WOODLAND HILLS, Calif. -- The Rams' locker room hums with a pulse all its own. It is a living, breathing organism fueled by passion, competition and camaraderie.
The air hangs heavy with the familiar scent of sweat-soaked towels, cleats and liniments — those pungent markers of a hard day's work. But beneath that musky veil, there's something deeper, something raw. It's a sanctuary, a home, where layers of the game peel back to reveal something more human.
The locker room is where that trust starts, where the team becomes more than just a collection of athletes, more than just players in a game. It's where they become brothers, united by a shared goal, a common grind, and a respect that transcends the game.
It's gritty, raw, full of the stuff you don't see on Sundays — taped ankles, sore bodies, open hearts.
It's where the Rams are made.
The grind of the NFL's 2024 season has reached its quarter mark. For all 32 teams, what happens off the field—inside their respective locker room walls—matters more than anything under the stadium lights.
An NFL season tests more than a team's mettle and health and a player's skill. The organic leadership and bonds, as well as the ability and willingness to hold players accountable, provide candor, and navigate the peaks and valleys of a long and arduous season within these walls, will be tested.
The teams that thrive and win aren't just chocked full of talent. Their locker rooms resonate and reverberate with accountability, humility and an endless well of trust.
No one is 'the man'
Demarcus Robinson's voice echoes, vibrant with the kind of knowing you only get from being in the trenches day in, day out.
"A lot of new faces, a lot of high-paid guys," he said, leaning back on his locker, arms folded on his chest, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
But he's not saying it in awe or reverence — it's more of an acknowledgment.
"But nobody out here act like they're 'the man'," he said.
He says it with a certainty that cuts through the locker room noise, glances exchanged over benches and tape rolls, chuckles thrown around like loose footballs.
The Rams undoubtedly have their stars — Matthew Stafford, Cooper Kupp and Puka Nacua — but you wouldn't know it by how they move inside here.
For them, it's about more than who is the highest paid or who has the best highlight reel. It's about something simpler.
"Nobody makes you feel less," Robinson said. "We learn from each other's mistakes."
And that's the thing about the locker room: it's where the edges of egos get softened. It's where wide receivers joke with linemen, defensive ends chat up cornerbacks over the latest rap drop, or the cities players thought they'd be drafted to.
There's laughter, always. Even despite a 0-2 start. It's the kind that sneaks up on you, uninvited but welcome, nonetheless.
Blake Corum, eyes glued to his paper gameplan, studying plays, breaks for a minute to crack a joke that sends a ripple of laughter down the row of lockers. That easy camaraderie, the effortless way guys find common ground, makes the Rams' locker room feel like more than just a room full of athletes.
'To build camaraderie'
It's a place where personalities clash and gel, where grudges from the practice field dissolve in the shared warmth of jokes and friendly competition.
With his easy swagger and reflective tone, Jaylen McCollough puts it plainly.
"Man, the purpose of the locker room?" he said. "It's to build camaraderie."
His words come out casual, almost like it's something obvious, but the weight of what he's saying isn't lost.
"It's where you kick it with your guys," he said. "No coaches. Just us."
McCollough talked about the locker room like it's a microcosm of the world outside, only better. No judgment, no outside noise. A place where you're free to be yourself, even as you're learning to be part of something bigger.
"We all come from different backgrounds," McCollough said. "But we all find ourselves
here, together."
There's no denying the cultural collisions. Guys from Florida mix it up with guys from Texas. There was talk of who's the best at Madden and heated debates over NBA Youngboy versus Lil Baby.
Conversations bounce between lighthearted and heavy — about where they thought they'd be drafted, politics and what it means to grow up Black in America. It's a safe space where walls come down and honesty breathes.
Steve Avila nods in agreement, adjusting the tape around his ankle.
"It all starts here," he said. "You'll play harder for the guy next to you if you know him, if you know what he's about."
He talks about leadership, not just from captains, but from every guy who steps into this space, taking ownership of their role, of their locker, of their brotherhood.
"You gotta have balance," Avila said. "Too much of one thing, and that's when things get out of whack."
Sound of teamwork
It's an ecosystem, finely tuned and self-regulated. Guys like Stafford lead by example, embodying quiet authority without needing to shout. When things get tense — and they do, no doubt — it's the veterans who know how to calm the waters.
No one needs to be told to cool down. These men are pros who understand where the line is between intensity and aggression, between passion and recklessness. Avila's seen locker rooms implode when that balance goes off-kilter. "But not here," he said, his tone light, almost proud.
And when it's time to let loose, they do it with style. Although the room lacks a speaker system, Robinson and Tyler Johnson still imagine they're the locker room DJs, the air crackling with beats from Gunna and Drake pumping from their Bluetooth speakers.
If there were speakers, it would be different; the whole place would bump like an after-hours club, but for now, the sound of music reverberates and sets the energy they bring to every interaction.
But what is the actual music of the Rams' locker room? It's the rhythm of connection, of shared moments between drills and games, of friendships forged in sweat and competition.
They break bread together—sometimes literally, grabbing dinner at spots like Delilah's after OTAs, where even the practice squad guys are invited.
It's about something other than who has made the roster or who's getting paid the most. It's about the team, about everyone having a seat at the table, both metaphorically and literally.
"That's how you get close," Robinson said. "You gotta spend time outside of this place, too."
He's not just talking about dinners, though. He's talking about the unspoken trust that builds between teammates when they know each other beyond the jersey numbers and on-field personas.