Rose Bowl (1)

#. December 28, 2020

#-1. Notre Dame, Indiana, USA

#-2. University of Notre Dame

#-3. The Fighting Irish

Notre Dame had stormed through the season undefeated, riding a perfect 10-0 record. Then, on the 19th, they suffered their first loss.

ACC Championship Game. 10:37 on the clock.

"Let's go!!"

"Faster!!"

"Push it!!"

The pride of a team that had expected to enter a bowl game as conference champions was cracked wide open. Even accounting for the absence of their second wide receiver, Javon McKinley, the offense Notre Dame had shown in the ACC title game was flat-out miserable.

It looked even worse when you considered that Ian Book — regarded, alongside Trevor Lawrence, as the best quarterback in the ACC — had still completed 71.4 percent of his passes (20 of 28).

The one silver lining was that McKinley would be available for the bowl game, though no one could promise he'd be at a hundred percent.

Not against Georgia's defense.

A very hard game was expected.

Brian Kelly, Notre Dame's head coach, walked over to wide receivers coach Del Alexander and posed a question.

"How's Michael looking?"

"Mm. Better than last time."

"He'd better be. Last game was pure dogshit."

"His pride took a beating, too."

12 personnel. Pro-style spread. Wide zone, basic bread-and-butter runs.

Tactical terms like these were the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠very signature of Brian Kelly as a coach, and for years they had been the reason Notre Dame could stand among the powers of the ACC.

But for them to work —

The weapons had to be in fighting shape.

They hadn't been in the ACC Championship, which was why Brian Kelly hoped that in the coming Rose Bowl, his offense would return to its early-season form and start putting points on the board.

And there was one more worry.

The team's left tackle.

Notre Dame's starting quarterback Ian Book possessed superb leadership and solid all-around ability, but his windup was far too long and his shoulder was less than ideal, which robbed his passes of velocity. He also had a deep-seated tendency to stay planted inside the pocket, which meant his protection — the condition and play of his tackle — directly determined the quality of his game.

Fortunately, Notre Dame had a good left tackle.

"Liam!!"

Liam Eichenberg. A senior bound for the NFL next year.

He was currently projected as one of the candidates to come off the board somewhere in the second or third round, and he'd been coached by the same men who developed Quinton Nelson and Ronnie Stanley — the finest offensive linemen college football had produced.

He was a serviceable tackle both as a pass protector and a run blocker, though the accuracy of his punch left something to be desired.

"You have to keep Ian perfectly protected out there."

"Yes, Sir."

Georgia's pass rusher Azeez Ojulari was an NCAA elite-level linebacker, so the quality of Notre Dame's offense could hinge entirely on how well Liam Eichenberg held up in protection.

Moving calmly around the practice field and pointing out the critical details, Brian Kelly eventually walked over to where the defense was working.

In a sense, it mattered even more than the offense.

Because they had to contain Georgia's attack.

Or, to put it precisely —

They had to contain Dwayne Moi Stone.

To that end, he took his place beside Mike Elston, his right-hand man who oversaw the defense as a whole.

"I'm still not confident in our blitzes."

"Whew. It's not an easy call to make."

"Any bright ideas?"

"Nothing yet, honestly."

"Damn it. Being pushed around by a freshman quarterback."

"...Still kicking yourself over letting him slip away?"

"Yeah. There's never been a single moment when I didn't."

Notre Dame had wanted Dwayne Moi Stone, too.

And after watching him play this season —

Missing out on him had become all the more painful.

"That kid's taking home the Heisman."

"Then we'd better scatter ash on his palanquin before it leaves."

"I'd like nothing more, Mike."

Christmas week had ended and bowl week had arrived. The time left to prepare was down to barely 72 hours.

It felt terribly short to Brian Kelly.

Notre Dame's head coach was under strain.

"Hoo—"

#. Same Time

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. House of Payne

Since the game fell on Friday, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was Monday afternoon but we were already in creativity mode. The quarterback group and the offensive coordinating group had gathered around a pile of whiteboards, play sheets, and tablets, tossing ideas back and forth freely.

Despite the Christmas holiday, we hadn't spent it idling — Notre Dame's tendencies were already fully mapped out in my head.

"Notre Dame's front four isn't all that good."

I was currently talking through our rushing options built around the Marching Band concept. Notre Dame ran a 4-3, and the four D-linemen up front had underwhelmed relative to their reputations all season.

When we drew up a 1-1, 1-2, or 2-1 pull, it seemed like it would work well to shift one of the left or right O-linemen to the opposite side and build the rushing attack off that.

"The play's name is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

"That's actually fun."

"Right? I spent two hours a day just on the name."

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

A tactic named after the Christmas carol we all knew by heart — I was Santa Claus, the quarterback, and the five O-linemen out front were my reindeer. When I called the play and shouted a specific jersey number, that guy would take off in the opposite direction and handle the run blocking.

Coach Monken responded positively on the spot and promptly called the O-linemen over.

And I explained it again in front of the guys.

Trey reacted like this:

"Did you just call us Rudolph?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You know the reindeer pulling the sled get whipped, right?"

"Fuck. Trey. Are you serious?"

Leave it to my Black friends to slam their own self-destruct button with race jokes at the drop of a hat. Watching Trey Hill snicker while the others egged him on, I found myself in desperate need of backup.

So I looked at Peter.

He was white, after all.

"I heard there used to be white slaves, too."

"Peter! Not you too!"

"Well, look at that — turns out our boss here is one-quarter Samoan, three-quarters Korean."

"Kkkkk. That kills me."

"FUCK!! Just die, all of you. I hate every single one of you."

"Kekeke. It's a joke, it's a joke."

Once the round of joking had run its course —

The guys locked in for real.

"So we're going with whatever jersey number you call out?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm—"

"What? Something wrong with that?"

"No, it's just... they'll figure it out eventually."

"Then you got a better idea?"

"Let's think on it."

With the foundation of our basic rushing scheme laid out —

Now it was time to actually practice it.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was a tactic that defined blocking assignments, so it could be mixed with our existing rushing plays, and it got a good reception.

After a few reps to get our timing down, by afternoon —

We'd move on to the advanced stuff with the coaches.

"What do you do if they blitz?"

"I'll check into a screen pass."

"How are you calling it?"

"Buzz call. I send the jet sweep so the running back flies to the other side — that might make them abandon the blitz altogether. And if they don't, I'll take off with the ball myself."

"Good. Don't overdo it, though."

"Yes, Sir."

For quite a while after that, the process continued — breaking down Notre Dame's full arsenal and building the schemes we'd use against it.

I took notes on practically everything that came out of the meetings.

I planned to review them back at the dorm later.

Before I knew it, it was time for dinner. I headed to the dining hall with the other quarterbacks.

"From what I saw earlier, their right side of the defense is weak."

"Shiiit. Guess this big brother's gotta go rip it open again."

"For real, G. You can absolutely do it."

Even over dinner, the topic at the table never strayed from Friday's Rose Bowl.

Everyone knew how much the remaining games mattered.

We'd come this far, after all.

The mood was: we're winning the whole damn thing.

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

Parting ways with the guys, I wound my scarf snugly around my neck, slipped my hands into my pockets, and started walking toward the dorm.

Ah.

And —

I'd been hearing a lot of news from Hawaii lately.

Loto had given up on football.

He'd been cut from an NCAA D1 program before the year even started, then took one more shot at the NAIA D1 level — and got cut there too, at which point he decided to choose a different path.

Word was he'd decided to become a chef. I honestly had no idea he was even interested in cooking.

Meanwhile, Marcus — granted an extra year at Kahuku thanks to the COVID eligibility rules — had committed to an NAIA D1 school, Western Montana.

The funny thing was, their team name was also the Bulldogs.

That guy, relentlessly copying me as always.

Anyway.

Setting aside the Huamatu crowd, the kids who'd graduated from Kahuku and gone on to college were mostly doing well for themselves.

Kana'i, standing tall as a starter at USC. Mikah, Samson, and Mykah were all playing well too.

Click.

"Hoo— this is the life."

The moment I walked into the dorm, I peeled off my socks and tossed them in the laundry basket, changed clothes, and came out to the living room. Then I plopped down on the couch in front of me.

Tablet and notebook in view.

Such is the daily routine of a quarterback.

"...."

I reviewed Notre Dame's defensive movements, then copied them out into my notebook, and searched for plays to match.

At first the drawings came out a little vague, but the more I repeated them, the more concrete lines and points took shape.

This one's pretty good.

Better send it right away.

Click.

Whenever one of the ideas I'd jotted in the notebook looked promising, I'd snap a photo and send it to Coach Monken, and quite a few of our offensive schemes had actually been built off those snapshots.

Ding—

"Haha."

This man really does dote on me, doesn't he? Smiling, I set my phone down and watched more Notre Dame film for a while.

The night deepened bit by bit.

Only when my eyes started to sting did I finally stop watching.

"Hah—"

Time to sleep.

Another deeply fulfilling day.

#. December 30, 2020

#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA

#-2. Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

The bus we'd ridden in from Athens dropped us off at one edge of the airport tarmac.

Beeeep—

"Go smash 'em out there."

"Yes, Sir."

After a light fist bump with the bus driver, I grabbed my bag off the bus and, before the wind could torment me any further, hurried up the stairs and boarded the charter plane.

Wednesday morning.

We were departing for Texas.

Our destination: Arlington.

A city nestled between Dallas and Fort Worth.

When Grandma hadn't come to the SEC Championship, honestly, I hadn't been all that disappointed.

After my mom extended the invitation, Grandma had said she'd get back to me separately — and then sent me a message that read: 'We'll be seeing each other at the bowl game anyway. What's the point?'

My grandmother, a die-hard Dallas Cowboys fan, had the entire college football schedule memorized.

And that message actually made me happy.

Because it meant she believed I'd win.

Ding—

Arlington, Texas was colder than Georgia.

Game day was forecast at 2 degrees Celsius, from what I'd seen. The friends who kept asking about it would soon find out how I handled the cold — but like I've said before, I hate the cold; that doesn't mean the cold makes me any worse at football.

A little chill is going to stop me?

Not a chance.

"Here, take this."

"Thanks."

Want to know the best part of boarding a charter plane every time?

These snacks.

The team's charter was operated by Delta, and the flight crews stocked us up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with mountains of snacks like this on every road trip.

Everyone loved this moment, not just me.

It felt exactly like Halloween.

"I didn't get Reeses."

"I've got one. Want it?"

"Oh— wanna trade for something I have?"

"You got Werther's Original?"

After spending a while trading favorite snacks with the guys seated around me, I pulled my headset over my ears and put on some music.

Planning to listen until takeoff, and nothing more.

Then I picked up my phone.

"Damn—!"

"What?"

I felt someone's presence above my head. I pulled off the headset and looked up.

Jordan.

"How many followers do you even have?"

"1.38 million."

"Damn— that's insane."

"I barely post anything."

"Forget the posts — with 1.38 million, you're gonna be raking in an absolute fortune from ads before long."

Probably, yeah.

The offers were already pouring in.

For reference, Trevor's Twitter follower count was around 600,000, and Patrick Mahomes sat at 2.3 million.

"You getting DMs from gorgeous girls too?"

"That'd be you?"

"Shiiiit. I haven't even cracked 50k yet."

Jordan stared bleakly at his own phone screen, then sank out of sight below the seat, and I put my headset back on.

Then I checked my DMs.

There was a girl I'd been chatting with for a few days.

Her name was Mimi Keene, a girl living in London, England, who'd reached out first saying she was a fan.

At first I'd wondered why a British girl would be into American football at all, but when I took a look at her Instagram, she had quite a few posts related to me.

From what I could tell, she'd gotten interested in football because of me, and there was even a post saying she wanted to watch an NFL game in person once the COVID situation cleared up.

Her photos were pretty, and I liked them.

So we'd just... kept exchanging DMs.

Before long, the cabin was settled, and the plane's wheels began to roll slowly forward.

The flight time showed on the screen ahead.

About two hours.

If I kept myself busy with something else, we'd be there before I knew it.

"I really hate takeoff."

"You know exactly what that is."

"Goddamn it. I break out in a cold sweat."

"Hold my hand?"

"Fuck off. You're giving me goosebumps."

"Kekekeke."

Leaving Georgia for Texas.

The next leg of our bowl-game journey took us to a city widely known as an oil town — and famous for having the finest sports infrastructure in America: Arlington.