Except One Game (4)

(Chris Fowler) – ESPN Play-by-Play

“29 yards. Second and ten. Dwayne Moi Stone, who came up short on the first try, is getting set. Play action. He's sitting in the pocket. Slips the tackle with a beautiful move—Moi is loose! The left side is wide open! Inside the ten! Ohh!! SPIN MOVE!! AND IT'S---!! TOUCHDOWN-!!!”

In college football, you have to be careful with celebrations too.

If they mock the opponent. If they're lewd. If they involve money in any way. Any celebration that runs counter to a student's true purpose or the spirit of amateurism gets you slapped with a 15-yard penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Even doing a celebration toward the crowd that tells them to quiet down earns you the exact same penalty.

Why am I bringing all this up?

Because I need to erase what just popped into my head.

When I shook Clemson's number 25 with the spin move and punched in the touchdown, the very first celebration that flashed through my mind was crawling around on all fours and lifting a leg like a male puppy taking a leak.

Death Valley's bulldog marking its territory. As in, we just claimed this place.

That's how it would've been taken, no question.

So instead, I had no choice but to spin the football on the turf like a top.

Then a slide.

And another slide.

I settled for mimicking the steps from Drake's Toosie Slide and left it at that.

Afterward, I leapt into the air and collided chest-first with Zamir, who came sprinting in.

“TOO EASY!! TOO EASY!!”

“ALL DAY!!!”

Originally, Coach was planning to give Stetson a chance on this offensive drive.

But I told him I wanted to keep playing.

When he asked why, I answered honestly—that Clemson hadn't given up fifty points since 2013, and I'd like them to savor the memory of doing so today.

Coach thought it over for a moment, then gave his approval.

And fortunately, we put points on the board.

(Kirk Herbstreit) – ESPN Analyst

“The gap is just enormous. And it's not just the scoreboard—the quarterback play tells the same story. When Trevor Lawrence salvaged some pride by rushing for a touchdown of his own, Moi answered almost immediately, as if to say, I can do that too. Last year's National Championship Game must sting most for Clemson as a program, but for Lawrence himself, I'd have to think today is the hardest game of his life.”

Having finished everything I set out to do today to absolute perfection, a clean, refreshed feeling washed over me as I sat back down on the bench.

I chatted happily with whoever came by, and a little later, I got up and walked down the sideline.

Over to where the O-linemen were.

“GREAT JOB!!”

I'd taken two sacks, granted, but my pocket had been properly protected today.

They'd earned at least a full 85 from me.

Trey Hill and right guard Ben Cleveland in particular had done a superb job stonewalling Clemson's number 47 on a surprise blitz.

“You owe me a few burgers for today.”

“I'll have a word with Clarke.”

“Hell Yeah!!”

“Let's go, man—hey, you know what? Play like we did today, and nobody ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can stop our offense. Let's keep this rolling.”

O-line taken care of.

Now for the receivers.

Today I'd thrown three touchdown passes in total, split evenly between wide receivers and a tight end.

The remaining three scores had come on the ground.

And one field goal.

“We were pretty damn lethal out there today, huh?”

“We always are. Every single week.”

With Jordan Addison fully joining the rotation receiver group and Pickens back from injury, we could now deploy a far more varied menu of receiving options.

Jermaine Burton and Kearis Jackson each had distinct flavors too, so Coach was probably having a blast drawing up the game plans.

“Having a blast? You kidding me right now?”

“Why? If I were you, I'd be over the moon.”

“I'd gladly dig your grave myself.”

“Saves me money, though.”

“Maniac.”

Early in the season, I was merely highly anticipated.

Now, I could feel complete trust.

Coach Monken, who swore like a sailor, was so careful to soften his language around me that I could practically see him doing it.

“We're digging a canyon of death~ we killed every last one of you~ we killed every single one of you~~”

Death Valley, as I looked back at it, muttering to myself—

for once, the name felt exactly right.

“Y'all can kiss my ass.”

Clemson's offense, its life drained away, burned through its last chances in no time.

They'd pulled Trevor Lawrence for the backup quarterback, and most of the players on the field were freshmen besides.

With 1:37 left on the clock,

possession came back to us.

Stetson trotted out and didn't run a single play.

After each snap, he simply dropped to a knee. Again and again.

Three kneel-downs at forty seconds apiece, and it was over.

The game was quietly winding down.

(Kirk Herbstreit)

“Today's game won't have any impact on the Tank For Trevor sweepstakes currently underway in the NFL. Even the greatest quarterbacks have their off days, after all. If anything, the ripple effects will show up in the 2023 Draft.”

“Extraordinary quarterbacks like Jalen Hurts, Tua Tagovailoa, and Joe Burrow just entered the league this year. And people already treat the top two spots in next year's draft as if they belong to Trevor Lawrence and Justin Fields. Trevor Lawrence has spent his entire college career competing against quarterbacks of that caliber.”

“The reason Trevor Lawrence has been rated the best quarterback in the NCAA is that he led Clemson to the summit as a true freshman. Even so, people still rated him merely as one of the greats. But Moi is something different. Against Mac Jones, Kyle Trask—and Trevor Lawrence himself, the reigning best quarterback in college football—he showed a visible, unmistakable gap. I'm hearing the sound of this kid's value climbing even higher than it already is.”

Once I confirmed the game was truly over,

I walked out onto the field, happy as could be.

I exchanged light greetings with the Clemson players brushing past me, and off in the distance I could see Trevor Lawrence coming my way.

Soon, we met at midfield.

“Good game.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Shall we consider, for a moment, just how much effort it took for this guy to act so composed?

It was our first meeting in college football—but in effect, he'd just lost to me twice in a row.

And today's aftermath was going to hit him far harder than that last one did.

Oh well.

The fact that he was the projected number one pick in next year's draft would never change, but at the very least, the companies looking to sign him would pause to think it over at least once and try to lowball him.

I did feel a little bad about that.

But what can you do?

That's just the unwritten rule of this business.

And above all—

he'd have to lose in the NFL too, right?

(Chris Fowler)

“With this result, Georgia improves to 8-0 and keeps its perfect season alive. Clemson drops to two losses—the first time they've lost twice in a season since Trevor Lawrence enrolled. I'd say a National Championship berth is officially in jeopardy for the Tigers.”

Back in the locker room, after the field and the corridor.

In that cramped little space, we celebrated the victory to our hearts' content.

Music blasting, everyone dancing their own way.

And the coaches joined in too.

You think the players get to have all the fun?

Not in football.

If you want to survive in this place, you'd better learn to enjoy yourself—head coaches and assistants included.

“AYYYYYY!!!!”

“Let's Go! Let's Go! Let's Go!”

Right beside Coach Dan Sherman's dazzling dance moves,

we let out every last drop of energy we hadn't spent on the field.

Until this room was filled to the brim with it.

That took quite a while, actually.

Well, it should have taken a while.

Today, this level of swagger was exactly right.

Damn straight it was.

#. November 29, 2020

#-1. Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA

Just minutes after the roughly three-hour-plus clash between Georgia and Clemson ended, the head of the corporation that had long propped up the state of Michigan sent a message.

The recipient: Brad Holmes, currently the Director of College Scouting for the L.A. Rams.

Brrr—

Unlike Detroit, which had just crossed midnight,

it was still 9 p.m. in L.A.

Before long, the face of a man she'd spoken with so often lately appeared on the screen, and the slender woman who had been gazing out the window behind him turned and walked over to the sofa.

Sheila Ford Hamp.

She was a member of the family behind Ford Motor Company, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠America's iconic automaker, and the owner of the NFL's Detroit Lions.

Following her father William Clay Ford Sr. and her mother Martha Firestone Ford, she would become the third Ford to lead the Detroit Lions.

Her father had ambition but no talent. Her mother had neither talent, nor ambition, nor even luck.

But Sheila Ford, who had grown up playing tennis and knew competition intimately, had no intention of abandoning the team called Detroit.

“Sorry for the late hour.”

【“Not at all. It's fine. Isn't it past midnight in Michigan already?”】

“It is. Anyway—you're on my screen an awful lot today.”

【“It's a necessary task. Right?”】

“Yes, Brad. It's about that necessary task.”

This morning too, the two of them had held a meeting—a final review ahead of a certain decision that was coming in the afternoon.

Not long after that morning meeting,

the Detroit Lions fired both their head coach and general manager.

And as soon as this season ended, Brad Holmes on the screen would become the new General Manager of the Detroit Lions.

An NFL team's college scout jumping straight to GM—

that was an extremely rare move in this industry.

“We need Moi.”

【“…”】

“From the time I was little, my dad used to take me to football stadiums. Thanks to him, I got to watch all the great players live. Joe Montana. Dan Marino. John Elway. The men of the Manning family. All quarterbacks whose names will live forever in the history of football.”

Inside Sheila Ford's mind, the plays of those men—the names she'd just spoken aloud—flickered past like black-and-white film.

And it seemed she could hear it.

The vivid, living atmosphere of those old stadiums.

The crowd's roar, distant at first as if echoing from far away, grew gradually clearer—and at the moment it became sharpest, color suddenly bled into the images, and today's plays from Dwayne Moi Stone layered themselves over the memory.

Sheila Ford's unfocused eyes.

Straightened again, fixed squarely on Brad Holmes.

“Next year, we tank.”

Sheila Ford was currently meeting dozens of people a day, pushing out every cancerous presence that had sickened the team and filling the organization with people capable of genuine growth.

Born in 1951, she was no spring chicken, but her passion had long since infected everyone around her.

Brad Holmes had made up his mind right along with her.

He would ride Sheila Ford's dream.

So the answer to the declaration of tanking came easily.

【“I'll persuade Campbell myself.”】

“I'm counting on you.”

One good quarterback alone cannot transform a team.

But without a good quarterback,

every effort is meaningless.

You could call it unfair.

But that's football.

If the chance to acquire an elite quarterback appears right in front of you, you don't hesitate—you charge straight ahead.

“Whatever it takes. If we can't secure the 2023 number one pick outright, I want you to amass every asset we can use to get it. Keep the young, talented players and a handful of veterans to hold the locker room together—sell off everything else for maximum value. Make it so that whichever team lands the 2023 number one pick can't afford to refuse our offer.”

【“Understood. I'll start working on it right away.”】

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

Click.

Sheila Ford's love for the Detroit Lions was so extraordinary it was hard to put into words.

The football stadium had been her playground as a teenage girl, and every corner connected to the team was brimming with memories of her father.

Her father, who had loved her more than anyone in the world.

The dream that father never got to achieve.

Sheila Ford's march toward the Detroit Lions' first-ever Super Bowl, it seemed, would begin with bringing in one magnificent quarterback talent: Dwayne Moi Stone.

Toward that end, she had declared the tank.

And the team would move accordingly next year.

The fans would normally have hated it—but this time, she was certain, it would be different.

“We need him.”

As she took a small sip of the single-malt whisky in her glass, the fire burning in Sheila Ford's eyes blazed hotter than it ever had in her twenties.

#. On the charter flight back to Georgia

Maybe because we'd played a night game,

practically everyone had drifted off early.

But not me.

So I turned on my tablet.

Watching game footage is how you catch the things you couldn't see in the moment.

Mostly, the mistakes jump out.

That's exactly what happened now.

The third-quarter sack.

With option one—Joe—taken away, I'd turned my head hunting for the next target.

I froze that moment.

Sliced it frame by frame.

And replayed it over and over.

“Damn—”

How did I miss this?

It could be a vision problem. Peripheral vision works a little differently for everyone.

This might be my weak side.

For now.

Noted. Flagged.

“Hm?”

“?”

I sensed movement nearby and turned my head—

and there was Coach Monken, looking down at me.

So I pulled off the headset I'd been wearing.

“You don't sleep at all, do you?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead, sir.”

“Someone ought to put a bullet in that head of yours.”

“If you do, make it one clean shot, please.”

“Maniac. Don't overdo it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“…Want some juice?”

“Oh? I can have this?”

Without a word, Coach Monken handed over the juice he'd been holding, then turned and walked back toward the galley.

Why, thank you very much.

I'll enjoy every drop—

Truth be told, after the game ended earlier,

I'd checked the internet on the way to the airport.

The reaction was absolutely on fire.

In the best possible way, obviously.

DMs had come in from Hines Ward and Kyler Murray—fellow Korean-blooded brothers with whom I felt a natural closeness—and Mahomes sent a message with a thumbs-up and two fire emojis.

Matthew even video-called, which I answered in the locker room with the guys around me.

Beyond them, people like Kevin Garnett and Big Show, whom I'd met at the stadium, said they'd be in touch from time to time.

My favorite part of all of it?

Nike, without a doubt.

Splicing Michael Jordan's spin move with my last touchdown video—that's straight-up cheating.

Browsing social media a bit more,

I noticed the agencies had racked up a lot of new followers too.

I hadn't decided anything yet.

It's illegal for them to contact me right now anyway.

And they're playing it safe, thinking there's no rush.

It all comes out soon enough, so whatever.

A little over a month to go.

Anyway.

First thing I do when I get back to the dorm:

check the box marked [Trevor Lawrence Cut].

Now the next goal is an undefeated season.

Trevor Lawrence had just been knocked out of the race for the best winning percentage among NCAA quarterbacks; the only one left was Ohio State's Justin Fields, and I honestly hoped we'd meet this year too.

Unless I beat both of the guys rated the NCAA's No. 01 and No. 02 quarterbacks, everything else would feel hollow.

Tok.

Tok.

A short flight of just about an hour.

A few more clips in,

and we'd already landed in Atlanta.

From there, we boarded buses for the rest of the trip.

“Hey there—”

“Moi. You were lethal out there today.”

“Straight-up skinned them alive.”

“Haha!”

Even on the bus from Atlanta to Athens,

the guys were half in and half out of consciousness.

Still, more of them were awake than before.

Something was going on up ahead?

What is that?

Before long the bus pulled into campus, and I grabbed my bags, got off, and stared at Peter.

“…What?”

“Nothing. You were drooling.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

Childish.

We're not kids, come on.

Jermaine and Zamir had doodled all over Peter's face.

…Damn it.

I wanted in on that too.

“Alright, see you Monday—!”

After saying goodbye to the guys headed in different directions,

I climbed into my parked car—along with the ones who lived in the same or nearby buildings.

“One game of Call of Duty?”

“Screw off. I didn't sleep on the plane.”

“What? Why not?”

“…”

I wanted to tell him to take one good look at his own face, but I couldn't bring myself to—so I just told Peter I couldn't sleep on the plane and pulled the car out toward the dorms.

How does the guy manage to sit like that, no matter where he sits?

And if he slumps like that, can he even see the rearview mirror?

Not long into the drive,

we reached the dorm area.

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

Thud.

“Thanks, man. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Oh, and Peter?”

“?”

“Check a mirror. You know why.”

“…HEY!!”

Peter caught on a beat too late and blew up at me,

and I just pulled away.

Good grief.

No downtime in this life, is there.

After parking haphazardly in an empty spot,

I opened the dorm door and stepped inside.

Ahhh—

Now I'm finally tired.

The moment I opened my room door, I wanted nothing more than to collapse face-first into bed—but clothes are clothes, so I stripped down and dumped them carelessly in the living room.

And then—

“Hi~ there.”

Oh.

Right.

“Madison?”

“I told you to look forward to Sunday, didn't I?”

Damn it.

I just wanted a little rest.

But it looks like

sleep is going to have to wait a bit longer.

So that means—

hmm—

about an hour or so.

Not yet.

My night was not over yet.