Rose Bowl (3)

Saying this with every ounce of respect I have.

I never once underestimated an opponent.

Not for a single second — that's never been in me.

This is just me stating a fact.

I simply knew.

From the moment we beat Alabama and carried the SEC's banner deeper into the playoffs, I knew the Rose Bowl was nothing to lose sleep over.

This season, Notre Dame had been forced by COVID to pick a single conference to compete in, and they'd spent the year grinding it out in the ACC.

The ACC has Clemson and North Carolina and Louisville — a respectable neighborhood. But most of its members would have been fighting to stay out of last place if they'd belonged to the SEC.

That's reality. Deniable, maybe. Changeable, never.

Just as the West lives and breathes basketball and the NBA, and the Northeast is stuffed to the rafters with baseball fanatics, the South is a place where people who would die for football huddle together and build their lives around it.

Which is exactly why anyone born and raised in the South who made good goes half-mad over the success of their alma mater or the team they cheer for.

"That's What I'm Fucking Do!!"

"YEAH-!!!"

"That's What I'm Fucking Do!!"

When COVID forced us to play our entire season against nothing but SEC teams, we'd joked about exactly this: winning the league was winning the season, wasn't it?

And honestly, that's how brutal SEC competition really is.

So the Rose Bowl?

It felt, quite literally, like plucking a flower.

That's how little trouble I expected.

The first touchdown, the one I engineered with George, had laid Notre Dame's defensive weakness bare for the whole world to see. The second, the one I built with Jordan, had steamrolled their every attempt to patch it.

And I'm telling you now.

It wasn't over yet.

At least through our eyes, Notre Dame was a team riddled with flaws.

Their secondary had no discernible rules, no consistency — which meant the free safety should have been turned loose to clean up the mess, and instead the head coach smothered every ounce of that creativity.

That was the reason I'd given up on Notre Dame.

Exactly that.

I felt a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠little sorry for Kyle Hamilton.

That kid could be thriving in a far better environment.

Why do I single out one member of Notre Dame's secondary like this? Because his mother is Korean too.

His father played professional basketball in Europe, where he met a young woman who'd left Daegu to study abroad in Greece — and the fruit of that love is the kid out there now.

Naturally, we'd been following each other for ages and traded the occasional DM. Not because we were close — because he was genuinely, seriously good.

And yet none of that talent was being used at all?

As a coach from a past life, it pained me.

If a secondary like that were on a team I was coaching, I'd have planted him at free safety and let him run wild over the backfield, doing whatever he wanted.

Good for us.

A little sad for my friend.

Anyway.

That was that.

Brian Kelly had no idea — not even in his wildest dreams — that once I confirmed where Kyle Hamilton was lined up, I would call an RPO.

RPO. Run-Pass Option.

A concept much like the option package we ran in the red zone, but at its heart it meant one thing: the quarterback judged everything.

Because a constant weave of layered concepts had to be executed at all times, the West Coast system suited us best — and in truth, that was the football we'd played all season long.

"Hello Kitty, Bunch Left. X-Oscar Y-Double. Don't touch my body, I'm in a bad mood, Let's Go!"

Just so you know.

That last part was a play too.

Clap!

If we simply kept doing what we had always done, and played as one team, then I promised you: finding a world line where Notre Dame beat us would be harder than plucking a star out of the sky.

When we finally punched in that fourth touchdown before the half ended, I flexed every muscle in my body and roared, chest out, like a peacock displaying for the whole stadium.

"I told you!! They're our food!!"

I'd only been careful not to say it publicly.

For two straight weeks, I had dripped confidence from every pore. Every time we gathered in twos and threes to talk, I told my teammates we were going to steamroll them.

Back then, of course, even my friends had probably taken it as a figure of speech.

After the first half ended, I walked into the locker room and bellowed.

"They can't even touch our heels!! But you know what?!! They're going to claw their way back in the second half — so save that dream for when you're kicking yourself tomorrow, and let's finish this thing for real!! KILL THEM ALL!!!"

Ah—

God, I love football so much.

Some people think we're just running around, rolling in the mud and falling down. But the truth on the field is a war fought inch by inch, not yard by yard.

Is it purely physical, then?

Hell No!!

Absolutely not.

The linemen who plant themselves against opponents barreling in with monstrous force, and still accomplish their purpose? If you knew how many battles of wits are hidden inside the line of scrimmage, you would never dare say those giants just blindly shove and topple each other.

And the routes?

That is delicacy perfected.

Every receiver, every play, has exactly when, where, and how to move written out step by step — and if you misstep and run one yard short or one yard long, the entire offensive concept collapses.

The running back's world?

Those guys are simply beyond category.

You cannot excel there without focus sharpened to its absolute limit. You have to thread yourself through a gap between defenders hunting a moving target — you, yourself — and be ready at any moment to absorb the hardest hit on the field.

That's why we fight for every single moment.

And why we can't help but brim with energy.

"Steamroll them!!!!"

"LET'S GO-!!!!"

"KILL THEEEM-!!!"

Being a quarterback, I naturally talk about the offense — but in a game flowing like this one, the defense was what truly mattered.

Notre Dame had been ambushed for an entire half. They would have spent halftime preparing their counterattack.

Ian Book is an excellent quarterback, graded as a fairly safe bet to make the NFL next year, and he had one dependable running back and two sharp wide receivers.

Plus his No. 1 and No. 2 tight ends.

Kids who block nearly as well as Darnell.

If you let them build any momentum, they can become a nuisance at any moment — which meant we had to snip the fuse clean off in the very first defensive series of the third quarter.

The head coach had said as much earlier, and the boys knew it too.

Right now, the defense decides.

And soon enough.

Something worth cheering for arrived.

Lewis Cine picked off Ian Book's slightly underthrown pass at midfield and carried it back forty yards.

Our chance came a minute and forty-seven seconds later, and I fully intended to drive the wedge in.

"Listen carefully, Moi. This is the chance to take the enemy's head."

"You were thinking the exact same thing, weren't you, Coach?"

"Of course. You're my quarterback — that's how it has to be."

I thought that remark might make him flare up at me for a second, but instead of teasing him further, I leaned in and listened closely to the shape of the big play we'd run later in the drive.

Well.

Not much difference either way.

We'd decided to run our offense around options today — RPOs, reads, that whole family — and what Coach Monken had briefed me on was mostly analysis of the first half.

Stuff like this always helps.

"Go get 'em."

"Yes, Sir."

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

From there on, we kept putting a complete, comprehensive package of football on display for the fans.

Travon Walker punched straight through Notre Dame's O-line and delivered an absolutely monstrous Sack — so savage that watching it made my balls shrivel up on the spot.

"Oh— That's Cold."

"Was I the only one whose balls just retreated into his stomach?"

"Nope. Same here."

"Damn— that kid's gonna show up in my nightmares."

It stayed that way after too.

No need to even get to the linebackers.

Our D-line was running an unchallenged massacre.

First, Devonte Wyatt snatched Notre Dame's running back without ceremony and planted him into the turf.

Then Jordan Davis — six-foot-six, 330 pounds of living mountain — made it plain to everyone why he'd been named to the All-SEC First Team this year, radiating a presence you could feel through the screen.

At least from where I stood, Ian Book's heart plummeted every time the number 99 flashed into his field of view.

His fire to challenge for a national title was very real, and he scratched and clawed for whatever yards he could — but every single attempt was an ordeal.

Our offense, which had scored the most points, kept ending drives at a blistering pace, while Notre Dame's offense ran plenty of plays and gained almost nothing for it.

And then at last.

Something broke.

Thud!!

Ian Book, hit simultaneously by Jordan and Azeez, crumpled onto the field and didn't get up.

At first there wasn't so much as a twitch — I honestly thought he was dead.

But when they helped him off, he could move a little, at least.

Brian Kelly, Notre Dame's head coach, erupted like a volcano in front of his offensive linemen — and honestly, who could blame him? His quarterback hadn't just taken a sack; he'd gotten hurt on top of it, so of course the fury went straight to them.

"Where you going?"

"To them."

"…Ha!"

Zamir stared at me with an expression of pure disbelief as I walked over to the O-linemen, feeling grateful all over again.

So I flipped him the middle finger, then strolled up to the linemen and said:

"Kamsahamnida, sunsaeng-nim. Kamsahamnida."

Yes — this was, objectively, a deeply rude and cruel thing to do.

It looked exactly like mocking a quarterback who'd just been carted off injured.

I won't claim I had zero intention of that. But using every last thing on the table — that's football.

If that offends you?

Then just watch the pretty parts of the game.

Notre Dame's quarterback had changed to number 10. As far as I knew, that was the kid they'd brought in after failing to land me in recruiting.

Well then. Show me what you've got.

The rose had already been plucked and set out in our front yard.

What remained was chasing off the kids still trying to steal it.

Their faces were already bruised, and something in one of their limbs had gone bad for good. And still they kept trying to trespass on our yard.

While the punt unit set up, I traded a few words with Coach Monken.

"Hey, Coach."

"?"

"If this one works, I'll take the rest of the game off."

"…Ho! You get shot in the head or something?"

"No, sir. My brain's just melted."

"Lunatic."

About eighteen minutes remained, fourth quarter included. If we scored here, it'd be 35 to 7.

Football is a game where you can never see one step ahead, sure. But with a 28-point lead and only a fourth quarter left to play, a team should be able to coast home on the backup quarterback alone.

"The records don't matter to me."

"No regrets?"

"Regrets? What's that? Something you eat?"

"Bullshit. Then take responsibility for your own words and get out there."

As Coach Monken pounded ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my back without mercy, I turned around, broke into a wide grin, and flipped my helmet on.

And beyond that, I looked at — well, you know.

My maternal grandmother's friends, whose enthusiasm had gone so far past "ecstatic" that they looked like they'd bought front-row tickets to a heavy metal concert.

My grandmother herself, on the other hand, was surprisingly calm.

She seemed to have her hands folded in prayer.

Of course.

I suppose it's different when your grandson is the quarterback?

I felt good right now.

I could feel my family's love, brimming and warm.

Once more, with every shred of respect I possess.

I never once underestimated Notre Dame.

But I knew this would happen.

I shoved off the tackler draped over my back and let him drop to the turf, then took Peter's hand to pull myself up — and hammered his helmet for all it was worth.

"I told you!!!

Yeah.

We had won.

Thirty-eight seconds still hung in the third quarter, and a whole fourth quarter stretched out beyond it — but the team walking out of this Rose Bowl and into the National Championship was us.

Even now, I'd fired that deep pass away from Kyle Hamilton's position, and a 36-yard touchdown had closed out my day.

"SIX!! You hear me?! SIX!!"

Scrambling out past the sideline, I trailed Coach Monken like a duckling and asked him, over and over, whether he had ever — in all his years coaching quarterbacks — produced one who threw six touchdown passes in a single game.

He refused to answer right up to the end.

In the end, I won.

"FUCK!! Fine!! You're the first!!"

"Was that really so hard to say?"

"I! HATE! YOU!"

"Nope— you love me way too much."

When I swept him into a hug with a beaming grin, the coach finally let his true feelings show.

"You're a lunatic, for real. In the best possible way."

"Yes, sir— I think so too."

Say it with me once more.

The Rose Bowl is over.

The rose and the trophy both belong to us.

And we move on to the next.

What, you ask?

The National Championship.

The instant the final whistle blew, I stepped onto the field without any fanfare.

Because it had been an expected victory, obviously.

We are a team that is required to do at least this much.

The Rose Bowl Notre Dame's fans had hoped for. It ended in a blowout, one-sided from start to finish.

And no, I am not going to apologize for that.

I'll just say this:

Sucks, doesn't it?

Sucker~~~~

This part of me.

It's simply my nature. Nothing to be done.

.

.