Yep, I'm a Hopeless Football Addict

#. November 21, 2020

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Sanford Stadium

Playing against Mississippi State felt like poking a fork into a cake laid out on a table.

My job ended when the third quarter did, and I handed the quarterback position over to Stetson. Now I stood on the sideline, chatting away. Not with the head coach or Coach Monken, though—with Coach Jacob Russell up in the play-calling tower.

“H. Arthur would've been the better call, Coach.”

“Mississippi's No. 14 would've reacted to it.”

“Nah. He's not that sharp.”

I wouldn't be taking the field again today, but a quarterback's work never really stops. Right now it meant talking schemes with the coaches like this, or wandering up and down the bench to keep my teammates' spirits up.

Third and four. Stetson took the snap.

The play I'd pushed for was H. Arthur, but Coach Russell had called for a pass. And the pass fell flat. The quarterback was slow finding his receiver, the pocket collapsed, and a blitzer came free. Stetson was only 180 centimeters tall, and he struggled to pick out receivers cutting inside from the edges—the offensive tackles and defensive edges were locked in a ferocious battle at the very ends of his vision, and all that chaos blocked his sight lines.

That was exactly why I'd pushed for H. Arthur. It simplifies the read. Brings everything right to you.

“Told you so.”

“…Shut it.”

“Kuk kuk kuk. You know I can hear every word of that, right?”

A little ways off, Coach Monken had his head bowed, shaking it slowly from side to side. The head coach had his headset hanging around his neck. I reached up and killed my mic. Click.

“Next drive, we finish it! Next one, we punch it in!”

After seeing the offense off the field, I claimed the spot next to Stetson on the bench. He was staring at the play book.

“Wasted throw.”

“Phew. Pocket collapsed on me.”

“I think you needed to drift right. Just a little.”

“Right? You mean scramble?”

“No. Just move naturally.”

Mississippi State's left edge, No. 14, leaned far more toward covering his zone than actually pressing the quarterback today. He'd shove the right offensive tackle just enough, then refuse to dig any deeper. That was the whole reason Coach Russell hadn't wanted to use H. Arthur with the right tight end and Z-receiver—but I'd confirmed on the field that the guy's ankles weren't flexible. If we'd used H. Arthur to rock him left and right just a bit, we'd have gotten a better result than what just happened. I'd stake my life on it. One hundred percent.

“It's his ankles?”

“Yeah. He's coming from your right, so he'll be in your sight right away. When you see No. 14, don't panic—just slide sideways. If you beat the first tackle, he's got nothing left.”

“…Got it. I'll keep that in mind.”

With the defense holding firm drive after drive, Stetson's offense found its rhythm. By the time they crossed into midfield, he seemed to have grasped everything I'd said about No. 14. And once the mental tension eased, his passes grew razor-sharp. The balls flying to Jermaine Burton and Jordan Addison were landing almost every time, and before I knew it, we were inside the red zone.

But the first try failed. The second try failed too.

The game was all but over at this point, so even the play calls were coming from the tower now.

“…Damn it.”

“Mind if I take this one?”

“What?”

Without waiting for his answer, I walked forward. The head coach and Coach Monken, who'd overheard the exchange, turned to look at me, and I stood on the sideline and flashed a hand signal at Stetson. Coach Monken pitched in to help relay it, and the head coach swapped personnel in a hurry. A tight-end-less personnel group, three receivers stacked to the right.

The play call behind that hand signal rose naturally in my mind.

Trips.Sting Left.Right Swing.

The moment the snap came, the wide receivers lined up on the right would each run their assigned routes. Sting, to be precise, is sting operation—a trap play—but spelling the whole ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thing out ate up time for nothing, so we just called it short. With Left added on, it meant we'd use that side as the bait. Right Swing went toward the tackle, and the fullback had to block that way too. And the quarterback—after taking the snap, he wasn't to sit in the pocket. He'd scramble right and run.

Abandoning the blind side entirely. An attack that only looked right.

Ever since we'd entered the red zone, Mississippi State's No. 14 had stopped lining up on the edge, hanging back instead to focus on rush defense—and that was exactly the crack we meant to exploit. If things went to plan, the right-side receivers would be forced into one-on-ones with the cornerbacks, and our guys were a class above.

On the field, my teammates executed the play to perfection, and Jordan scored his second touchdown of the day.

“THAT'S what I'm talking about!! That's it, that's it!!”

Play sheet clutched in one hand and swinging wildly, I sprinted onto the field. A moment later, I collided with Jordan in midair.

“Second touchdown!!”

“YEAH!!”

“That's My Dawg!! That's My Dawg!!”

Our first sixty-point game of the season. We were rolling at seven wins and counting.

#. November 22, 2020

#-1. Beaverton, Oregon, USA

#-2. Nike World Headquarters

Just as the tweet from Tim Brando—one of America's most respected sports journalists—suggested, Moi's interview the day before had landed as a message aimed squarely at Nike: I'll sign with you, so hand over the money.

And naturally, Nike had every intention of contacting Moi the instant NCAA regulations loosened on January 2, 2021. But they had one very big problem on their hands. A problem, in fact, that everyone else had too.

Exactly how much was the biggest star in college football worth?

There was no precedent for this. Which made any judgment call extraordinarily difficult.

And then there was the other massive variable: the agencies. Rumors had been circulating for a while that the companies and agents representing the NFL's biggest stars were already primed to come calling for Moi. A near-certain first overall pick in the 2023 NFL Draft. The fiercest bidding war in history was guaranteed to unfold. Maybe even more than that.

But none of that changed one simple fact: Nike had to move fast too.

“You're saying putting a number on him is meaningless? Why?”

In the room where the company's most important meetings took place, its very best employees had now gathered—the smartest, and the ones with the best track records. Nike called them the Ellite Group. They always handled the most crucial clients. And Cody Pearson, the man leading this Elite Group, had just heard the following from a female employee he trusted: setting a value on Moi was pointless. Because—

“Because today is the cheapest he'll ever be, obviously.”

“…”

“…”

An air of being caught completely off guard settled over the conference room.

The smarter people are, the more easily they forget the fundamentals. The moment Julia Wong sensed the conversation circling itself endlessly, she'd started thinking it through. How did we end up here? The answer came to her quickly.

“Let's go back to the beginning. The first proposal on the table here was two years, three million dollars—wasn't it? Then the whole 'Mac Jones Who?' incident happened, and it jumped to two years, five million. And then a few weeks ago? Right after the Florida game.”

After Moi's leaping touchdown, NCAA football fans had taken Michael Jordan's “THE SHOT,” twisted it, and christened the play “THECH DOWN.” Google and YouTube autocomplete now suggested the coined term on its own, and images modeled after the Jordan Brand logo blanketed the internet.

And the very next day, in this very conference room—

“It jumped to two years, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠twenty million. Didn't it.”

“…”

“…”

“Four times over. And look—how well is Dwayne Moi Stone's jersey selling right now?”

According to the figures currently tallied inside Nike, Dwayne Moi Stone's uniform was the best-selling jersey in America, across every sport. Granted, that measurement only covered the stretch since the football season began, so the year-long ranking looked somewhat different—but what mattered was the present, and the future to come.

For reference, the players ranked below Moi in that same survey were LeBron James (basketball), Mookie Betts (baseball), Patrick Mahomes (football), and Sidney Crosby (hockey). The absolute best in each of their respective sports.

“We should pool every dollar we can. The Except One Game. The SEC Championship. A national championship. His value is only going to climb—there's no doubt about it.”

Faced with Julia Wong's point—that there were plenty of reasons left for Dwayne Moi Stone's value to rise even higher—Cody Pearson decided to change the subject. Stop trying to appraise his current value. Instead, think about something else.

“What's the maximum we can actually offer?”

How much could Nike stretch for Moi?

Even for these people, it was the first time anyone had ever asked.

#. 3:30 PM

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall

#-4. Medical Room

Today's schedule wrapped with the morning practice session. But that didn't mean I got to kick back.

“How's it feel? You good?”

“What? Am I hurt, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“You think I wouldn't be, flipping like that?”

“Haha. Well, you're joking, so you must be fine.”

Not a joke. It genuinely hurt, okay?

Elaine Bonner checked my hip, then took a look at the neck I'd nicked up slightly yesterday.

“Turn side to side for me.”

“Like this?”

“No. Keep your head still.”

“Ah…”

Eyes fixed straight ahead, I moved my neck left and right.

“How is it?”

How is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it? It hurts?

“Hmm—nothing else aching along with it?”

“No. Just here.”

“Looks like a bruise. Lie face-down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yesterday I'd taken two sacks. And been tackled a grand total of twenty-six times. Most of those came right after I'd released the ball, so I'd basically been caught defenseless. My body was still a patchwork of bruises.

“You guys are honestly something else.”

“We're warriors.”

“That you are.”

Once the season reached its middle stretch, there were almost no players walking around with healthy bodies. It was the reason NCAA and NFL football teams poured the most money into their medical facilities—players whose bodies were the whole job came limping in with a fresh list of injured body parts after every single game.

As for me, right now I had a bruised middle and ring finger on my left hand, my left ribs and oblique, a ligament in my hip, my thigh muscle, and a banged-up left pinky and pinky toe. None of it bad enough to keep me off the field, so I just managed it, treated it, and played through. And now the neck had joined the list.

“We'll run a concussion test at the end too. Got it?”

“Yup.”

If a neck injury came from a tackle, the medical staff was obligated to screen for a concussion—the two could be connected.

As I lay there face-down, head turned to one side, I caught sight of the guy on the next bed over. Our eyes met and we both snickered. We were both an absolute mess, after all. We looked like a couple of rags someone had dropped on the floor.

“Kek kek kek. Thinking the same thing I am?”

“What? That we look like used-up dishrags?”

“Kuk kuk kuk. Weaklings.”

“Shut up.”

“Look at you, laid up over a few tackles. We hit each other a hundred-plus times a day.”

“That's your job, though.”

“Goddamn it. Being a quarterback is such a scam.”

The guy currently trading barbs with me was Travon Walker. A sophomore defensive edge who'd enrolled last year. Back in recruiting, Nolan Smith had been rated higher, but the picture had shifted a little once they got to college. Nolan had a great frame himself at 6-2, 235 pounds, but at the college level the physical edge slipped away and he found himself leaning on technique instead. Travon Walker, at 6-5 and 270 pounds, was getting the better evaluation on the strength of his body alone. By my eye, the gap was still enormous—but even so, he was a compelling defender.

“What'd the coach say this morning?”

“Huh?”

“You pulled the defensive guys aside this morning. Why?”

“Ah—he says we're going after the passer.”

“Then it's a 4-3.”

“Yep.”

This coming weekend, there was a genuinely massive game. The Except One Game. The opponent: Clemson.

If we won this weekend too, the odds of finishing the season undefeated grew substantially. With South Carolina and Missouri waiting after Clemson, you could basically call it settled. Locking up a berth in the SEC Championship Game would be confirmed with a win this week as well.

Quite a lot was riding on it. For the team. And for me personally.

“Flatten Trevor Lawrence for me.”

“Oh, I will. Gonna make you the best quarterback in the NCAA. I'm gonna smear shit all over that guy's face.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Reassured by the fire burning in Travon's eyes, I turned my head the other way and looked at the friend lying on this side. This one was Eric Stokes, cornerback. A defender with absurd speed—he'd been the state 100-meter champion in high school. Which is why his man coverage was quite good, honestly.

But.

“Hey, scrubs.”

“Fuck! Here we go again.”

“Kuk kuk kuk kuk.”

This guy lost a 100-meter race to me. Three head-to-heads, three losses. It's fair to say a cornerback losing a footrace to some mere(?) quarterback is practically unheard of, so ever since then, I've never once passed up a chance to give him hell.

Didn't even notice when he arrived, apparently. Picturing him flinching when he realized the only empty bed was the one next to mine made me consider easing up a little. But my mouth just kept going.

“Hey, scrubs. You hear me talking to you?”

“Get lost! I'm trying to get treatment in peace.”

“Running away. Pathetic.”

“Screw you.”

“Already flinched.”

“You psycho.”

Ah— I really shouldn't be enjoying this so much.

Well, however it looked, we were good. He came over to my place to game all the time, and we ran into each other on Discord constantly. Thankfully our skill levels were dead even. If he'd been better—

He'd be calling me scrubs, wouldn't he?

“Damn right I would. That's what stings the most.”

“Then get good and come find me.”

“I swear I will.”

“Yeah, sure you will.”

A Monday afternoon deep into body maintenance. And before I knew it—

“Damn—we're at capacity?”

All eighteen beds in the medical room were full, and there were even people waiting outside. No matter how you looked at it, we were—

“Patients. We're patients.”

Seeing us like this, maybe it made sense that some people simply couldn't understand why anyone would choose to become a football player.

…

Then again—no, hold on. What's there not to understand?

Yep.

I really am, without a doubt, a hopeless football addict.