The whispers started like distant thunder in the Texas heat. Remember Lawrence Taylor’s early years? That sense of witnessing something different, a force redefining a position before our eyes? In CJ Stroud’s Houston, a similar rumble echoes around NRG Stadium, centered on a Texan.

Will Anderson Jr., the young edge rusher with the ‘Terminator’ mentality, just cracked the NFL’s Top 10 edge rushers list per league execs, coaches, and scouts. Ranked 8th overall, the praise was effusive: “He’s got a complete skill set,” declared an AFC exec. “And he’s only getting better. Only two years in the league. Will keep improving.” Another scout lauded his lack of ‘glaring weaknesses,’ his ability to ‘rush, set a hard edge and play the run.’

This acclaim, however, cast an unintended, slightly uncomfortable shadow. It illuminated a complex, perhaps unfair, but increasingly discussed reality within the Bayou City’s passionate football discourse. As Houston Football’s Cody Stoots bluntly framed it on air: “In fact, I would say Will Anderson has been better at his job since he was drafted than CJ Stroud has been at his job.” Stoots quickly acknowledged the inherent difficulty in the comparison.

Anderson operates as an individual disruptor. A lone wolf hunting the quarterback, less hampered by his ten teammates’ performance than Stroud, whose success as the franchise quarterback intrinsically depends on the offensive line’s protection, the receivers’ routes, and the play-call’s timing.

“A little bit of an unfair comparison,” Stoots conceded. Yet the observation landed with the force of one of Anderson’s patented inside spins. “But Will Anderson’s been everything that the Texans wanted him to be. And probably then some. The first year, he wasn’t quite finishing all those sacks, and he affected the run game.” He didn’t stop there.

“His second year in the league. Well, he had pass-rushing prowess. He was finishing some of those sacks. And he affected the run game, and he transformed his body a little bit.” The stats scream Anderson’s dominance. His 11 sacks in 2024 tied for 10th league-wide, a massive leap from his solid 7.0 rookie tally.

More impressively, his Pass Rush Win Rate skyrocketed to 21.3 percent (7th best), and he dramatically improved his sack conversion rate—turning 19.0 percent of his 58 pressures into sacks, up from a frustrating 10.9 percent as a rookie. He’s the prototype: 6-foot-4, 243 pounds of ‘skill, speed and power,’ evolving rapidly.

Now, entering Year 3, observers note he’s ‘transformed his body again,’ looking ‘very strong’ while retaining ‘incredible’ speed, hinting at a potential leap into the DeMarcus Ware/DeMarcus Lawrence tier of perennial All-Pros.

So, where does this leave Stroud, the reigning Offensive Rookie of the Year? The juxtaposition is stark. While Anderson ascended, Stroud’s sophomore campaign, though solid (3,727 yards, 20 TDs), saw a dip from his historic rookie explosion (4,108 yards, 23 TDs, 5 INTs). His passer rating fell from 100.8 to 87.0, interceptions jumped from 5 to 12, and his yards per game dropped significantly (273.9 to 219.2).

Some of this is contextual—the Texans’ offensive line was a turnstile, allowing a league-bottom 54 sacks. Imagine trying to orchestrate poetry while constantly dodging bullets. As Walter White might muse in Breaking Bad, “He who knocks… is often the one getting knocked down first.”

Stroud’s rise, Houston’s foundation: How the lines are laying groundwork for a dynasty

The Texans know protecting their $36 million investment is paramount. Hence, the offseason became an O-line crusade. They aggressively imported veterans Tytus Howard and Cam Robinson, drafted guard Aireontae Ersery, and reshuffled coaching with new OL boss Cole Popovich under OC Nick Caley.

Caley’s mission? Empower Stroud like Tom Brady and Matthew Stafford before him, giving him “greater autonomy—more pre-snap control, protection checks, and audibles.” Stroud himself is embracing this command, vowing to “unleash his legs” more in 2025, adding mobility to his renowned pocket poise honed through self-taught YouTube study sessions and Snoop Dogg’s Pomona Steelers youth league.

Anderson’s path is different, forged in the fires of sibling pranks (he still sleeps with the TV on due to childhood closet lock-ins) and a high school coach calling him ‘soft’—a moment that ignited an unquenchable fire. His ‘Terminator’ chain and on-field ‘I’ll be back’ sack taunts mask a devout, humble ‘country kid’ who finds peace fishing.

His production isn’t just stats; it’s relentless OTA energy where he “never got the memo that you’re supposed to lighten up,” and minicamp dominance alongside Danielle Hunter that collapsed pockets daily. He’s playing chess while others play checkers, refining technique with the precision of a Madden player maxing out their create-a-player.

Is Stroud worse? Absolutely not. His rookie year was generational, featuring a 470-yard, 5-TD masterpiece and the iconic ‘Where my leaders at?!’ locker room challenge just weeks into his career. He’s already the youngest QB to win a playoff game. But Anderson’s trajectory feels cleaner, less reliant on external factors clicking perfectly.

He wins his battles consistently, violently, and independently. Stroud’s brilliance requires more symphony, more moving parts harmonizing—an offensive line holding firm, receivers winning matchups, a run game threatening enough to keep defenses honest.

The Texans aren’t choosing. They know they possess two generational talents on rookie deals. The golden-armed QB raised in adversity (Coleridge Bernard Stroud IV) and the Terminator edge with the heart of gold. Anderson’s top-10 ranking and the ensuing praise aren’t a slight on Stroud, but a testament to just how astronomically high Anderson’s ceiling truly is. In the grand Houston rebuild (or reload?), they’ve hit the jackpot twice.

One pillar anchors the defense with terrifying consistency. The other, facing greater complexity and external pressure, seeks to reclaim his rookie zenith behind a fortified wall. The journey for both Stroud and the Texans promises fireworks. As Anderson might growl mid-rush, Houston’s future is coming—and it looks devastating from both sides of the ball. It’s the beautiful, uncomfortable yin and yang of building a contender.