Before he embarrassed evaluators and made NFL history and honored his late father on international stages, Puka Nacua played Madden to unwind. He always used the newest iteration, and he often picked the same team—the Rams. He threw virtual passes with Matthew Stafford’s golden right arm, deployed Cooper Kupp all over and studied uniform combinations and the history they highlighted.
Which is funny, because Nacua hasn’t played Madden in months. He no longer needs the console-controller-screen combo to partake in Rams offensive football. He’s a rookie receiver in Los Angeles, catching Stafford targets, and he filled in for Kupp, who missed the season’s first month with an injured hamstring. Nacua’s younger brother asked him for the code to the new version the other day. He answered politely, because that’s him, the newest star in Hollywood, who never saw himself that way and never will.
Even now.
But … life is different, too. His brother should understand that Puka, of all Nacuas, has been busy lately, in the best way. The NFL draft, joining the Rams, securing a role, expanding that role and exploding into the mainstream sports consciousness—everything is changing. In the case of pick No. 177 last April, Puka hasn’t exceeded expectations so much as he has bludgeoned them with a sledgehammer before driving over them with a monster truck. He’s first-name-only famous, already.
Without him, no one would be describing the Rams as a fringe playoff team. Without his story, smile or bearing, there’d be no outsized attention paid to a franchise that’s still rebuilding after its Super Bowl triumph in February 2022.
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It’s all happening, a lot of things, the kinds of things that don’t happen often, if ever, in the NFL. Sure, fifth- and later-round picks sometimes become starters, even stars. But Puka entered pro football’s evaluation incubator as a prospect known for a variety of skills rather than any one specialty. Many dinged him for his timed speed in events such as the 40-yard dash. In college, he played for two programs from 2019 to ’22, Washington and BYU; neither reached a major bowl game. The statistics he accumulated—107 catches, 1,749 yards, 19 total touchdowns—certainly didn’t project what happened in September, against better defenders, on grander platforms.
What Puka is doing simply doesn’t happen in the NFL, save for the rare, generational exceptions. And yet, while the past seven weeks have been surreal, exceptional and life-altering, the Hollywood star named Puka can say two counterintuitive things simultaneously. Yes, it’s strange, this series of pinch-me moments, becoming a one-name superstar in a city with no shortage of them, Puka, playing in front of LeBron and other celebrities, learning from Kupp, connecting with Stafford. But while most should see his star turn as improbable bordering on fiction, he sees the surreal stuff but not the improbable framework that’s often attached. Say what you will about his dreams, but this is what he wanted, what he dreamt of on the worst nights, the ones spent lamenting those he lost.
“I wouldn’t say strange,” he said, over the phone, after a Rams practice in early October. “Everything has been pretty good so far. Nothing too crazy.”
He’s asked for an example, an indicative interaction that seems wild but not too wild. He chooses a recent trip to Whole Foods, where one gentleman followed him, eyeing him, as if he had ever heard of Puka two months ago. “I’m getting some weird looks nowadays,” he says, breaking into laughter.
He lays out pros and cons, then stops. “Cons” isn’t the right phrasing. The extra attention, interactions with strangers and celebrity accumulated in a city that loves nothing more than its famous citizens. Even doing more interviews over the first month of the NFL season than in all his college years combined. They’re “good problems.”
Besides, only a year ago, wasn’t he one of those strangers? The guy—in this case, who happened to play football—who admired athletes, wanted to meet them; and would have reacted, perhaps embarrassingly, if serendipity had struck? Of course he was. As one of this season’s most prominent players, his shift in stature brought on questions.
Like: How to maintain this hot-air-balloon rise?
Or: How to build on impossible?
The history Nacua continues to amass is staggering, at least to everyone else. Forgive the self-monikered fantasy aficionados who absolutely, undoubtedly, “saw” this steal coming. No one—not parents, siblings, friends, romantic interests nor the world’s biggest BYU fan—saw all this. Even Puka cannot say he predicted what was to come.
But to embrace his new calculus, he must utilize the same approach he grasped early. His father, Lionel, taught him that, taught him everything, taught all six Nacua boys (Puka is the second youngest) to play and work, and always prioritize family. Lionel pushed all his boys into football, then coached them when possible; he enticed Puka, specifically, to swap weekend cartoons for game tape.
In comparison to his older siblings, Puka was tiny, smaller and skinnier for most of their childhood. Not to mention: less celebrated compared to some brothers, two of whom made briefs stops in the NFL. Lionel loved defense, and he’d line the boys up in the Oklahoma drill, as stare-downs gave way to collisions that never favored the younger, smaller kids. Puka’s older siblings mangled him, cutting the boy no breaks. For most of his life, he was bound for the bottom of Nacua wrestling piles, a tangle of meaty arms and legs with little Puka buried underneath. When he cried, his siblings mocked him, as a crybaby, while his father demanded he rise in less than 10 seconds.
His father, a longtime executive at a concrete company, died at only 45 years old, shortly before Puka’s 11th birthday, from complications of diabetes. Puka wouldn’t leave for college for another seven years. While he starred at Orem High School in suburban Utah, he watched his mother, Penina, care for six kids, all boys, all by herself. He promised to live by his father’s credo: No excuses, just work. He worked on catching passes. Worked on blocking. Worked on speed and routes and technical precision. Worked to fortify his body and expand on his genetic gifts. Throughout, he heard the same voice—Lionel’s—especially when Orem won two state championships. He developed a pregame ritual that continues now, except with a much larger audience.
Lionel schooled his boys in Polynesian culture from birth—his background, Hawaiian; Penina’s, Samoan. He emphasized the culture’s impenetrable pillars: love, family, respect. When Lionel died, Puka lost part of his compass. He missed middle school classes and spent weekends on the couch, cloaked in sadness, watching the only thing that made him feel even a little better—football games. The ones he played in were sadder than the ones on television, and that’s because, when Puka played football, he could no longer glance into the stands and see his pops.
Puka’s remaining family pulled him from that funk. The core lessons remained. He still needed to thank teammates after they scored touchdowns. He needed to respect his coaches, no matter what; same for all his elders. At BYU team dinners, he ate with linemen, to befriend them. He stayed after games to review film with assistants. Throughout, he focused on mindset, all positivity and gratitude, for his father’s impact and his mother’s resilience and the chance, through both, to play the game that called to him.
A relative gave him the nickname Puka as a child, the name now known all over, shortening his full name from Makea. The Nacuas were close like that. They again needed to lend each other strength when one of Puka’s grandmothers died in 2021, from ovarian cancer, during his best college season (43 catches, 953 scrimmage yards, six scores). Puka had transferred to BYU after her diagnosis, to be closer to home, just like one older brother, Samson, who played for Utah. She died in September, and he incorporated her impact into the same ritual he began for his father.
Puka started standing on the sideline before games, dropping his head as his hair cascaded toward the ground. “That’s my moment of clarity,” he says. “Very peaceful.” In those moments, while the national anthem plays, Puka talks to those he lost—“my angels,” he calls them—promising to play for them, honor them, make them proud. Usually, when he picks his head back up, his eyes are filled with tears. He points skyward, aiming toward her and him.
Three Nacua brothers landed football scholarships to BYU, Lionel’s favorite university and football program. But before he died, he told only one of them, Puka: You will be the best football player of all.
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The early 2023 offensive rookie standout among a deep pool of potential candidates (C.J. Stroud, Bijan Robinson, Bryce Young, Anthony Richardson, Zay Flowers) wasn’t anyone’s first projection for immediate breakout NFL star. Nacua, before Puka overtook how most knew him, expected to be drafted. But evaluators formed a scattered divide that centered on his perceived weaknesses and low overall ceiling. He had zero reason to believe the Rams were interested.
Interactions with Los Angeles were extremely limited, no more than one meeting with Andrew Sugarman, the Rams’ special assistant to the general manager/analyst, at BYU. They analyzed games together, so Sugarman could evaluate how Puka’s brain worked, then ate. Looking back, in light of everything, Puka notes the volume of questions that related to the Cougars’ overall scheme. That full understanding matters to the Rams, who run Sean McVay’s complex and ever-evolving offense. In order to stick, he’d need versatility, understanding and a sharp mind.
Maybe evaluators simply missed what powered him, focusing on what didn’t matter. After all, his elite traits had long been clear. Puka shattered most every Utah high school receiving record. He wasn’t a little-engine-that-could type. He could play, and he could play, in part, because of the flexible mindset he adopted when his dad died. By focusing only on controllable events, he continued to improve. Bolstered skills allowed for a creative, on-field flair. He played free and loose—once again that kid who sat next to Lionel, watching football instead of cartoons on weekend mornings.
McVay didn’t miss any of that. The coach fell for Nacua the first time he laid eyes on the kid’s tape. Proof is delivered via text message, which McVay sent while in a Los Angeles–area hospital, mere hours from the birth of his first child, a son. He still found time to tap out, “As soon as I put the tape on, the toughness he played with every snap and the way he attacked in-breaking routes and stayed through the catch really stood out.”
“Little man should be here in a few hours,” McVay added. May we suggest a relevant name? Puka John McVay, the middle name borrowed from the coach’s beloved grandfather.
Babies aside, concerns regarding Puka before the draft were at least valid, worth considering. His 4.57-second 40-yard dash at BYU’s pro day ranked 33rd among draft-eligible wideouts; not an automatic no for teams, but a differentiator among similar, not-quite-sure prospects. His injury history—32 games missed in four seasons—raised additional apprehension. Playing for BYU wasn’t a knock on Puka, but his school didn’t grant him automatic credibility, like it might at Georgia, Alabama or Ohio State. What Puka couldn’t know, though, was that his future team cared little for convention. Its Super Bowl LVI triumph was inarguable proof.
McVay had fallen for his skill set, specifically, how complete and adaptable Puka seemed. He could block, willingly wading toward larger bodies. McVay pegged high football IQ and that toughness that popped off his TV screen as the primary reasons Puka always seemed open—he played fast, adjusted quickly and understood that timing mattered to maximize schemes. In an ideal world, Puka could take some of the attention defenses paid Kupp, bolster the Rams’ running game and gift Stafford a second wideout he could trust implicitly, a luxury absent in L.A. since Robert Woods departed after 2021.
Round 1 passed as expected. No luck. But so did Rounds 2 through 4. Puka’s world was “crashing.” At that point, who among the millions of America’s football obsessives thought, Hmm, that’s the guy who will become the first player in NFL history with at least 10 receptions and 100 receiving yards in each of the first two games of his career? That guy! Him!
The Rams took Nacua in the fifth round, and McVay focused on applying that vast, ranging skill set, leading to late nights spent in his windowless bunker office. Puka was struck by the usual tags for McVay—his age, now 37; and his energy, which is so boundless Red Bull gets jealous. McVay told colleagues something that might have seemed unbelievable back then: Nacua, not yet Puka, was the missing piece.
Early into OTAs, McVay began moving his rookie fifth-rounder all over the field—the first obvious sign of the astonishing impact ahead. McVay sent Nacua in motion, on reverse handoffs or into walls of defenders. The kid started piecing together the whole offense, especially the most critical part, the intention behind McVay’s diagrams of genius. For a receiver who played almost exclusively on the outside in college, there was much to learn. But just as he showed the Rams’ executive that afternoon in Provo, Nacua learned quickly, applying concepts the same day. Kupp became a mentor, Stafford a beacon of professionalism.
Through the spring and summer, Puka did not jot down any goals. He did keep a couple of milestones in mind. He wanted to make the team … and star on special teams … and collect pancake blocks … and catch however many passes sailed his way.
Puka, no last name necessary, started breaking records for most receptions to begin a season, regardless of experience, his family’s name sliding next to or above the likes of Randy Moss, Julio Jones, DeAndre Hopkins and other luminaries.
It was all a little much—and everything he wanted.
To attribute his success to McVay or Stafford or targets available simply due to Kupp’s injury is woefully shortsighted. Every trait the Rams saw showed up in games right away. Processing speed meant deeper understanding of the offense and his roles in it. Body control forced defenses to jam him at the line; otherwise, he always wiggled open. But the jamming forced coordinators to account for him, which forced adjustments in their schemes and freed teammates to gallop through less-congested space. In many ways, he reminded tenured Rams coaches or executives of Woods, who was universally adored in Thousand Oaks. They even wore the same number, 17.
Puka played decoy, converted third downs, caught long passes and blocked more like an extra tight end, chipping and sealing and flattening defenders. He even blocked Nick Bosa, for God’s sake. There were bumps—dropped passes, a fumble and a decline in targets/production when Kupp first came back in Week 5—but those were expected. The Rams, forever ignoring convention, have started 3–4—and their losses have come by no more than nine points.
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As the NFL becomes more like the NBA, as positionless as football can be, Puka presents a tailored fit to how the pro game is changing. He ranks among league leaders in explosive plays and yards after the catch. He has also become known internally for his ability to pick up extra yards via leans, wiggles and will. Can do it all, no longer matters. Does it all does.
Pick any game for clarity, even Week 3, Puka’s “worst” performance with Kupp absent. The basics: Rams-Bengals, in Cincinnati, after his historic start. Nacua remained at the center of McVay’s web of misdirection and counters and induced confusion, even on a statistically meh afternoon (seven targets, five receptions, 72 yards) relative to the impossible standard he created in, again, two games.
Statistics, as usual, did not tell the full story. Puka moved all over presnap. He lined up right and left; on the line of scrimmage; off it; at varying depths; in the center of bunches, to the right, or left; or split wide on the opposite side of the field. He went in motion. He motioned back. Puka ran crossing routes and go routes and hitch routes and curl routes. He started plays with his upper body angled slightly inward. He snagged a pass one-handed, bobbling before pinning ball to chest. The Rams varied tempos, speeding up their offense when McVay sensed openings. The collective impact was freeing teammates through outsized attention.
The missing piece, indeed.
No wonder Puka’s origin story set another, unofficial league record: fastest transition to fable in NFL history. And yet, the hero of this fable, while amused and surprised and sort of floored by it, is also not like everyone else. He didn’t expect the magnitude, because, who would? But he wanted this, success in pro football.
There’s a lot of skill behind the already worn narrative and even more substance to his overall story. Both not only exist but combined for the ongoing nature of his historic start.
Kupp came back. But the history, the spectacular, the rookie season few, if anyone, expected has continued. Kupp joked with reporters about asking Puka for route-running advice while confirming the Woods comparison—and Woods is one of Kupp’s best friends. In Kupp’s first game back, he and Puka combined for 23 of Stafford’s 37 targets. Yes, the return of perhaps the best receiver alive meant fewer opportunities for his rookie teammates. Just don’t mistake lowered statistics for lowered impact. Week 6 marked Puka’s “worst” NFL game so far. But his seven targets, four catches and 26 receiving yards ignored the wider picture. McVay went out of his way afterward to praise Puka for all he did to help Los Angeles win. He responded with eight catches for 154 yards in Week 7.
Puka’s tally of 58 receptions through seven weeks leads the NFL, placing him above the usual suspects such as Stefon Diggs, Tyreek Hill, A.J. Brown and more. That’s the most receptions by a player in his first seven games in NFL history. Puka’s 752 receiving yards are two behind Ja’Marr Chase for the most through seven games to start a career in the Super Bowl era. Fantasy “managers” who had never heard of Puka this August are now lamenting his “letting down” of their teams on the occasions he falls below 100 yards.
Puka continues to live in the dichotomy that became his life early into his rookie season. It’s still weird to go to work and say hello to Stafford, Kupp and Aaron Donald. Still feels like a movie. Still shocking to see himself on television after games, always the national anthem and his tribute, which marks another yet another area targeted for improvement (less crying).
Possibilities expand. He’ll remain in process, like McVay does, like Lionel would have insisted. He’ll always have this stretch, an NFL version of Linsanity. But that was never the point.
Puka’s follower count on Instagram rose to more than 125,000 in recent weeks. New additions might be disappointed at the image selection, all football and family. Everything else—fame, fortune, celebrity compliments, Whole Foods interruptions, being in a video game—is nice. He is grateful. But his father is watching, and Lionel always told Puka that every day was his “interview,” to present what he stood for to the world.
What Puka will do with everything he gained over the first seven weeks of this NFL season isn’t really a question at all. The answer, if necessary, is nothing different. Everything changed. He didn’t.
