association."In Florida, we want to encourage mentorship -- not punish it," DeSantis wrote on X. "This legislation creates a structured and transparent way for coaches to provide assistance using personal funds."Craig Damon, executive director of the state athletic association charged with enforcing the new law, says the measure largely codifies an approach the association had followed for years."My first reaction was that this is not necessary," Damon says. "We went back and looked over the past 15 years, and I think we've had like four cases where the coach received a sanction for something like providing a ride to a kid. And in those situations, there was evidence through text messages or some other written communication showing the kids were promised a ride if they would switch schools."The association will presume that reported assistance was provided in good faith unless evidence suggests otherwise. If questions arise about a coach's spending, the association's compliance unit steps in.Appeals are handled by the association's Sectional Appeals Committee, and finally, the association board. The guidelines limit assistance to emergency and nonrecurring needs, and require school administrators to authorize it and coaches to report each instance. Those restrictions, Damon says, are intended to help distinguish legitimate assistance from benefits that could be used to recruit players.Damon, who coached football at Central Florida's North Marion High School for 13 years before joining the association in 2013, said he understood the circumstances that could lead a coach to step in.If a team stops at a fast-food restaurant and a few players have no money to pay for a meal, Damon said, a coach is likely to pick up the tab. To him, that is part of the responsibility that comes with looking after a team, not an effort to gain a competitive edge."We didn't sanction anybody for that because that's basically taking care of that kid while you are with him," he says. "We completely understand that there are situations that come up as a coach where just as a human being you need to do what is considered to be in the best welfare of a student athlete."Schools have been slow to use the law's reporting mechanism, and so far, the association has received no reports on what is being spent on athletes, Damon says. "It has been very quiet," he says.The association said it had not yet heard from counterparts in other states expressing interest in the law."In the simplest sense, the law just allows you the freedom to help take care of a kid who needs it," says Bobby Ramsay, head coach at Jacksonville's Andrew Jackson High School, located less than a 10-minute drive north of the city's downtown core. "It just makes it legal to help a kid out and do what you feel is right for him."Ramsay has coached high school football for 25 years, and his former players include Baltimore Ravens running back Derrick Henry and Arizona Cardinals backup quarterback Carson Beck.Sitting on the metal bleachers overlooking the school's football field, Ramsay thought back on the various teams he has had through the years. Each one, he said, had players who needed help. He has paid for a cast for a player who broke his thumb, purchased a plane ticket for a former player pursuing a college career, and provided countless cleats to players who could not afford them."You're always trying to do the right thing for your players," Ramsay says. "In some ways, they are like your own kids."FOR MCCLOUD, BEING on the team changed his life, allowing him to build a relationship with Martin. When he met Landon, who turns 18 next week and is now the quarterback at Clay High School, they were middle school wrestlers. Their relationship began with a joke."I went up to him and made a remark," Martin says. "I was like, 'You have kids at home or something?' He was so much bigger physically. And he just laughed." As the two grew closer through wrestling and football, the Martins learned more about McCloud's living situation. Eventually, they invited him to move in.In some ways, theirs is an unlikely bond. Martin is white and grew up in a more stable home. McCloud is Black and has spent much of his life navigating poverty and instability. But as their friendship grew, the differences became immaterial."My parents were like he needs help. So, my mom and dad were all in for it," Martin says. "And then we kind of became best friends. Now, he's my brother."McCloud's mother signed a notarized in loco parentis document formalizing the arrangement. Since then, he has lived with the Martins on and off. Staci Martin, Landon's mother, said the family is far from wealthy. She works part time as a cosmetologist, and her husband, Nathaniel, is a security analyst for a bank. Their four-bedroom, three-bathroom house in the largely working-class city of Green Cove Springs is a fixer-upper they have spent years renovating.But the Martins see opening their home to young people who need help as an expression of their Christian faith, not a question of how much they have to give. "We bought the house with shag carpet and paneling," she says, of the home they purchased in 2015. "We bought it to renovate it. We've been fixing it up this whole time. We just recently took out a loan to finish it."When they learned McCloud was living in a hotel, the Martins offered him a place in their home, hoping to give him some of the stability other children take for granted."When we found out he was living in a hotel, we just asked him if he want to have a better opportunity and stay with us to give him some normalcy," Staci Martin says. "Scripture says we should feed and clothe people who need it. Kids shouldn't have to experience that."The Martins have welcomed other members of the Clay football team into their home. With their two oldest children away at college, they have room for two more players. Senior wide receiver and defensive back Mi'keise Battle, whose mother is battling cancer, has moved in with the family. Sophomore running back Kamari Davis also spends most nights there, making it easier for him to get to school and football practice."We're always together," Landon Martin says. "You never see us without each other."For all that has gone right, though, one painful reality remains. McCloud's mother does not attend his games. She has not been there to witness the success he has found in football, or the future that is beginning to take shape beyond it. Asked about what others describe as a strained relationship, McCloud offered little explanation."Family matters," he said."It's been pretty hard, but I've learned to adapt. I come from nothing, but people around football have helped me a lot," McCloud said, flashing a smile beneath a navy Liberty University beanie after a team pregame meal in the Clay High School cafeteria. He is committed to play football there next year.Nobody at Clay High School needed a law to know what a pair of socks, a ride home, or a seat at the dinner table could mean to a kid like McCloud. Coaches had been doing that math for years, mostly out of sight. Friends did it too. But the Teddy Bridgewater Act takes the quiet part out of it.McCloud, who plays on the defensive line for the Blue Devils -- who are enjoying their first winning season since 2021 -- knows what that freedom looks like from the other side. "So many people have helped me," he says.The help is the same as ever. Now nobody has to hide it.
