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Dave Wilson
Multiple Authors
FRISCO, Texas — Sawyer Robertson, the 6-4, 220-pound golden retriever of a quarterback from Baylor, is one of the 2026 NFL draft‘s biggest wild cards in a QB class full of them. But before you try to figure out his story, you’re going to have to tell him yours.
“Do you worry about the approval of the reader?” Robertson said over Tex-Mex in Frisco, Texas, where he’s training for the draft. “Not everyone’s going to see eye to eye with you.”
The quarterback isn’t trying to seize control of the piece you’re about to read, but just doing what he always does naturally. Even while being interviewed, he’s always interviewing.
“Sawyer wants the answer,” said Mason Miller, his offensive line coach at Mississippi State and Baylor. “He wants all the answers.”
Robertson has always been like this, said his dad, Stan. Road trips were full of questions about whatever Sawyer saw out the window. He asked so many questions on his first airplane trip that Stan transcribed them all on his laptop — which was later stolen (he’s still upset about it, because he thought the list was so incredible). But nothing was more torturous than watching a movie with the kid.
“He wanted to know the ending,” Stan said. “I would have to say, ‘Sawyer, they have not given us that information yet.'”
So take that image of young Sawyer and imagine him at 23, waiting to find out where life takes him in the NFL. He’s currently projected as a Day 3 pick — maybe as high as a fifth-rounder, maybe he won’t get drafted at all. Then he will have to figure out where he’s going to restart his life. Right now, answers are in short supply. But wherever he ends up, he’ll be starting at the bottom again. He’s a curious prospect in a much-maligned quarterback class, though he finds that evaluation “disrespectful” to his peers.
“If your favorite team needs a quarterback, I have some bad news,” ESPN’s Ben Solak recently wrote. “The 2026 NFL draft class isn’t particularly strong overall, and it is extremely thin at quarterback.”
But Robertson remains committed to proving himself once more. Because his relentless drive is fueled by a mission to honor God. And Mike Leach.
IF YOU WROTE a cheesy Texas football movie, the character “Sawyer Robertson” might seem a little over the top, like he was written a little too lazily for the part of the Baylor quarterback (school motto: Pro Ecclesia, Pro Texana, Pro Mundo: For the Church, For Texas, For the World).
Robertson loves Jesus, football, fishing and making friends, and he’s happy if he’s doing anything involving any of those things. Last fall, the week the Bears would face Samford, Robertson bounded around the football building in search of evidence that anyone had caught anything in the Brazos, the river that cuts through Waco and the campus, separating the complex from McLane Stadium. He found none, but he was jonesing to try anyway.
“You want to wet a line?” he said, and just happened to have three fishing rods in the back of his 2019 Nissan Titan, a no-frills ride he wasn’t interested in upgrading because he’d already installed the roof tent base on the back for when he wants to head off to the woods to sleep in it. We strike out on the Brazos — just like everyone told him we would — then he heads back into a quarterback meeting.
Later that same day, he films a commercial for a local Waco optometrist because they let him pick out three pairs of Costa fishing sunglasses. He doesn’t particularly like doing this kind of thing. He signed only two major NIL deals, one with Nike, because everyone needs shoes, he said, and one with Bass Pro Shops, because he doesn’t have to pretend to like the place. He already shopped there anyway.
Robertson is an easy hang. He’s humble, and he’s been humbled. Robertson was a star at Lubbock Coronado, leading all Texas high school quarterbacks in the 2020 season with an obscene 4,509 yards and 58 touchdowns. He finished his high school career in the state’s all-time top 15 in yardage, touchdown passes and completions. But for four seasons, twice at Mississippi State and twice at Baylor, Robertson was told he wasn’t good enough to start the season opener.
So he tried to be the best teammate he could be, by example. The four-star recruiting ranking didn’t matter anymore. Robertson is ultracompetitive, and most of the pressure he felt came from himself. So he gave himself some grace.
“Maybe I’ve just been wrong about who I am my whole life?” he thought at the beginning of 2024. “I am in Baylor’s locker room for a season, but clearly it’s not about football.”
He was in Baylor’s locker room because a dream died with Leach in Dec. 2022. Robertson spent Saturdays of his youth at Jones AT&T Stadium in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas, wearing the red and black of Texas Tech. He was 5 when Leach, Graham Harrell and Michael Crabtree stunned the hated Texas Longhorns and ascended to No. 2 in the polls. He was 13 when Patrick Mahomes, playing for Red Raiders coach Kliff Kingsbury (who was Leach’s first star QB in Lubbock), threw for more than 5,000 yards. Robertson rose up the football recruiting rankings and shot to No. 56 in the 2021 ESPN 300 by his senior year. But Texas Tech was set on Behren Morton and never offered Robertson a scholarship.
Then Leach called Robertson from Washington State in Sept. 2019 with plenty of questions. What did he know about pirates? Or about Native Americans and cowboys? Did he believe in aliens? For someone with Robertson’s sense of wonder, these were easy conversations, less forced than the sales pitches he got from everyone else.
When Leach left Washington State for Mississippi State in Jan. 2020, he made Robertson a priority. In March, Robertson called Leach and told him he was coming to play for the Bulldogs. Leach said that was cool, then asked Robertson what his favorite Mexican restaurant was in Lubbock.
TCU coach Sonny Dykes knew Robertson’s dad, Stan, because Stan had played for Texas Tech when Sonny’s dad Spike coached the team. Sonny and Stan were baseball rivals in West Texas, and when Sonny was recruiting Sawyer, he bragged he had once homered off his dad, which Sawyer thought was hilarious but Stan did not. Dykes, a former Leach assistant, told reporters last year that he loved Sawyer and rooted for him every Saturday except the upcoming one when they’d play each other. He said he didn’t mind missing out on him, because of who he chose.
“Sawyer is Mike Leach’s kind of kid,” he said.
IN FILM STUDY, Robertson sits back, remote in hand, watching the morning’s practice. He’s doing that thing coaches do where they rewind, watch a throw, rewind, watch a throw, over and over.
While he watches, he’s in Starkville, Mississippi, in his head, telling me how he and starter Will Rogers III and the other quarterbacks would sit, waiting for Leach to arrive. Leach would show up, in cargo shorts, with a bag of apple slices that his wife Sharon had sent with him, and tell them a story about how he saw a turtle stuck in a pond and used a stick to save it. And after arriving, his coaching style was just as unusual.
Robertson nods to the screen, running a play, while sliding into a slow, monotone cadence, an impression of Leach’s simplicity when it came to picking apart on-field decision-making.
“Well, if you would’ve just thrown it to him right here,” he says, circling a receiver with four defensive backs around him, “he would catch it and go score.”
They’d laugh in disbelief, telling Leach he didn’t know what he was talking about, that the other team’s players would also be running, and once he had the ball, they would then try to tackle him.
But Leach wanted them to believe they’d score on every play, because belief was paramount. Robertson was stunned in key moments when he’d hear Leach call “Ace Check,” a call that meant Rogers should just choose whatever play he wanted and go score. Rogers threw for 12,315 yards for Leach, setting the SEC career record for completions along with 29 other school records. He believed.
But Rogers also saw how much Robertson was struggling. He was redshirting, 15 hours from home, and he desperately wanted to prove to Leach, one of his heroes, that he made the right choice in signing him. He wasn’t asking questions. He was lost.
The disconnect is that everyone else seemed to know Leach loved the kid and had big plans for him. Hal Mumme, Leach’s mentor who frequently discussed quarterbacks with him, said Leach had said Robertson would be his next great quarterback. Mason Miller, who played for Mumme and Leach at Valdosta State, and was Leach’s offensive line coach at Washington State and Mississippi State, said Leach was amusingly protective of his young QB.
“Leach would come in and say, ‘Which one of y’all is screwing Sawyer up?'” Miller said. “Nobody can talk to him except for me.” That became a rule. Sometimes, Leach would end meetings and tell everyone to go to practice. “You stay,” Leach would say, looking at Robertson, and all the other QBs would know.
“I lost all confidence, basically everything you need to have to be successful,” Robertson said. “Leach never saw it at Mississippi State.”
In his two seasons as a Bulldog, he attempted 11 passes, completing five of them to his own team — and one to an East Tennessee State player. Robertson didn’t know it at the time, but Leach refused any pressure from other coaches to move him down the depth chart from the No. 2 spot.
On Dec. 11, 2022 at 4:58 p.m., Leach sent Robertson a text message.
Don’t overthink plays. Just get your eyes in the right place and react.
He had a heart attack hours later and died the next day, and Robertson found himself at Leach’s funeral, which was unthinkable. Three weeks later under interim coach Zach Arnett, the Bulldogs beat Illinois in the ReliaQuest Bowl, wearing pirate flags on their helmets instead of the Mississippi State logo to honor Leach. Robertson watched from the sideline, where he’d been demoted to third on the depth chart.
THE TRANSFER PORTAL provided a new set of challenges for the grieving sophomore. There were no questions from coaches about his thoughts on “Narcos” on Netflix, like Leach offered. Then Dave Aranda called. Robertson soon found out that Aranda, too, had lost a mentor in Leach, who gave him his major-college foot-in-the-door job at Tech in 2000. Aranda was Leach’s driver on recruiting trips, and he and Robertson bonded over Aranda’s tales of their road trips together, where the young coach would struggle to keep Leach on time for anything.
“We were never on schedule for any of the things that we had,” Aranda said. “Not for one.”
Baylor offered Robertson a chance to play, with an unsettled quarterback situation. Robertson is a Baptist, deeply religious, and loved the idea of playing major college sports at a school with a Christian mission. And he had a familiar feeling with Aranda that he could trust.
“You could feel the search for authenticity with Sawyer, both him and his family,” Aranda said. “That’s directly correlated to his experience with Mike.”
Robertson arrived in Waco for the 2023 season and lost the battle for the starting job to Blake Shapen. The Bears went 3-9, the offense ranked 101st nationally, and Robertson struggled in four starts he made while Shapen was injured, including going 12-of-28 for 218 yards with two interceptions in a 20-13 loss to Utah.
“I got my chance and I just absolutely peed down my leg,” Robertson said.
After the season, Aranda retooled his offensive staff, hiring Jake Spavital, the former Texas State coach who as an assistant had coached stars such as Geno Smith and Johnny Manziel and was an Air Raid fixture who considered Leach “the most interesting human in the world.” Several of Spavital’s play calls feature “Leach” or “Pirate” in their terminology.
Then Spavital named Dequan Finn, a transfer from Toledo, the starter, and Robertson thought it might be over for him, calling it “rock bottom.” Time to focus on being a glue guy. That afternoon, Miller saw Leach’s last words of wisdom to Robertson take hold.
“It was one of the more remarkable things I’ve ever seen,” Miller said. “He just started throwing darts. It was like, ‘Oh, here he goes, folks. This is the guy we recruited in high school. When the light bulb went on, it went on.“
This was an epiphany for Robertson. He realized he had been thinking about himself all wrong for years, beginning in eighth grade when he just up and tried out for quarterback on the first day of school, which shocked his parents, who had never even seen him throw a football before.
“Sometimes you go to a high school and watch a kid throw it and are like, ‘Dude, this kid is just absolutely ripping,'” he said. “That was not me. I was backward in a way. I could always process, I could manipulate people with my eyes.”
But when he lost the starting job in 2024, lost the pressure, he quit overthinking it, and started reacting, he realized Leach’s belief was not misplaced.
“This is the best I’ve ever felt like throwing a football,” Robertson said. “I’ve never spun it how I’m spinning it right now.”
When Finn got hurt, Robertson’s education went into overdrive. That light bulb was burning bright, and he started asking all those questions again. Spavital took the reins from Leach, and Robertson finally got the “Ace Check” treatment.
“I just try to throw as much information to him as possible. He’s always so curious,” Spavital said. “I just trusted him so much. If he’s vibing with it, then I’m vibing with it.”
That September at Jones Stadium in Lubbock, Robertson played in front of half a hundred friends and family members, sitting in the same stands where Robertson had watched Mahomes and Baker Mayfield duel in a 66-59 classic. Now at the helm himself, Robertson had the best game of his college career to that point, throwing for 274 yards and five touchdowns in a 59-35 win over Texas Tech. And he did it on the same ground as all those quarterbacks he’d ask Leach about, guys like Kingsbury and Harrell and B.J. Symons, who set a then-NCAA record with 5,833 yards in 2003, the year Robertson was born. He thought of Leach, who believed there was an art to playing quarterback. Robertson finally felt it, saying he was “painting a picture for him.”
A year later, Robertson was on his way. For the first time in his career at Baylor, he was named the opening-game starter. He would start his final 22 games in Waco, finishing his career with 7,616 yards and 61 TDs, piling up 10 300-yard games and three with more than 400.
In Sept. 2025, the same week he regaled me with Leach stories in the quarterback room, Robertson led Baylor to a 42-7 win over Samford. Afterward, Robertson steered toward Chris Hatcher, the Samford coach, and then they talked for nearly 10 minutes, even though they’d never met before. But they’re part of an elite football society: They both played quarterback for Mike Leach.
Hatcher was the first real star quarterback to play for Leach. He was a two-time All-American who won the Harlon Hill Trophy, the Division II Heisman, at Valdosta State in 1994 when Leach was Mumme’s offensive coordinator. Robertson has his own distinction: He’s Mike Leach’s last star quarterback.
Hatcher said he was surprised by Robertson, who opened the conversation with a question.
“What do you think Leach would’ve thought?”
ROBERTSON HELPED START a voluntary team Bible study at Baylor that grew from four to nearly 40 players. Ten Bears players were baptized this fall. It’s one of the things Robertson is most proud of. His style is not to proselytize. But you get a sense that he is so interested in you that you might want to see what he’s all about too, and that’s how a reporter ends up at a Bible study on the balcony outside the team room, overlooking the Brazos with McLane Stadium on the other side, Robertson’s favorite place on campus.
A group of players discuss Genesis 39:1-7 about Joseph prospering in Potiphar’s house. Robertson summarizes: “Everything Joseph touched basically turned to gold … Joseph found favor with God, and was blessed by God.”
This was chosen to be a lesson about knowing your role, he said. When he was a backup, his value was in being a good teammate. When he was an older player, he wanted to help the younger players who were away from home and struggling, like he had. Robertson said this is why he is so driven to be great, not simply to be a football star, but to be able to impact others, because he’s not going to be a starting quarterback forever.
“There’s going to be a day where I’m going to wake up and I’m not as cool as everybody thinks I am right now,” he said.
That helps power his ultracompetitive nature, his dad and coaches say. Miller said Robertson would get so mad if he lost at ping-pong in the team complex that he’d stay in there after everybody else left furiously working on his game.
Robertson has started just one full season. He makes no excuses for his 12 interceptions this season, but it’s worth noting, even if Robertson would never bring it up, that the Baylor defense ranked 122nd nationally of 136 teams, often putting the Bears in obvious passing situations. Spavital has coached plenty of quarterbacks who got NFL shots — including Geno Smith, Davis Webb, Johnny Manziel, Kyler Murray and Will Grier, and even a freshman Fernando Mendoza at Cal just a few years ago. He thinks Robertson could surprise teams.
“He’s got such a unique perspective,” Spavital said. “Unlike anybody that I’ve ever coached in my entire life.”
At worst, he said, Robertson is the ultimate locker-room guy, the consummate teammate, comparable to one more of his former players.
“Sawyer has found his niche of just being himself, and I think that comes from Mike,” Spavital said. “He could be one of the better guys in the class right now. He’s capable of being The Guy, but he can go to any team and be an unbelievable backup quarterback for The Guy. You’re going to look up and in 15 years he’s going to be like Case Keenum. He’s such a valuable asset in mentorship, leadership, and you don’t have to rep him much [in practice]. That’s Sawyer. He’s going to want to build a relationship with you. There’s not one knock on the kid.”
Robertson, meanwhile, said the feeling is mutual.
“Dude, I’d be getting my LinkedIn fired up right now if it weren’t for Spav,” Robertson said.
At that dinner last month in Frisco, Robertson did take one issue with the perception of him as your friendly neighborhood quarterback. Just because he’s not arrogant doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be great, he says. Just because his faith allows him perspective doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He says there’s a skewed image of him.
“The whole ‘golden retriever’ thing,” he said. “Cute and cuddly, like ‘Oh, it’s the people person dog,'”
Funny you say that, I confess, and admitted it’s right there in the first sentence of a first draft of this story. He laughs incredulously like he did when Leach would tell him a guy would’ve scored if he’d just thrown it to him, followed by a stern, faux tough guy face.
“Just remember,” Robertson said. “A golden retriever … is still a dog.“
He laughs, like he’s been working on that one in the mirror. The Vin Diesel act is a bit unconvincing, but his earnestness is not. Robertson enthusiastically says the night is young, and we could go anywhere we wanted. A star quarterback, away from home, on the verge of becoming a professional athlete conjures up images of what that could entail.
“Dude,” he says, like he’s about to reveal a secret. “Should we go get ice cream?”
The golden retriever allegations are sticking.
Robertson has grown so much since Mississippi State. He watches practice film and sees a different player. He feels like he can throw a ball through a keyhole from 60 yards away, and believes he is capable of finishing a game without throwing an incompletion. Robertson hasn’t flinched when everyone in the stadium knows he’s going to have to put the offense on his shoulders. He knows he’s not likely to play for another coach like Leach or Aranda — “He has played for a couple of weirdos, hasn’t he?” Aranda joked — but he is ready, long shot and all, for his next climb, with a mix of physical tools that are uncommon.
At the combine, Robertson ran a 4.65-second 40-yard dash, with a 37.5-inch vertical. According to The Relative Athletic Score (RAS) scale that aggregates a player’s size, weight and testing data relative to others at a player’s position, Robertson scored a 9.83 out of 10, ranking 19th out of 1,054 quarterbacks tested since 1987.
But most of all, he’s ready because he believes.
Three years later, Robertson’s thoughts of Leach are more about loss, and wishing Leach could’ve seen him finally cross the Rubicon. Rogers said he knows how badly the Lubbock kid wanted to be Leach’s next star pupil — but he also knows Leach would have been proud.
“Especially for Sawyer,” Rogers added.
At the Senior Bowl, former Leach Guys would find Robertson and tell him how much Leach would’ve loved to have seen him slinging it around. It’s one thing to hear it from others. But he still wishes he could hear it from the man himself.
Over a cookies and cream shake, Robertson says one of his biggest regrets is that he seems to have lost those last texts from Leach. He swore he saved them, but it’s been years now, and they seem lost to history.
He takes one more scroll through his camera roll from those dark days, then stops on one of the squares in his photo grid. It hits him: He didn’t save the messages in screenshots, he recorded his screen as he reread them. He clicks and a video opens, a scroll of Leach’s messages over the years to him that the bleary-eyed Robertson had saved in the hours after he was gone.
He has gone silent, but then quietly starts reading them aloud. He starts at the bottom, on that final message. He pauses on the one right above it, one he didn’t remember.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Leach wrote. “You are ahead of B.J. Symons at this point. Of all BCS schools, he led the nation for top leading passer. Think about that! You weren’t perfect but you did well. I was proud to see it. You missed some throws, under intense pressure, which you won’t in the future. With you the sky is the limit. Never forget that.”
Robertson’s shoulders relax, and a look of disbelief spreads across his face as he quietly reads that last message out loud: “With you … the sky … is … the limit.”
