This Is How I Plan to Keep Living

It had been a busy week.

Finals were finals, of course.

But there was just a lot going on.

Sports Illustrated runs a segment called The Big Interview, and yesterday, Wednesday, I filmed it. The Tuesday before that, I appeared on a local radio station, and on Monday, when the week started, ESPN came by to shoot footage for SportsCenter. That night, I was invited over to Coach Smart's house, where I heard the names of the recruits already committed to Georgia for next year.

There was a lot of talk, in particular, about a tight end named Brock Bowers out of Napa, California. With our senior tight end Kittle leaving the team after this year, the position was about to get thin, and the coach said this kid had the kind of talent that could make up for it—told me to remember the name well.

Then today, Thursday, after my schedule wrapped up, I studied all day at the academy center and came back to the dorm.

Ahh—

I should go wash up.

Wrong.

I'm already fused to the couch.

Could somebody please come wash me?

Bzzzt—

Bzzzt—

A video call from Mom.

It was 11:27 p.m. here.

Which meant it was 6:27 p.m. in Hawaii.

She'd probably just closed up the restaurant.

"Just finished for the day?"

【"Moi? Are you lying down somewhere?"】

"On the couch. It's been a crazy week."

【"I wish things were busy for us too."】

"Haha. Well, we've got it easier than you do."

【"That's true. Thanks to my son."】

"Have the tourists been coming in?"

Normally the crowds should start picking up in December. It's dolphin-watching season, after all. And from this time of year, the surf gets absolutely insane.

Come to think of it—

"God! Surfing. I really want to go surfing."

【"You can come back for the break, right?"】

"I'll try. But I can't promise anything."

Once finals wrap up—they run from the 11th through the 17th this month—the fall semester is effectively over and break begins. Our football season ends on the 12th, then we play the SEC Championship on the 19th. There's a little dead time after that, but we'll be preparing for the Bowl game on New Year's Day.

There's been talk of letting us go home for Christmas.

But nothing's confirmed, so who knows.

"I miss you all so much."

【"Actually, about that…"】

"?"

【"Georgia's sending a plane for the championship game. A charter, for you players. So that day, about eighty of us will be flying out of Hawaii."】

"Really?"

Whoa—!

I shot upright on the couch.

Inviting the whole family wasn't enough?

A chartered plane?

【"The university president called us himself. Said he wanted to leave it to me to tell you the news. I couldn't believe how considerate the man is."】

"Yeah—he is that kind of person."

Of every student on campus, I was probably the one who saw President Morehead the most. These days he actually times his visits to the coffee shop to match my coffee runs, and whenever we cross paths there he buys my drink and always asks after my health.

I was grateful, of course.

But part of me thought—

Well, of course he does.

Do you have any idea how much donation money I've brought in?

And just recently, the Nike contract got extended too. Georgia signed a ten-year, $3.8-million-a-year deal with Nike back in 2011, and this year was the final year of it. Word was that Adidas and Under Armour, among others, had offered the largest apparel deal in the history of NCAA college football—and Georgia turned them all down to stay with Nike. Which could only mean the new Nike number was even bigger.

On top of that, the existing contract carried incentives. This part I knew from what had been made public:

$10,000 for reaching the SEC Championship Game. $20,000 for winning it. $50,000 for a National Championship berth. $100,000 for winning the national title.

When I met with President Morehead the other day, I asked him, "If I earn you $180,000, what do I get?" And he said, "What do you want?"

So I answered without really thinking: "Buy the students some good food."

"Do you know what happened after that?"

【"What happened?"】

Somehow I was now chatting away excitedly with Mom.

Ah—

This felt so good.

This was exactly what I needed today.

Family.

Anyway.

Where was I?

Oh, right.

The day after that conversation with the president, food trucks of every kind showed up all over campus and handed out free meals. It went on for about three days, and everyone was happy. What a magnanimous decision it was.

"Now that I say it out loud—he really is a good man."

【"What did I always tell you?"】

"I know. That's my point."

Whether or not I was the reason the school made all that money, a decision like that is hard to make. Not everyone who has gives freely. I hadn't done it in my past life either.

Which stings a little, doesn't it?

But hey.

I just have to be different now.

"If everyone's coming, I'll have to push even harder."

【"You can do it, sweetheart."】

"I will, Mom. Oh—can we invite Grandma too that day?"

【"I'll reach out, but don't get your hopes up. You know what your grandmother is like, don't you?"】

"It never hurts to try."

After ending the call with "I love you," I felt a whole lot better than before. Before heading to the academy center earlier, I'd packed some food from the dining hall into takeout containers—I'd eat that, then go wash up.

But eating alone felt like something was missing, so—truly, out of no other choice—

"Green left, 48 Alpha. X-note, Y-double, Z…"

I spread out the Play Book and my notes and memorized the calls for the day after tomorrow. We were traveling again tomorrow. Destination: Columbia. Not the one in New York—the one in South Carolina. We'd be facing the University of South Carolina football team there, a program in such bad shape that they'd fired their head coach a month or so back over poor results.

I wouldn't let my guard down, but this should be an easy win. So the coach had decided to start a few guys who weren't at a hundred percent from the bench, and my job was to run the offense efficiently enough to let them rest. Depending on how I played, the team and my teammates could get some relief—or they might not.

So really, even resting didn't sit easy with me.

"North right clamp. Colorado. 3-2 Scout Apache."

I'd come home drained beyond belief, and yet after emptying the takeout containers, I spent over an hour with the Play Book open. Until I absolutely couldn't hold my eyes open anymore.

Ninth win of the season, completed just as easily as expected. I only played the first half today and called it a day.

Maybe that's why?

I still had so much energy left.

The moment we stepped into the locker room, I blasted The Weeknd's Blinding Lights, flipped a pair of sunglasses out of my bag onto my face, and channelled the full 80s vibe with my whole body. Business as usual.

Wearing nothing but underwear, of course.

"Next song!! Hurry up with the next one!!"

"Don't kill the vibe, man!!"

"Blueberry Paygo!! Blueberry Paygo!!"

Some days we went full hip-hop. Other days we mixed in a little disco.

Football always runs heavier on celebrations than any other sport, overflowing with hype and energy—and if you didn't enjoy it like this, you'd never survive the pain. On any given game day, at least ten guys somewhere break a bone or tear a ligament, and at least ninety-five percent of us walk off with bruises all over. If you want to erase the fear of pain and injury, and make those memories end on a good note, you have to savor the present moment as much as you possibly can.

Thankfully, the visiting locker room at South Carolina was better than Clemson's, and we got to enjoy the win that much more.

After showering and changing, we headed for the buses, and my eyes drifted to a friend off to one side.

His name was Jackson Muschamp. He played quarterback, same as me. Sadly, he wasn't all that talented, so he was a Walk-On rather than a scholarship player.

"Hey, where you going?"

"Just gonna say hi to someone."

"Hi to who?"

"Yup!"

Jackson was the one who helped me warm up more than anyone—tossing the ball back and forth, holding for my stretches. I was grateful to him every time, and thanks to that we'd gotten to talk a lot.

The man beyond the rope recognized me first.

"Hello, sir."

"Heeey. Dwayne Moi Stone. The famous man himself."

"I've heard a lot about you too, sir. And—"

"?"

"I'm sorry about everything that's happened."

"Haha. Don't be. It's just how this business goes."

This was Jackson's father, Will Muschamp. He'd played safety for Georgia back in the day—that's why Jackson came here too. After graduating, he'd quickly started his coaching career at Auburn, then coached defenses at LSU, Texas, and Florida. Until recently, he'd been the head coach of South Carolina, today's opponent, but as I'd heard, poor results got him dismissed about a month ago, and he was taking a break now.

"I'll be back at Georgia soon enough."

"Really?"

At the news his parents were coming back to Georgia, Jackson lit up. Soon after, I headed for the bus with Jackson, and he told me he wanted to end up like his dad one day.

"When I graduate, I want to work at Georgia."

"Aiming for OC?"

"Eventually."

"Great dream. Working under Coach Kirby Smart—you'd have a blast."

"Right?"

Every college football player dreams of the NFL. But some of them quickly come to terms with the fact that a dream is just a dream. Imagining himself at thirty, at forty, and taking an honest look at his own reality because of it—that was one of Jackson's greatest strengths.

"You're going to make one hell of a coach."

"Haha. Thanks. See you in a bit."

"Yup."

We were riding different buses, so we parted in front of the one I was boarding. This wasn't about separating starters from backups. On the morning of a road trip, you go to Butts-Mehre, and there's a little envelope waiting at the entrance. Inside is your bus number. In short—it's completely random.

"How long to the airport?"

"How long did it take us on the way in?"

"Uh… thirty minutes?"

"Google it."

Saturday afternoon, heading back to Georgia after the game. Another week down, safe and sound.

(Adam Zucker) — CBS Studio Host

"Welcome back to Inside College Football. Today's topic is exactly this: why is Dwayne Moi Stone the best quarterback in the NCAA right now? And no, we won't just be talking about what he means to a Georgia team that has already taken down Alabama, Florida, and Clemson. Fellas?"

(Brian Jones) — CBS Studio Analyst

"This kid is just so versatile. Among SEC quarterbacks, he's at the top of every single statistical category, and he makes the right read every single time on the field. His interception rate of 1.9% is a touch high, granted—but you have to remember, this is a true freshman."

(Adam Zucker)

"And that's precisely the most stunning part. Look at the players competing with Moi right now for the Heisman and the title of best quarterback in the country. Every one of them is an upperclassman."

(Brian Jones)

"And even in a shortened season, he's already thrown thirty-five touchdown passes. Thirty-five! Thirty-five! In nine games. And he didn't even play the fourth quarter in some of them—today he only played the first half. This kid is ridiculous in the red zone. His red-zone scoring conversion rate is over sixty-five percent! That is genuinely absurd."

(Adam Zucker)

"So let me ask you this. Has Dwayne Moi Stone already surpassed Trevor Lawrence's freshman season? Oh—everyone's nodding. Remarkable. Then, next question. What about Johnny Manziel? Michael Vick? Jameis Winston?"

(Kevin Carter) — CBS Studio Analyst

"First, let me be clear: the comparison itself is impossible. Because those guys were redshirts. As far as true freshmen go, you'd have to bring up Philip Rivers or Robert Griffin first. But those conversations all end at Trevor Lawrence—and Moi is already better than Trevor Lawrence's freshman year. So, case closed."

(Adam Zucker)

"And the moment this show ends, a poll is going up on our Twitter. If you're watching, make sure you vote."

December 6, 2020. Forsyth County, Georgia.

I hadn't gone back to Athens yesterday. Instead, I'd ridden out to Forsyth in someone's car.

Splash—

Emmaline Palmer dove into the water and swam over to me.

"You're just too cute, you know that?"

"I'm cute?"

"Mm-hm."

When a woman starts calling you cute, the game is basically over. We held each other and kissed, and things flowed naturally into a very hot stretch of time.

This place was—well, you know.

"Jeremy said we could use it whenever we want."

"Jeremy? A guy?"

"Nope. A girl. Why? Jealous?"

"Just making a note of it."

"Haha. Seriously, so cute."

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

Like every college, Emory had its share of staggeringly rich students—girls like Jeremy, who owned multiple vacation homes in Forsyth County, the richest county in Georgia. Finals had stressed Emmaline out, she'd wanted a hot night with me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and last night she'd screamed her heart out on that bed and been blissfully happy. Hard to do in a dorm. And honestly, I liked the added stimulation too.

"You'll drive me back later, right?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

Emmaline was studying nursing at school. Her dream was to advance women's healthcare, with a particular interest in cardiology. Heart disease being one of the leading causes of death for American women, and the House blocking the funding needed to fight it—those were things I'd learned through our conversations.

A woman who treated me like a lover, yet refused to put a label on the relationship, still marching toward her own dream. Confident, independent, and utterly charming.

Before leaving the lake house, we spent more time admiring each other on the living-room couch, tidied up the traces we'd left here and there, and drove out of Forsyth.

"Do you know Larry Braxton?"

"Who?"

"Larry Braxton. He used to be the general manager of the Atlanta Braves."

"The Braves? Baseball? No clue. Not really my thing."

"Haha. Weren't you a baseball player once?"

"Yup. But it was a stepping stone to football."

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

"That's what I love about you."

Because she charged straight at her own dream, she understood someone doing the same. Talking with Emmaline, sharp as she was, was always a pleasure—but once we parted, we never really traded messages. Why? Because she has a boyfriend.

"See you next time, then."

"Yeah. Take care."

Apparently a French guy, also at Emory—they'd agreed to allow each other partners beyond their relationship. What was the term for that again? I know she said it. Eh.

I forgot.

Back at the dorm, I dropped my bag on the floor and went straight to the fridge, pulling out ingredients for something quick. A few pancakes. Scrambled eggs, too.

And right then—

Bzzzt—

"?"

My phone rang just as I was about to crack the eggs. I checked the screen. The guys.

"Oh, fuck. Gotta go. Now."

I shoved everything back into the fridge, threw on some clothes, and headed out of the dorm. Peter lived in the building right next door. And there, up ahead—Darnell.

"Ay! D!!"

At first he'd been expressionless and blunt, kind of a bad first impression, but these days Darnell laughed easily and cracked jokes without a second thought. I believed Darnell's transformation mirrored the team's whole atmosphere.

"Where'd you disappear to yesterday?"

"Forsyth."

"With a girl?"

"Yup."

"Shiiiiit. I'm not built like that, man."

"You jealous? If you're jealous, just say you're jealous."

"I ain't jealous, not even a little."

"Kukukuku. What pizza did you order?"

"Anchovies and pepperoni."

"Whoo! Good choices."

Obviously, not every football player lived like me. But there were definitely people like me. If not for COVID, a whole lot of guys would have dumped their high school girlfriends by now and been seeing this girl and that. Gorgeous girls come to you without you lifting a finger—turning them down is no easy thing.

Me? This was always how I planned to live. In my past life, I'd done nothing in college but study. I don't have a single memory of dating a woman.

Gathered in Peter's room, we clutched nothing but Nintendo and PlayStation controllers—or a desktop mouse—and threw ourselves into gaming. Then came the sound of the door, and Peter made his entrance carrying a stack of boxes. He wore an extremely triumphant expression and bellowed at us:

"PIZZA TIME~~~!!!"

"YEAH--!!!!!"

How we enjoyed ourselves was our own choice. I'd chosen football, women, and friends.

And I planned to keep living like this.

It might make some people frown.

But either way, this was the life I'd chosen.

"Hold up, hold up."

"What?"

"We gotta pray first."

"Oh. Right."

"Heavenly Father, holy and above. Today, once again…"

Peter, a devout believer, began reciting grace, and we pretended to close our eyes—then immediately stuffed pizza into our mouths.

"What the fuck?"

"Idiot. You still don't know us?"

"You're all going to burn for this."

"Oh, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠please. Not true."

"How's it taste?"

"Best ever."

It was far humbler than the college life I'd once planned. But living like this, day by day—this was really good too.

Bzzzt—

<"Hello, my name is Tom Condon, and I'd like to…">

<"Hello there! We're Athletic First, and…">

<"This is Joel Segal from Sports Five—if you have a moment sometime, I'd love to set up a call…">

While I was eating pizza with my friends, one piece of huge news dropped on the world.