Championships are won inside the Superdome. Concerts fill it. History happens there.

And somewhere up in the rafters — in the bones of that building — is my name.

Me and Bundy had been running conduit up in that roof for weeks. Hot. High. Moving through those walkways like we owned them. One day we came up on a section of drywall deep in the rafters, and it was covered — names, dates, messages going back to 1978. Electricians. Camera crew. Workers who'd been in that same spot before us, doing the same kind of work, in the same kind of heat.

Every one of them had earned the right to be up there. And every one of them left a mark to prove it.

Bundy pulled out a marker and tossed it to me. "Your turn, Gator."

No ceremony. No announcement. I uncapped it, pressed it to that wall, and wrote: Andre "Gator" Daniels. '06.

I thought about that kid from Daytona. I thought about every job that led to this one. Nobody saw me do it. Nobody might ever see it. They might strip that drywall someday. Doesn't matter.

I was there. I ran that conduit. I sweated in that August heat and made that building work. My signature is in those bones.

That's what your name being your currency really means. It's not just reputation — it's the record of every job you did right, every person you treated with respect, every piece of work you put your hands on and refused to do halfway.

Every job you work, you sign your name. Whether you use a marker or not.