Michael Penix Jr. walks into the Falcons facility like a man showing up to work the day after everyone else quit. Lights are on. Vibes are off. It’s got the energy of a mall that shut down three years ago but somehow still has a Wetzel’s Pretzels running on autopilot. He wanders in, shoulders loose, smile warm, because he thinks this is a normal Wednesday. It isn’t. Not even close.
He tries saying hi to the front desk lady — except there is no front desk lady. There’s a desk. There’s a plant. There’s a bowl of mints beside a sign that says “Take One.” But there’s no human attached to this building. Not one. Typical Falcons stuff: infrastructure, no actual people.
So Penix shrugs like “Alright, maybe they’re all busy,” which is adorable because nobody here has been busy since 28–3.
He decides to regroup in the cafeteria. And this is where nature gets cruel.
He walks in holding his lunch tray like a hopeful sophomore who thinks today might be the day the varsity guys let him sit with them. Spoiler: they don’t. The man makes it three steps into the room and the ENTIRE team detonates outward like someone fired a starting pistol. Not a word. Not a nod. No fake excuses like “bro, I got a call,” or “film room in five.”
They don’t lie. They don’t even pretend. They just scatter, like Falcons fans leaving after the third quarter.
One dude leaves so fast he knocks over an entire Gatorade rack. Another tight end sprinted out the door so violently he almost hit the wall like a Looney Tunes cutout. Someone left a sandwich mid-bite. It sat there open-faced, judging him.
And Penix — bless this man — still sits down like, “Weird day, huh?” Brother, no. This is a social extinction event.
Fine. Lunch is dead. On to the quarterback room.
He opens the door and it looks preserved by museum staff. Chairs tucked. Lights off. Cousins’ notebook on the table like a historical artifact. A whiteboard message that simply says BE BETTER, which is exactly what you write when you’ve given up on communicating but still want credit for leadership.
Penix stares around like he walked into a crime scene nobody bothered to outline. You ever walk into a room and immediately know absolutely no living being has been there in months? Yeah. That. Flowery Branch ambiance.
He tries to find a coach, which in Atlanta is basically LARPing Bigfoot Hunters. “Just missed him” is the only sentence this staff knows. Everyone says it like they practiced in front of a mirror.
Where’s Raheem? Press conference. Always a press conference. He materializes only when microphones appear, like a Pokémon with good media training.
And somewhere behind me — because of course he’s always floating around when foolishness hits max volume — I hear Finesse mutter, “A quarterback abandoned in a hollow fortress… a sad fate for any lad.” Then Boom, perched on his shoulder like a feathery war crime, fires a full-chested BFOOM! that rattles a vending machine two hallways over. The Falcons call this “culture.” I call it the most acknowledgment Penix has gotten all morning.
So Penix is left to roam the halls. He approaches the O-line — five giant men immediately pretend to be on phone calls at the exact same time. They all look up at him with that “hold on bro, one sec” finger and then turn away like they’re trying to negotiate a hostage situation.
He tries the receivers. They tap dead AirPods. Not Bluetooth-off, not battery-low — DEAD. Zero lights. Zero connection. Zero shame.
Running backs at least give him directions. “Ask the QB coach.” Cute answer. If the QB coach actually existed. At this point Atlanta’s coaching org chart looks like an old pirate map — “here be mystery.”
The tight ends? They don’t speak. They run. Full sprint. Knees high. Form clean. Georgia Track and Field would be proud. Falcons football? Not involved.
Eventually, Penix wanders outside where the JUGS machine sits — Atlanta’s most dedicated teammate. He talks to it. I don’t know what he says because the machine doesn’t speak English. It just hums. Spins. Powers up. Then — BAM — fires a spiral so beautiful it could make God jealous.
Penix smiles. He feels seen.
Then the machine fires again, even tighter. And another. And another.
Now he’s jealous. You can literally see him get insecure about a metal cylinder with wheels. He backs away like “Alright man, chill,” and the JUGS machine just sits there humming like “couldn’t be me missing that out route.”
And the loneliness hits him so hard he finally calls his fiancée — just so he’s not walking laps around the Falcons’ facility like an unpaid intern. She shows up immediately, because she actually likes him, and the two of them start wandering through the empty building together like they’re touring a foreclosed property.
And the second she arrives? Here comes the Falcons’ social team out of nowhere — cameras up, poses ready, already drafting captions about “family atmosphere” like the organization hasn’t been ghosting their own quarterback all morning.
They trail the couple for a few minutes, grab their wholesome PR content, and then disappear just as fast as they came — back into whatever broom closet they respawn from.
And after the last shutter click, after the final “Rise Together” draft is saved, after the team’s social media farm animals wander off… it’s just Penix again.
In the same empty halls. In the same silence. Still nobody to talk to.
At least he’s got his fiancée. The Falcons sure as hell don’t talk to him.
So he clutches his playbook like a therapy dog. Walks the halls like a kid on the first day of school whose mom promised “you’ll make friends, sweetie.” Flips pages like they’re text messages from someone who actually wants him around.
But this building? This building communicates like an unplugged toaster.
Penix isn’t alone because he’s unliked. He’s alone because this entire franchise accidentally speed-ran witness protection. The Falcons don’t hide their quarterback. They hide from him.
And that’s where we’re at.
A silent facility. A quarterback wandering. A JUGS machine doing better at bonding than the actual roster.
If Penix ever wants a real conversation, he’s gonna have to wait for Raheem’s next press conference — or hope Boom blasts open a door and forces someone to make eye contact.
