My Mood Just Keeps Getting Better

#. January 4, 2021

#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA

#-2. Lenox Square

After the Rose Bowl ended, the congratulatory messages rolled in, as they always did, from a great many people.

And among them were a few I hadn't expected.

Specifically, things like this.

"The Armani is pretty, but the color is all wrong. Don't you think?"

"You could honestly just grab anything and it'd be fine."

"NO! Absolutely not. No way."

"...What about your boyfriend? Are you sure this is okay?"

I'd asked the same question several times by now, and Emmaline absolutely refused to answer it.

Had they fought?

Had they broken up?

Could she at least settle that much for me?

Anyway. Two days later, in a meeting room at Butts-Mehre, I would be attending the Heisman Trophy ceremony broadcast by ESPN.

Normally the four finalists are invited to New York for a grand, glitzy awards show, but as everyone knows, this year COVID meant it would be replaced by a remote broadcast.

Still, it was the biggest ceremony in college football, and a request came down that we were to wear formal attire.

My original plan was to just swap the shirt and tie on one of the suits I traveled with, but Emmaline insisted she absolutely had to gift me an outfit and came all the way to Athens to pick me up.

"Hugo Boss. Let's go in here. Looks good, right?"

A choice in the matter.

Was never on the table to begin with, was it?

I could tell she was trying just a little too hard to act brighter than usual, so I couldn't bring myself to say I hated it.

I wasn't in love with her.

But I did like her.

"Oh, my goodness."

"Hi."

Come to think of it, I hadn't actually been shopping since my dates with Alexi.

Everything I needed day to day was provided by the school, and whenever something extra came up, I'd text the person in charge of that sort of thing and the item would arrive within forty-eight hours at the latest.

My clothes were always athletic wear.

I'd been wearing the same shoes for two years running.

The reason I'm bringing this up now is that every single time we walked into a store, the reaction was identical.

People inside would do a double-take first, and then

they'd ask almost exactly the same question.

"It's you, isn't it? The guy I keep thinking you are?"

"Probably not?"

"Oh—my goodness. I'm a huge fan. My dad roots for the Falcons, and he said if he could ever bring you onto the team he'd dance naked in the middle of the square."

"Haha. Would it be all right if we looked around?"

"Of course, of course. Is that lady with you?"

"Yep. She's a good friend of mine."

The rest of the script went roughly the same way too.

The girlfriend question, in their eyes.

I didn't bother reacting to that part.

"Hey! Come here a second!"

"Excuse me—my friend's calling."

"Take all the time you need!"

"No photos, please."

"Then how about an autograph?"

"I'll sign something for you in a bit!"

When I got to where Emmaline was, she shoved a garment at me out of nowhere.

Then she studied it intently for a long while before holding up what she'd been gripping in her other hand.

"Aren't these two the same?"

"No. The fabric's different."

"...."

"I like this one better. Gonna wear it to the ceremony?"

Having settled on the one she liked, Emmaline turned to the attendant beside her and asked for a white shirt to go with it as well.

Black trousers and a jacket.

A white shirt.

And a red tie.

Shopping with Emmaline, who apparently intended to dress me head to toe in Georgia's team colors, dragged on for well over two hours.

I'd learned this in my past life too, but.

Shopping with a woman is exhausting.

Alone, I could have covered three hours' worth of ground.

We sat down at a Southeast Asian restaurant inside Lenox Square, ordered our food, and picked the conversation back up.

Emmaline kept trying to talk around it.

This time, I was the one who wouldn't let it go.

Eventually.

"We broke up."

"When?"

"Two weeks ago."

There it was.

Right on schedule.

And the reason she was treating me like this right now was, in all likelihood—

"That must have been really hard."

"...."

A single tear rolled down Emmaline's cheek.

I held out a tissue to her.

Then I sat there in silence for a long while.

Because what women like her need.

Is patience, and more patience.

After a long stretch, Emmaline smiled.

"Whew—thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"You're a really good person."

"...Yeah."

I could feel this one coming, too.

That today would be the last time we saw each other.

Ours was a relationship built on physical curiosity and indulgence, but I couldn't claim neither of us felt anything for the other.

Emmaline felt it too.

And that's why she was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ending it.

If we started dating, we'd actually make a pretty good-looking couple—but if you thought about the futures each of us was sketching out, cracks would form between us in no time and it would shatter just as fast.

Unlike Alexi, she was a mature girl.

She'd probably thought that far ahead as well.

"Take care."

"Yeah. You too."

Instead of driving me back herself, Emmaline called an Uber and left.

In my hands now were the clothes we'd bought at Hugo Boss. I actually caught myself debating whether to toss the whole thing into a trash can for a moment, but decided that wasn't right and carried them with me.

We had both been faithful to each other for the time we shared, after all.

At the very least, she had been someone who meant something to me.

Beep— beep—

"You called an Uber— WHOA!!"

"To Athens, right?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, sir! You're—"

"Yup! It's Me."

Yeah, that's me.

The guy who just got dumped.

Since we'd never been anything serious, calling it a breakup felt a little awkward, but the relationship had been formally terminated, so I figured the word applied.

On the ride back to Athens, the Uber driver's mouth never stopped.

"That 'Mac Jones Who?' thing was just insane. Ever since then I've watched every single one of your games live, and how in the world do you DO that? You're only a true freshman! Oh, don't get me wrong, that's a good thing, I mean you're amazing. And then at the bowl game the other day—"

The driver's voice stopped registering altogether.

Hmm.

I guess I liked her more than I'd realized.

But I knew that the best thing two people could do for each other was wish happiness into each other's futures.

Goodbye.

I hope you're happy.

#. January 6, 2020

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall

When I walked into Butts-Mehre right on schedule, I broke into an involuntary laugh.

Why?

"What on earth are you all doing here?"

"Doing here? Waiting for you, obviously."

"Seriously?"

"Man—we're here to keep you company so you won't get lonely. You should be thanking us."

The Heisman Trophy is the dream of every football player in the country at the college level and below, but the ceremony itself runs on the dull side.

Football players nodding off right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in front of the camera have been caught on screen more than a few times over the years, and this year's setup made the boredom that much harder to endure.

So naturally I'd assumed my friends would watch on TV at home or just check the results afterward.

And yet.

Apparently not?

Zamir and George along with most of the offensive unit, plus the defensive guys like Aziz and Lewis, were all there waiting for me.

Every one of them in a proper suit.

Faces I knew well.

"But that fit? I've never seen that one before."

"Yep—decided to flex a little."

"Where's it from?"

"Hugo Boss."

"Damn—okay, that's hard as hell, for real."

"See this? Red, black, and white. Nailed the color scheme straight off the team palette."

"Do a spin! Mmm!"

Honestly, my mood had been just so-so until a moment ago.

Right now, it had improved enormously.

We even danced in the lobby.

"Hey!!"

Coach Monken's bellow echoed from the far end of the hall, and the snickering lot of us stopped dancing and headed for the meeting room.

Presumably.

It would be the same setup as an interview.

...Yep.

That's pretty much it.

The only difference was a larger monitor than usual; everything else was exactly the same, which suited me fine.

The one we hadn't met before had to be from ESPN.

"Hello! I'm Gina."

"Hello, Gina."

"Wow. You've got quite a lot of friends here."

"We're a team. These are teammates I'm proud of."

No idea what the other side was doing.

Were they alone?

Or like me?

Alabama had two finalists in Mac Jones and DeVonta Smith, so it felt a bit awkward for either one to show up with a crowd.

"The broadcast starts in thirty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Nothing complicated—just relax while you wait, and we'll do a sound check later. The questions coming through the monitor will be slightly delayed, so just count two seconds in your head before you answer."

"Two seconds. Got it."

"Great, then."

Not long after the red-haired woman who'd introduced herself as Gina stepped away, school officials began filing in.

The university president, among others.

Each of them came over to greet me.

Then they gathered in the deepest corner of the room, well beyond the camera's reach, and chatted among themselves, smiles all around.

They seemed to consider the award a foregone conclusion.

Well.

So did I.

If I won this time, I would become only the third Heisman Trophy winner in University of Georgia history.

The first was Frank Sinkwich, the greatest fullback of the 1940s—born in Yugoslavia, he lived nearly his whole life in the United States and passed away in Athens.

He was someone deeply special to our Georgia Bulldogs, and traces of him could be felt all across campus.

And the second was Herschel Walker.

A running back, him too.

As a quarterback, I would be the very first.

Which was probably why everyone seemed even more worked up than usual.

The Heisman.

I'd told myself I absolutely had to win it.

Achieving it in my freshman season made me happy.

When I'd left the dorm earlier, I'd already put a check mark next to that goal.

All that remained was beating Ohio State to claim the National Championship, and once I'd completed the goals I'd set before the season at 100%, I planned to start sketching out next year's right away.

And then.

"Huh?"

The O-linemen, who hadn't been there a moment ago, burst in as a group, produced some gaudy, tacky crown from who knows where, and set it down right in front of me.

Going by taste, I'd have guessed Peter.

But the expressions pointed at Justin.

"Justin. This is you, isn't it?"

"Man—you're about to win the Heisman, the least you can do is wear a crown for it. Isn't this awesome? I dropped a whole eighty bucks on it."

"What?! On this piece of garbage?!"

"Dude! Garbage?!!"

"Bullshit. What were the rest of you doing while he bought this?"

The guys who'd just cracked up laughing had clearly known this crown was garbage from the second they laid eyes on it.

If it had cost five dollars, or even twenty at most, they'd have roasted it on the spot—but at an ambiguous eighty bucks, they'd obviously decided to keep praising its magnificence until I chewed them out.

Justin.

Oh—my goodness, Justin.

The fact that you're the one protecting me.

I genuinely can't believe it.

"Pfft-hahaha. He says this thing cost eighty dollars."

"Kk—! Pfft-hahaha!"

Justin kicked Ben's rear end as Ben snorted with laughter, then reached out to take the crown back.

How dare he.

Taking back something he'd given me.

"Give it! Fuck! You said you hated it?"

"Did I? I like it."

"You JUST called it garbage!!"

"I did at first, but I thought it over and changed my mind."

"...Seriously?"

"Yep."

What a blessing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was, having the chance to broadcast Justin Shaffer's trash-tier taste to the entire Heisman Trophy broadcast.

Whoever she is, from now on, every time his girlfriend or future wife stops him from picking something out for his boyfriend—or husband—self, he'll remember today.

Isn't that worth something on its own?

"...You're dead!"

"Hey, hey! This is Hugo Boss!"

"Hugo Boss my ass!"

If this rowdy scene was the true face of the SEC and Rose Bowl champions, would people actually be disappointed?

Having narrowly defended my crown, I tidied up my outfit and hair with Gina's help.

And then.

"Uh-oh!! A gem fell off!!"

"...JUSTIN!!"

"What?! How is that MY fault?!"

"Are you serious?! You paid eighty bucks for THIS?!"

"Kiss my ass!!"

"I'm telling you it already fell apart!!"

"HEY—!! You brats!! Act with a little class!!"

Coach Monken's wrath came crashing down again.

Justin and I exchanged silent grins and flipped each other the middle finger, which soon escalated to both hands.

"Ugh— delinquents, every one of you."

"Pfft. Pfft-hahaha."

The adults with aching heads, and the teammates having the time of their lives.

Watching us, Gina offered her verdict:

"Wow. You guys are REALLY close, huh."

Which was met with a simultaneous:

"WHERE exactly, do you think?!!"

Still, before anyone knew it, the clock ran down to ten minutes before the broadcast, and when the big additional monitor switched on, I beamed and waved both arms with everything I had.

"Dad!! Mom!!"

My family from Hawaii, gathered on the screen.

My mood keeps getting better and better.

#. Same moment

#-1. New York / New Jersey, USA

Roughly two years earlier, ownership of the NFL's twenty-ninth franchise, the Carolina Panthers, had changed hands.

David Tepper.

He was ranked among the most successful hedge fund managers in America, praised for his astonishing investing acumen, but his track record as an NFL owner had been decidedly unimpressive.

For one, he meddled so relentlessly in team operations that his relationship with the general manager had soured completely.

The GM had tried to placate Tepper, who understood next to nothing about running a football team, but Tepper—a man who had built his entire fortune on High Risk, High Return—refused to bend an inch.

The decisive collision between the two came over the firing of Ron Rivera, the head coach who had delivered an NFC Championship, and the original GM ended up dismissed as well.

Currently, a man named Scott Fitterer, out of the Seattle Seahawks, sat in the GM's chair.

"...."

David Tepper had settled on Scott Fitterer as general manager precisely because he was an opportunist devoted to nothing but his own advancement.

Hand him a suitable reward, and.

He was a man who would do anything.

To run the team exactly as he pleased, seize the Super Bowl, and use it to slap down the people calling him a "football ignoramus"—that was David Tepper's goal.

Unable to wait another second for a reply, the Panthers' owner set his fingers moving busily across the screen again.

Protect me.

He had no intention of doing any such thing, in truth.

Even if Scott Fitterer did manage to engineer the conditions to draft Dwayne Moi Stone exactly as Tepper wished, someone would have to be sacrificed to appease the fury of the fans.

And the two men in the best position for that were the general manager and the head coach—the most effective way for an owner to calm the public was to fire one of them.

"Phew—"

David Tepper rose from his seat, walked to the minibar in his study, and pulled out a beer.

What lingered in his mind at that moment.

Was the award scene from moments before.

It was a landscape unmistakably different from the screens showing the other finalists who'd drunk the bitter cup—nearly thirty players had gathered at the venue to celebrate alongside Dwayne Moi Stone.

'If he were just an ordinary teammate, they couldn't have done that.'

Even comparing him only to Trevor Lawrence, a fellow finalist, and Alabama's two candidates, the space around Dwayne Moi Stone was conspicuously, unmistakably lively.

For a professional athlete, raw ability comes first—but a quarterback needs far more than that.

For example.

A warm and magnetic personality.

We call that leadership.

And the Panthers' owner was utterly enchanted by it.