A Temporary Farewell to Last Week's Life

Starting today, we turned our attention to Saturday's matchup — the seventh game of the season, against Mississippi State.

Mississippi State had opened the year at 1–4 and recently swapped in a new starting quarterback, hoping Saturday at Sanford Stadium would be the stage for their turnaround.

We weren't at full strength, sure.

But a comfortable win was what I expected.

"Chicken~~♪ Chicken, chicken is the BEEEST~~♪"

Our D-lineman Travon Walker sang every single time he loaded up his plate.

Lewis Cine, standing behind him in line, finally snapped.

"Shut it, man. You gotta do that every time?"

"Why? I think the man's got a nice voice."

"See? He gets it. Chicken~~♪"

"God, DAMN!!"

The dining room at Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall — where we took our weekday dinners — was one of the university's showpiece spaces. People joked that the inside felt a bit like an Outback Steakhouse, but every dish that came out of the kitchen was built on top-quality ingredients.

After piling my plate, I set off in search of a seat.

As the season ground on, injuries had been picking guys off at every position — the one consolation being that some of them were coming back.

For example.

There.

Him.

"Ketchup-soaked pasta again?"

"You wanna start something?"

"Knowing you, that's all you've been eating."

"Heh heh. Guilty as charged."

"How much weight did you put on, anyway?"

"...Fourteen pounds?"

"Fuck. That's wild."

George Pickens, who had been resting ever since his injury, rejoined team practice that morning. His recovery had come along faster than expected, so his return had been moved up by a few days — and the moment the head coach laid eyes on him, any thought of easing him in as a substitution this weekend evaporated.

One look told you the kid had gotten soft and heavy.

How long had he been sidelined, again?

Forget that — fourteen pounds?

That meant he hadn't managed himself at all.

"You need a little more self-awareness, G."

"I should awaken?"

"Is there fat in your ears too? Awareness, G! Awareness!"

"Ah—"

This was why NCAA players didn't make it to the pros. They simply lacked discipline when it came to their own bodies.

Why else would I have gotten an STI screening this morning?

I'd let my weekend get a little loose. I planned to get tested regularly from now ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on, too.

Anyway.

"Listen to me, G. Eat your vegetables."

"I fucking hate vegetables."

"Ha— I give up."

"Heh heh heh heh."

On the several TVs and monitors mounted around the dining room, the program most familiar to Americans was playing.

MNF.

In other words — Monday Night Football.

Depending on the schedule, an NFL game kicked off every Monday at 5:15 or 8:15 PM, and right now the pregame show was rolling toward it.

George and I naturally let our eyes drift to the screen.

Before long, my name appeared on it.

And then—

"HEY!!!"

someone shouted.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Turn it UP!!!"

The volume bar on the right side of the screen began to climb.

A strange current ran through the room.

A genuinely strange current.

Everyone here — starters and 1.5-string rotation players alike — was aiming for the NFL, so having a freshman like me talked about this way was bound to feel a little off.

Some would feel envy.

Some would turn it into fuel.

In fact, a few glances drifted my way.

I ignored all of them.

When the MNF crew turned the conversation back to the night's game, the dining room settled back into its usual rhythm.

George wiped his mouth with a napkin and shot me a sidelong look.

"What?"

"...Our quarterback's kind of a big deal, huh. Never really hit me before."

"You're hilarious."

It was true that after the Alabama game, and then again after the Florida game, the way the world looked at me had changed.

And if you asked whether that weight bothered me—

the answer would have to be not in the slightest.

This was the life I'd set out to live from the very beginning.

Everything I wanted, I would take.

"See you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah."

The bye week was over, and the week had begun again.

This week, there was only one thing on my mind: football.

No room for women.

Goodbye, for now, to the life I lived last week.

Beep-beep—

Beep-beep—

...When had it started?

Back in the Alabama week, maybe?

Sometime around midseason, I'd made some adjustments to my routine.

4:40 in the morning.

That was when my eyes opened, every single day.

Shhhhhhh—

"Hoo—"

A quick shower, then I came out, slathered on the moisturizers, changed into my going-out clothes, and sat down at the desk.

And for about thirty minutes?

Studied the Play Book.

Ring-ring-ring—

Click.

November mornings in Athens hovered around 8 to 12 degrees Celsius.

For a Hawaii boy like me, that was cold.

I pulled my nylon hood up over my head, tucked my chin down, and headed for Butts-Mehre.

Dawn hadn't even broken yet, so the campus looked exactly as it had when I'd left it the evening before.

As I walked, footsteps would reach me from somewhere — and it was usually one of two things.

A janitor.

Or else—

"Maan, it's cold."

"Wassup."

a teammate from the football team.

It was a freezing early hour, and everyone was half asleep, so we traded a brief greeting and went back to concentrating on our own feet.

Step—

Step—

Georgia's weather was far more bearable than somewhere like Oklahoma, but compared to Hawaii it was still bad, no getting around it.

The biggest indignity was having to wear slippers instead of flip-flops.

Flip-flops meant no socks.

So slippers it was. No choice.

"You do it."

"No way. It's cold, man."

"Oh, come—on."

In front of the Butts-Mehre entrance, KJ and I briefly wrestled over it.

In the end, I won, and KJ pulled a hand out of his pocket and pressed his print to the reader.

Beep.

I couldn't speak for the other athletic programs, but every facility belonging to the football team ran on fingerprint recognition.

"Oooh, now I feel alive again."

"It's plenty warm in here. Don't be so dramatic."

"That's because you've never lived in Hawaii."

"Flexing much, Captain?"

"Fuck off."

Once we were indoors, even the joking came easier.

My brain was finally switching on for real.

Past the entrance, our destination was the locker room. We had to change and get ready for indoor work.

5:50 AM.

The whole team had assembled at the training area.

Beep!

.

.

Beep!

Loosening up bodies gone stiff overnight took thirty-five to forty minutes, every time.

When that was done, we all moved together to the gym with its racks and plates.

This was the first moment of the day for raised voices.

"LET'S GO-!!!!!!"

Behind my back as I squatted, a dozen-plus teammates sweated buckets and screamed at me to lift just a little more weight.

And I fired them up the same way in return.

We repeated that cycle for a full hour.

And so, at 7:45 AM, the morning schedule ended.

Those with classes showered, changed, and headed for their buildings; those without killed time however they liked — usually eating breakfast, or going back to the dorm to sleep.

I had no classes.

But that luxury wasn't mine to enjoy.

"Today... I choose you."

Along one side of the team locker room stood ten or so refrigerators, stocked with water, drinks, and snacks you could take without limit.

Open any football player's morning bag and you'd find it stuffed with food taken from here.

People who didn't know any better would ask us, "Why is your bag so heavy?"

Anyway.

I grabbed yogurt, a Gatorade, and some water.

"Good morning, si-ir!"

My destination was the quarterbacks' room, where the coaches were waiting.

"Here you go."

"Oh — thank you, Coach."

Coach Monken packed me a lunch like this every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning.

Monday and Friday mornings I took my classes by video from the dorm, so those days I didn't need one.

"Eat while you listen."

"Yes, sir."

And that was an ordinary day in the life of a quarterback.

It had looked a little different early in the semester, but the basic skeleton was the same.

This was why I went around campus in workout clothes all the time — and why the girls who struck up conversations assumed I had no interest in fashion, asking, "Why do you wear the same thing every day?"

To be fair, I had no interest in it right now.

It just wasn't a priority.

I'd heard the same thing in the lecture hall today, too.

"Why are your clothes always the same?"

"Haha. Bit busy, you know?"

Some people hear that and think you're just lazy, but the only answer I had for them was this: while you're asleep in your bed, I've already started my day.

Classes began at 11 AM.

Thanks to the coffee I'd picked up on the way here, my mind was razor-sharp.

The ring came almost immediately, and when I looked at the screen, I was a little surprised to see it was a video call.

I tied back my loose hair and hit the answer button.

"He-ey, Matthew."

"Hey-! What were you up to?"

"You already know. Studying the Play Book."

"Haha. Diligent as ever."

I exchanged the occasional DM with several NFL players, but nothing beat being closest with a fellow alumnus. Matthew turned the camera to show me his wife, and I traded a quick hello with Kelly too.

"Just, you know — I was curious what my favorite player was up to."

"That's funny, because you seem different from usual."

"Do I?"

"Yup. Come on, Matt. What's going on?"

Nobody alive understood the life of a college quarterback better than he did, so I figured Matthew wouldn't be eating into my time for nothing.

And sure enough, there was business.

"Actually, I told the team earlier today."

"What?"

"They already know I'm leaving. Why do you think I told you before? I want more than what I've accomplished now, and I believe this is my last window to go chase it."

Matthew had been drafted first overall by Detroit in 2009, and his public evaluation sat in a slightly awkward place.

His cannon shoulder and his skill earned universal respect.

But one question mark had always clung to him.

Was he a quarterback who led his team to wins?

Unfortunately for Matthew, the results said no.

His career playoff record stood at 0–3.

And the Detroit Lions were such a chronically weak franchise that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a quarterback's ability alone couldn't bridge the gap.

The NFL demanded that the entire team reach a certain level.

That was the bare minimum baseline.

"There's been a lot of talk about me lately, you know."

"Yeah — it has gotten a little loud."

"So here's the thing..."

"?"

"I told them that when I leave, they should bring you to Detroit. Simply put — I told them to tank."

"Wha—?? You're serious??"

"Yup."

Whoa—

That woke me right up.

The NFL Draft was nothing like NCAA recruiting — the player had no say whatsoever. When a team drafted you, you simply played there. Liked it or not. It made no difference.

That was exactly why NCAA athletes clawed so desperately at recruiting, fighting to use their one and only shot in life at choosing a team.

Honestly, where I'd land in 2023?

I hadn't given it a thought.

I just vaguely hoped for good weather.

But—

Not Detroit.

That's Michigan, man!

"The Lions aren't the NFL's best team, but they're still better than the Jets or the Jaguars."

"That's true, but..."

"Nobody knows how it'll shake out anyway. I was just sitting in the meeting where they discuss the team's future, and I said what was best for the Lions. That's who I play for right now, after all. You follow me? In my judgment, Detroit tanking next year is the best play."

Should I be honest and think it through once, out loud?

I'd sooner play for the Giants.

For those who don't know: in my past life, the Jets — the team I coached — and the New York Giants were blood enemies. The two franchises shared oceans of history, and parts of it were stained with actual violence. In this life things hadn't reached that pitch yet, but whatever else happened, I wanted no part of playing for the Giants.

And yet the reason I'd say "Giants, rather than Detroit"? Their track record.

Over the past five years, the Giants had stockpiled talent with premium picks, and that stash had begun blooming this season, quietly lifting their record.

Detroit, meanwhile, was stuck in no-man's-land.

You couldn't exactly tank while holding an elite quarterback named Matthew Stafford — and trading him to blow the roster up meant watching the fans' faces while you did it.

As anyone who followed the recruiting scene knew, Michigan took football a touch too seriously.

Sending away the soul and alpha of the Detroit Lions — Matthew Stafford — to tank? The GM would have to bet his own job on it.

Who was going to pull that trigger easily?

And so Detroit did nothing every year but paw at the free-agency market, never quite adding real talent to the roster.

If I went there without any major change?

Three years of brutal grinding, guaranteed.

It wasn't that I wanted to take the easy road.

I just wanted to see a future.

Besides, there was the weather.

"I think it'd be pretty damn great, honestly."

For Matthew, the image of his favorite college underclassman leading the franchise he'd spent his whole life with must have been pure romance.

It wasn't that I couldn't understand the feeling.

But did it have to be today?

I was a little flustered — but I kept it off my face.

"We'll see what happens in two years."

"Haha. Right. Sorry for taking your time. It's Mississippi State this week, isn't it? Their blind side has always been strong, so watch the edge. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Talk to you later."

Click.

I could feel the world around me shifting.

The NFL had suddenly drawn much closer.

It felt pretty good, honestly, so I was letting it be — as long as it didn't touch my performance on the field.

But man.

Never saw this coming.

What if I get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drafted to Minnesota?

That place is insanely cold.

Remembering a football game I'd once played through a flurry of snow, I scratched my head and decided to file all of it away for later.

It was far too distant a future.

Right now, what mattered was—

"Black Dice. H-Hawkeye. Jet Switch."

I had to load this weekend's plays into my head.

Not just cramming them in —

understanding them, one hundred percent.

"Left side route is..."

How the atmosphere around me since the Florida game would ripple through the whole team — I hoped, truly, that it was in a good direction.

Incidentally—

"Damn-!! It's cold enough to kill me."

The thought of cold places had me cracking the window for a moment, and the 6-degree wind felt far too harsh against my skin.

Ah—

I miss Hawaii.

Before bed, I lay down and dialed the aunt I missed — Aunt Mel.

"Moi? What's got you calling at this hour?"

"Nothing — just wondering how Hawaii's doing."

This dorm, where I lived without a single piece of family,

felt emptier than ever tonight.