SEC Championship Game (3)
#. AMG Lounge & Truest Club
Sections 108, 109, 111, 112, and 126, 127, 129, 130 of Mercedes-Benz Stadium are known collectively as the Delta Sky360° Club.
It was the second-tier VIP area the Atlanta Falcons took pride in — a comfortable, well-appointed space where guests could sit back and watch a football game in style.
And it was here, in this very lounge, that the family and friends of Dwayne Moi Stone, flown in from Hawaii on a chartered plane sent by the University of Georgia, had taken their seats.
Helping themselves to the complimentary liquor, drinks, and food, they cheered with one heart for Georgia and for Moi's victory.
Into this Delta Sky360° Club walked two men and one woman, dressed to the nines in crisp, immaculate suits.
One thing was certain — they were not people from the Hawaiian islands.
One of the men
caught the attention of the person standing at the front and asked a question.
"Excuse me, but where might the Stones be seated?"
"Where stay?"
"Ah, we're—"
Just as the man was about to introduce himself.
The room suddenly erupted.
"GO!!"
"That's it, Moi!!"
"CHARGE!!"
The one who had held out a palm — a gesture meaning wait a moment — turned his head back toward the suited trio.
Then he asked again.
"Sorry — who did you say you were?"
"Ah, these folks are from Nike."
"Nike?"
"Yes. I'm the general manager in charge of running the Delta Sky360° Club. I greeted the Stones earlier."
…
The man with the serious expression gave a slight nod.
It meant the Stones were somewhere deeper inside.
"Thank you."
After exchanging greetings.
The three of them began to move.
But then.
…
…
Suspicious stares came pouring at them from every direction.
Amid a crowd dressed in loose, season-inappropriate comfort wear,
sharp suits and overcoats stood out unmistakably.
But more than that,
it was the wariness and guarded hostility mixed into those stares that gnawed at them.
The woman murmured to the man beside her.
Wasn't this a little strange?
When the man asked what was strange about it,
the woman said,
"I've seen it in movies."
"Movies?"
"Yes. Whenever the agents in those films sneak into an organization's hideout to meet the boss, they always move through exactly this kind of stares."
"Come on, Kate. That's a bit of a stretch."
"A stretch? Me?"
While the two grumbled lightly behind,
they reached the deepest part of the lounge.
The lounge manager leading them kept walking, and
the two Nike employees — a man and a woman — stopped a short distance back.
In the eyes of the woman called Kate,
the people seated on either side of the table came into view.
They, too, sent a chill down her spine.
The Asian man on the left was wiping something red off his hand with a napkin, and the two large men on the right likewise had something red smeared around their mouths.
In truth, it was nothing but strawberry jam and ketchup.
But to Kate, it looked for all the world like blood.
Three months into her Nike career after graduating from Stanford,
Kate had been raised exclusively in the white upper-crust culture of Beverly Hills, L.A. — and an atmosphere like this was very hard for her to stomach.
And then, once again,
the room erupted.
Because one of Alabama's linebackers had delivered a rather late hit on Dwayne Moi Stone.
"You son of a—!!!"
"He hit him AFTER the throw!!"
"How many times is that?! Did you see that?!"
"Die!! That wasn't a tackle!!"
.
"No! Kill the ref!!"
"Gouge his eyeballs out!!"
The American South burns hot for football.
But Hawaii burns every bit as hot.
Football.
Family.
Faith.
It's a place that lives by those three things.
So the reactions run a little violent, too.
When an uneasy Kate clutched at the hem of her coat, the man chuckled softly and offered a greeting to the man and woman now watching them.
"How do you do. My name is Apollo Knapp."
Apollo Knapp pulled out a business card and handed it to Noah Stone, and the moment Noah received it — without so much as glancing at it — he passed it along to Jessica Stone.
Watching this, Apollo understood immediately.
Who ruled this household.
"The reason we've come to pay our respects is that we've heard about the charitable work the two of you do. We have no other intentions whatsoever. If you'd allow it, we'd like to lend our support to that cause."
He said they had no other intentions.
But that was a bald-faced lie.
Nike had recently caught wind that Adidas was on the verge of offering Dwayne Moi Stone a three-year, $45 million contract.
Nike had planned to price Dwayne Moi Stone's market value after watching Georgia's final game of the season — and their caution had instead nearly cost them a potential asset. A crisis of their own making.
So Nike headquarters had urgently redirected Apollo Knapp, who was already at the SEC Championship on unrelated business, straight here.
The plan: dangle an unscheduled charitable donation as cover, and make sure he couldn't sign with Adidas.
In all business, money comes first.
But sentiment and good faith matter too, don't they?
Jessica Stone thanked him for the unexpected offer.
And at that moment, the room boiled over once more.
"GOOO-!!!"
"TOUCHDOWN-!!!"
.
"Mo—i! Mo—i! Mo—i!"
"Mo—i! Mo—i! Mo—i!"
#14 09 — 23 GEORGIA (1)
#14 07 — 21 ALABAMA (3)
The original plan had been to grind out rushing yards with the Marching Band, but Patrick Surtain's body language looked distracted, so I called a timeout.
I sprinted straight to Coach and
told him we should run Pasta.
Set the wide receivers up in Trips to the right, and if we sent the two in the slot on shallow routes, I said, we could isolate George against Patrick Surtain one-on-one.
When Coach asked for my reasoning,
I told him what I'd seen.
Hands and feet that couldn't stay still.
An unsettled gaze.
Every bit of it pointed to one thing.
Just as receivers grow frustrated and demoralized when they're never targeted and never make a catch all day, cornerbacks break down when they're never even given the chance to make a tackle or an interception.
The emotion that breeds wrecks your focus.
Distraction is its signal.
With the freshly redesigned play after the timeout,
we scored our first touchdown of the second quarter.
"What did I say! What did I say!!"
After bellowing it as I walked back to the sideline,
I threw my arms around Coach, the man who'd believed in me.
"Thank you, Coach."
"Great job. Great job."
"You know I love you, right?"
"Of course. Absolutely."
Back at the bench, I took off my helmet, sat down,
and looked up toward the VIP lounge.
Earlier, Coach Jay Chapman
had told me where my family was sitting.
My parents were looking back our way right now.
Were they watching us on the stadium screen?
Or was everyone just celebrating?
I'd have to ask later.
Podlesny drilled the PAT for one more point, and now we led by three.
Sixty-seven seconds remained.
Plenty of time for either side to score.
But Mac Jones got a little hasty from his own midfield, burning two chances and kicking away the opportunity all by himself.
On the final try he attempted a Hail Mary, but Aziz burrowed into Alabama's O-line at last and landed the game's first Sack.
And that was the half.
I bolted straight for the locker room.
I could see Jamie Erdahl of CBS getting ready for her sideline interview with Coach.
Before Coach walked into the locker room,
I raised my voice first.
"We haven't kicked their asses yet! We have NOT kicked their asses! You hear me?! That means in the second half, they're gonna come flying at us trying to kick OUR asses! To scream NOT TODAY at those gutless bastards — the Changja-pajin Nom — you gotta run your asses off! Everything comes down to the last thirty minutes! We're walking out of here as SEC Champions! We're going to the muthafuckin' Rose Bowl! You got that?!"
That kind of voice is contagious.
One by one, every guy who'd earned the right said his piece.
Only after that was done did Coach step in.
"Everybody, Listen Up!!"
…
"I said it before the game and I'll say it again — I love every single one of you! First quarter, defense? You felt the offense's love out there! Second quarter, offense? You saw how the defense answered for you! That's it! That's what a TEAM is!"
Whooo.
Goosebumps.
Coach is in On Fire mode today too.
His voice is literally on fire.
There's a story in there.
A narrative, in other words.
What began with I love you
flowed into the story of the first half.
Coach spoke again.
"We go out in the second half as a TEAM! They're fighting hard right now, but if we do our job properly with the time that's left! You will absolutely read fear in those boys' eyes! Don't stop until then! We came to Atlanta today to become champions! And we go back to campus as champions! Hands in! On one-two-three — TEAM! ONETWOTHREE!!"
"TEAM!!!"
#14 10 00 — 24 GEORGIA (1)
#14 07 00 — 21 ALABAMA (3)
Alabama's kickoff opens the third quarter.
Which means our offense comes out first.
The ball sails high into the air,
and Kenny tracks the landing point.
For now, we go as planned.
Triiill—!
Triiilllilllill!!
Triiillill!!
Football is a violent, violent sport.
So the refs blow their whistles pretty violently too.
Otherwise they'd never settle us down.
It had nothing to do with what was happening now, but
in any case, the shrill chorus of whistles rang out.
Kenny had quickly signaled for a fair catch.
No need to force anything.
That meant we'd start at the 25.
"LET'S GO-!!"
In the second half we'd keep the broad framework of the plays we used in the first, layering in slight changes and a few extra seasonings.
We were going to lean harder on the Z-receiver.
"Red 80-!! Ready-!! Hut!!"
Jordan, shifted from left to right, and Kitty, lined up on the right side of the O-line, burst off the line as receivers.
It was a play designed on the firm belief that our five O-linemen would hold Alabama's D-line — the three receivers charging in from the right had to suck in the defensive backs.
Meanwhile Jermaine Burton ran his assigned route, pushing about ten yards downfield — and that was my first target.
The pass I fired cut through the air and settled securely into his arms.
First down.
Twelve yards gained.
.
.
After picking up five more yards with a similar concept,
I reached for Hello Kitty to gain some extra.
"Red 80!! Turbo, set!!"
A fake handoff to James Cook.
I wheeled left to face the field head-on,
then looked toward Kitty.
Dylan Moses was glued to him.
Then that's not the answer.
One Mississippi.
Second by second, the opposing D-linemen were launching themselves at me to devour me whole. My eyes flicked left and right at speed, and judging there was simply nowhere to send the ball, I threw it out of bounds toward the sideline.
I'd thrown it like a pass on the off chance, but
it sailed well over George's outstretched hands.
Same spot again.
Second & 10.
A sign came in from the bench,
but I didn't much care for it.
I delivered the called play in the Huddle as instructed, but I planned to adjust at the line with an Audible once I'd read the situation.
The sign was Spider 2-3 X-Corner.
Same as the first half — a play targeting our weak link, Malachi Moore. But before going back to that well, I wanted to try something else, something wildly different, to sow confusion.
More than anything else,
they'd have prepared for it.
Go right ahead and try, if you think you can. That's what he'd be thinking.
Rather than match forces there and hand them a surge of momentum, I wanted to deliberately shun that matchup and break their spirit.
It was a Spider concept with blocking, and
as it happened, I had a different way to attack that fit perfectly.
Play clock: 23 seconds.
I changed the play.
"Drum Left!! Drum Left!!"
The O-linemen glanced back.
They looked briefly flustered, but snapped their focus right back to their own jobs, and I, waiting in the shot gun, clapped my hands twice to lock in the snap timing.
Trey Hill's snap arrived,
and I handed the ball off to Zamir.
Zamir was originally supposed to be the blocker on this play — but now his role had flipped to ball carrier.
Drum.
What comes to mind when you hear that word?
And what is our play called?
That's right.
Drum is the audible signal for the Marching Band.
Left.
The left side.
The left O-linemen would serve as his escort.
The instant the ball was snapped, Zamari and Ben exploded up and sprinted right, and Zamir, taking the handoff, slashed into Alabama's left side and took off.
Nine yards.
A painfully short miss on the first down.
Just one yard to go.
"I-Ace. Z-Light. P14-15 MAN. Z Dagger."
Clap!
The yardage needed was short,
so I went with the most surefire play we had.
I sent Zamir in as a fullback, crashing into the line of scrimmage where bodies were already tangling, and James Cook, taking the handoff, ran his assigned path to grind out the all-important two yards.
First down again.
Starting this drive from our own 25,
we'd marched 23 yards on just four plays.
Not bad.
Not perfect, but.
What mattered was that we held the ball.
Before I knew it, we were at midfield.
Still keeping an eye on Malachi Moore's condition, I watched a flag sail in — toward a spot the ball had never even gone, on what I'd thought was a dead Second & 8.
It was the side close to our sideline,
and George was celebrating with his teammates over there.
Something must've happened over there.
"After review. Holding. Defense. No. 13. Automatic first down."
Defensive holding is called exactly when it sounds like — when a defender unnecessarily grabs an offensive player with his hands.
There's no yardage penalty, but the offense earns a first down from the previous spot of the line of scrimmage.
If defensive holding gets called in a hugely defense-friendly situation like Third & 17, the ball stays where it is but the down is renewed — First & 10.
So right now, too, this should have been Third & 8 — but Malachi Moore's holding made it First & 10.
In the end, Nick Saban had made his move.
He shook up his rotation, massing blitz-capable players at the linebacker spots and swinging Dylan Moses, his MLB, out to cornerback.
Since the man had played every linebacker position since high school, covering corner wasn't exactly a stretch for him.
But.
A stopgap is a stopgap.
I quickly signaled to the bench,
flagging that Alabama was blitzing.
The counter-play came back to me.
Shallow.
The idea was to send a receiver charging straight into the path of the linebackers who'd committed to the blitz — and everything hinged on my throwing timing.
But then.
"Red 80!!"
Huh?
The moment I called the play,
the movement of the opposing linebackers was deeply strange.
The way their heads and hips swiveled left, then right.
It gave me a very clear signal of something.
No blitz coming.
Damn it.
Nick Saban!
You insufferable old coot!
That man was deliberately sending in the blitz personnel, letting us read it — and then planning to choke off the middle the moment we ran Shallow, killing the play.
Which meant, without a doubt,
someone was going to come charging at me.
The D-linemen, obviously.
But there was someone else beyond them.
Who could it be.
…
There.
Found him.
"Thirty's coming!! Thirty, tackle!! Thirty, tackle!!"
After shouting to the O-line that No. 30 was going to charge at me, I quickly lifted my right leg — the signal.
Once.
"Ready-!! Hut!!"
And twice.
Clap!
The snap arrived just before the play clock hit zero, and I ignored the middle of the field entirely, my eyes locked on Jordan streaking in from the right.
One hitch fake, and Dylan Moses was sent tumbling past — and the moment I confirmed it, I whipped my arm and let the pass fly.
Then something crashed over me from behind.
THUD!!
A heavy, grinding pain bloomed in my lower back,
and shot all the way up to the base of my neck.
As I crumpled onto the field, a strange sound — natural, yet somehow not — escaped my mouth.
But I lifted my head right away,
and stared toward where the pass had gone.
There, close by, was Alabama's No. 32.
And behind him, I saw Jordan.
"How in the world did you pull that off?"
"Well, you see…"
When I walked Coach Monken through the whole sequence,
he gave the back of my head a light smack.
He let fly one thoroughly satisfying curse,
and then told me I'd done one hell of a job.
By his standards, that was glowing praise.
Back at the bench, sitting down,
I thought about it.
That was electric.
Genuinely, massively electric.
Not just because we'd scored.
Thirty seconds, give or take?
Whatever it was — in that sliver of time, an enormous battle of wits had raged back and forth.
Nick Saban had deliberately converted Dylan Moses to cornerback, deployed the blitz personnel to make me aware of it, then twisted the trap one layer deeper to seal off every passing lane completely.
Meanwhile, he was counting on No. 30 to sack me — or on some other D-lineman making the play.
And I almost.
Really almost.
fell for it.
If those linebacker boys had been as seasoned as NFL veterans, they'd have hidden even the smallest tells in their body language.
But fortunately, fortune favored me,
and in the end, we put points on the board.
This score was going to ache for Nick Saban.
Which meant it would ache for Alabama too.
Because Nick Saban is Alabama.
But me?
I wanted to tell him: not yet.
I'm in your head, Nick Saban. I'm in your head.
The second half of the SEC Championship.
We had gotten off to one hell of a start.