Xavier Smith made his name in Haines City, Florida, long before his cleats touched an NFL field for the Los Angeles Rams. The kid they called "Tobe"—after the Atlanta producer Zaytoven, who created street anthems with Gucci Mane and turned street stories into beats—brought that same raw energy to the field, cooking up big plays like a fire mixtape.
But he wasn't a name with much fanfare before the 49ers punted him the ball, which has shifted his entire trajectory. In 2016, he was just Xavier, working shifts at an Amazon warehouse, stacking boxes with hope and a silent prayer that life had more in store for him.
But the journey from "Tobe" to the Rams wasn't linear; it was more of a zigzag, full of starts, stops, and moments when the finish line seemed too far away.
Smith's earliest football memory is different from the typical highlight reel moment. When he was a scrawny kid playing for the Haines City Rattlers, Smith didn't start as a flashy running back or wide receiver.
Au contraire, the diminutive wide receiver's first spot, was on the line, playing tight end. But everything changed after one race after practice.
"After practice, we raced to the goalposts and back, and I beat everybody, and I beat everybody again," Xavier recalls, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia, pride and triumph.
His coach saw something special—a burst of speed that couldn't be taught and a hunger that couldn't be coached. They placed him in the backfield as a running back and handed him the ball the next game, and before anyone knew what was happening, "Tobe" was making music en route to a touchdown. From then on, it was as if the football field became his stage, every touchdown a hit record.
But not every hit was a chart-topper. Smith didn't receive a single college offer out of high school. Dreams of game-winning plays and roaring crowds turned into long shifts at Amazon, where he stacked boxes instead of touchdowns.
Football became a ghost for a while, haunting the periphery of his life but never fully materializing into something tangible. Punching a clock felt worlds away from the bright lights of the NFL, and the weight of disappointment hung heavy on his shoulders.
Smith nearly gave up on the game entirely. "I real deal honestly was like, 'I don't want to play anymore,'" Smith admitted.
There were days when it all felt like a cruel joke, the dream of football distant and hazy, like headlights fading in the Florida fog. He'd show up to work, where the blue Amazon vest felt more like a straightjacket, his mind replaying high school games and college offers that never came.
Some nights, he'd look at his reflection in the back room's dusty mirrors and wonder if this was it—if this warehouse was where his dreams came to die.
But quitting wasn't in his blood—not as long as his mom was around. When Smith was ready to throw in the towel, his mom, Angenetta Sanchious, quietly picked up his dream, refusing to let her son's story end on a warehouse floor.
She went behind his back and applied to Florida A&M University on his behalf, enrolling him in school when he'd all but given up.
"She applied to the school for me, like, because I told her, 'Man, I'm done,'" Smith said. "But she went behind me and applied to the school for me."
His mother's quiet, relentless belief became the wind in his sails, propelling him forward when he had become exasperated.
It wasn't just his mom, though. His big brother Kareem was there, too, showing him the ropes and setting the bar high. Growing up, Smith always chased after Kareem—whether it was trying to beat him in video games or following him onto the football field, wearing the same number 19 jersey.
"I always wanted to do what he was doing," Smith said.
It isn't just about football for Smith; it is about materializing the dreams of the people who have believed in him the most. Smith's mother and a ride-or-die friend saw the light in him even when he couldn't.
Keivonte Jenkins, his boy from way back, hit Smith with some real talk. "Bruh, you're too raw to be here," Smith recalls.
Jenkins could sit idle and watch Smith clock in and out as if an exceptional talent wasn't stewing within him. Jenkins wasn't just talking about football; he was talking about potential, grit and the kind of heart that Amazon's inventory couldn't box or ship.
Football had been Smith's language before he knew how to speak it, and for Sanchious and Jenkins, allowing Smith to quit would be like allowing him to cut out his tongue.
When football took him to FAMU, Smith had no linear path to stardom. He started on the scout team, with the kind of grind that makes or breaks dreams and men. He was waiting for his moment, fighting for every rep and inch because he'd been through this before.
Smith knew what it felt like to wait, to feel ready but be told to hold off. When his shot finally came, he was prepared by the practices and every prior setback.
So, when Smith took the field against the 49ers, the pressure didn't faze him. He'd been here before, in some form or another. As the ball floated in the air, as the crowd's noise melted into the background, Smith saw his blockers gain leverage.
He made the gunner miss—easy—and now it was just him, the sideline, and the end zone in his sights. "I'm going to the house," Smith thought. A promise he had made to his mother burned in his chest. If he got in, the ball was hers.
She'd texted him a prayer, a promise exchanged in quiet faith. And as he rounded the corner, that promise burned bright in his mind. He was almost there, almost to the end zone, when the punter, Mitch Wishnowski, who probably spends more time kicking than tackling, knocked him out of bounds.
He didn't score, but it didn't matter. Smith looked towards the stands, making a heart with his hands, a silent message to his mom: I see you. This is for you.
She was why he was still here and hadn't let the dream rot. That heart was his silent nod to the woman who always had her own plays going in the background, moving pieces he didn't even know existed.
The impact of that moment looms larger than any stat sheet. It proved to Smith that he belonged in the NFL. His confidence, long built on quiet resilience, is now undeniable.
"Doing it in practice is one thing," Smith said, reflecting on the return. "But doing it in the regular season… against guys who, you know, are at that level, it's like, 'Alright, I belong here.'"
Sanchious didn't let him bask in the glory the next morning. "It's a new day," she told him over breakfast. "Do it again."
For Smith, the punt return isn't just about beating the 49ers; it is about proving to himself that he belongs. Not just on the field but in the life he had clawed his way back into.
He isn't satisfied, not yet. This is just the beginning, the first track on a mixtape he plans to keep adding to until the whole world hears it.
He's chasing something legendary, something more profound than just making a roster in the league. He's chasing those expectations he's set for himself, the ones no one else can see. "Hall of Fame," Smith says without any hesitation.
That's his goal, fueled by the lessons learned in Haines City, on the scout team at FAMU, and during shifts at Amazon. It's the same grind, just a different field, and Smith is ready to do it again.
"People's expectations of me may not be high," Smith said with a quiet confidence. "But I know what my expectations of myself are."
Smith is ready to make more music, and he believes that it's only a matter of time before everyone bobs their head to the tune of another "Tobe" beat.