Only a Quarterback Can Do It
#. January 8, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. House of Payne
Winning the Heisman Trophy hadn't really changed my life in the real world — but in the internet sphere, which had only grown more active because of COVID, it was another story entirely.
My social media following had swelled to nearly 1.5 million, and dozens of endorsement offers were flooding into Steinberg S&E, the agency I'd signed my NIL representation deal with.
The school, meanwhile, was fielding interview requests from all over the country, and I found myself signing fifty-odd footballs every single day.
Still, none of it quite felt real to me — until Leigh Steinberg, my agent, put it this way:
"Right now, at least in the American South, you're probably more popular than Michael Jackson?"
That felt really good.
Ah. And one more thing.
"How does it feel, being called Moi Football?"
"Honestly? I'm not a fan."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah. It's just Johnny Manziel's nickname slapped onto me. But since people seem to love calling me that, I'm not going to complain about it."
"Right — fair enough, that's what matters."
People had started calling me Moi Football.
But like I said, it's not a nickname I'm fond of.
Still, as long as it makes money…
I figured I might as well enjoy it.
Loosening up ahead of indoor field practice, I kept the conversation going with Austin.
For the record, Austin Kirksley is a quarterback like me — he played at Nevada last year and transferred to Georgia this season to help out with training.
"You hear about this?"
"About what?"
"The school made ninety million dollars off your Heisman win. In publicity value, supposedly. Saw it online."
"I read that too. They should give me at least one percent."
"Right?!"
Truthfully, the school had raked in far more than that.
Foundation fundraising had already hit $800 million, and by the time spring semester wrapped up, it might top $1.5 billion. Not that any of that economic benefit trickles down to me.
Instead—
"What percentage are you getting?"
"Two percent. And ten percent of that goes to the agency."
"Steinberg's shop? Mahomes's?"
"Yup."
"Damn. You're rich now."
"I'll be making way more soon."
"Make me your manager someday, yeah?"
"I've seen how you work."
"That's a promise. Right now. Say it."
Two percent of the money the school earns from jersey sales between January 1st of this year and the end of next spring semester goes straight into my bank account.
And assuming the world returns to some semblance of normal, the agency projected my annual earnings at around $2.8 to $3 million.
Not bad.
No — actually, I loved it.
Because this was money being made in the first era after the age when the NCAA and the universities alone got fat off everyone else's labor finally came to an end.
"Let's go."
"Yeah."
Watching Coach Monken heading off on his own, Austin and I jogged after him.
Now the real training begins.
And let me say it again — my life in the real world hasn't changed much.
Studying.
Training.
Family.
Hustle & Grindin'
Johnny Manziel and I — the first-ever redshirt freshman to win the Heisman Trophy — are nothing alike.
Manziel took the money from selling his autograph, partied his way across the country, cozied up to celebrities, drowned himself in booze and pills, and skipped practice.
But me?
I'm still locked in on football.
"Still remember the Heisman?"
"Give it two days and it's ancient history, sir."
"Love it. You'd better work hard. Otherwise you're getting your ass kicked."
"My ass doesn't catch fire, sir."
"Good. Let's start."
"Yes, Sir."
If my dream were merely success — fame, money, the comfortable life — I might have come apart a little by now.
But my dream is still way off in the distance.
And I've still got a long, long way to go to reach it.
"Ready—!! Hut!!"
A football slicing through the air under the indoor lights.
It's the sight I love most in all the world.
Claimed. ✅
Thank You CNN!! 🏈👑
#. January 9, 2021
#-1. Columbus, Ohio, USA
#-2. Ohio State University
#-3. Woody Hayes Athletic Center
With eight national championship titles to its name, Ohio State is a traditional powerhouse of the Big Ten Conference.
They'd opened the season ranked No. 6 in the AP Poll, won all six of their games — including the Big Ten Championship against Northwestern — and earned the conference's automatic bid to a New Year's Day Sugar Bowl.
In that game, Ohio State rolled to a 49–28 victory, and now they were deep in final preparations for the National Championship.
"Just one more win."
"That's the hard one."
"Haha. Fair point."
"I'm doing my best to keep the pressure off the boys. I want them out there on the field actually enjoying themselves."
"Ooh, I like that approach."
Ryan Day, the 24th head coach of Ohio State football, following in Urban Meyer's footsteps.
And he liked the woman beside him very much.
Christina M. Johnson.
President of the university since last year.
Upright, wise, and — crucially — willing to bend her own stubbornness when it counted, she'd won over the hearts of Ohio State's professors, whose likelihood of renewing their contracts had been plummeting before her arrival.
Ryan Day was one of those people, too.
"Anything else you need from us?"
"We're covered."
Once Christina M. Johnson, fresh off her phone call, excused herself from the office, a cluster of men filed into Ryan Day's office.
The team's coaches.
"Alright then — let's get right into it."
The men of Ohio State football were overflowing with fire.
They'd believed they were underrated from the very start of the season, and above all, they hated that people had taken to calling them "Mini-Alabama."
Even now, the prevailing opinion online was that Georgia — the team that had beaten Alabama twice — would casually steamroll a "Mini-Alabama" without breaking a sweat.
But if they won in two days' time?
They could flip that narrative on its head.
They acknowledged it would be difficult.
And that was precisely why they could stay cold-blooded about it.
"You can't suddenly manufacture consistency in a week."
"Hammering them hard is the answer."
"That's my read too."
"Defense first. That's where we start."
Only two days left until the game.
Which meant the tactical preparation was essentially finished.
All that remained was getting the players' heads right on game day — and that had been Ohio State's Achilles' heel all season.
At times during the season, Ohio State had looked like a team perfectly capable of taking down even Georgia; then, after halftime, they'd turn into a Jekyll & Hyde act and put on displays of football that were flat-out miserable.
Their game against Indiana last November 21st was the textbook example: up 35–7 early in the third quarter, they let the Hoosiers claw back within seven.
That exact problem was why some fans argued Ohio State didn't deserve to represent the Big Ten at all.
Hence the obsession with consistency and defense.
Fortunately, though, Ohio State had a quarterback they could trust in Justin Fields — and the spears he wielded, two running backs and two wide receivers, were all among the very best in the nation.
Afternoon practice, after the meeting.
Ryan Day's gaze shifted to the defense.
The secondary was a known weak point — admitted internally as well as publicly — and the only way to compensate for it was to pressure Georgia's quarterback.
Pass rush.
Blitz.
The plan was to disrupt Dwayne Moi Stone before his passes ever reached his receivers — bury him in pressure and drag down the quality of the entire game.
Given that Georgia's offensive line was the best in the country, staffed with elite run blockers, and even their tight ends could stone people at the point of attack… it promised to be far harder than it sounded.
But still.
They had no choice.
Because this was the National Championship.
They only had to do it once.
"Good adjustment, Tyler. Push it further."
Ryan Day was pouring everything he had into the defensive design.
The consistency he craved would be decided — by the defense.
#. 7:37 PM
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607
Click.
"Brrr— it's cold."
Winter was digging in deeper by the day.
That morning, the temperature had dipped below freezing for the first time — minus one degree.
Which was exactly why I was delighted the National Championship was being played in Miami.
【"Have you eaten?"】
"Yes, Mom."
These days, Mom had taken to propping her phone up on the prep counter of the restaurant kitchen while she worked, and video calls with me had become routine.
Even now, flames flickered beneath her face.
With heat like that…
"Is that garlic shrimp?"
【"Goodness. How did you know?"】
"Call it a hunch."
The truth is, every single time we video call—
I crave Hawaiian food like a man possessed.
Mom's cooking, to be exact.
I want to carry my surfboard down to the beach, sit on the sand, and eat the plate lunch Mom packed for me while sipping Maui coffee.
People think Kona first whenever Hawaiian coffee comes up, but the beans they call Maui coffee are legitimately outstanding too.
And if you make a latte with Hawaiian honey, macadamia nuts, and milk — I guarantee you'll be hooked after one cup.
The shave ice from the local boys' stands.
And Leonard's Bakery malasadas on Oahu — God, I miss those too.
Ugh—
I'm losing my mind.
【"We're waiting for you, you know."】
"I was just about to say — I'm trying to carve out time this weekend somehow. I was even thinking about groveling to the Dean, remember?"
【"When does the semester start again?"】
"The 13th. Can you believe it?"
Spring semester begins two days after the National Championship.
Isn't that just a little too cruel?
Still.
"Skipping class isn't really my style, Mom."
【"That's our boy — more diligent than anyone."】
"Obviously. Whose son do you think I am?"
The truth is, athletes skip class all the time.
All they have to do is hit a minimum threshold.
Say the minimum is twelve credit hours — then one or two D's won't kill you.
And before anything can turn into an F, the academic center steps in to block it.
Normally, graduating from a four-year university like Georgia requires 120 credits, but for athletes with pro aspirations, most don't bother filling the requirement.
That's why a significant number of players who spend four full years in college and then turn pro never actually walk away with a diploma.
But I want to do this properly.
Fifteen credits a semester.
When I go pro, I'll take a formal leave of absence.
Then, after retiring from the NFL, I'll come back to Georgia, finish the remaining credits, and figure out my post-retirement life from there — maybe even go after a graduate degree.
So no — unlike some of the other guys, I won't be blowing off class just because I made the National Championship.
"You'll be there in two days, right?"
【"Of course. This time it's just your dad and me, though."】
"Got it — the restaurant matters too."
Grandma and Aunt Mel were going to run the restaurant for the day.
The regular staff would still be on hand, so a day or two wouldn't be a problem.
Plus, Uncle Iwai would be there.
【"What time is it there?"】
"Eight. I've got film to watch before bed."
【"Don't push yourself too hard."】
"I won't. Promise."
After hanging up with Mom, I grabbed my tablet and headed straight for the kitchen.
Figured I'd whip up some hot cocoa.
Sluuurp—
Ahh.
This is the stuff.
Cup of bittersweet cocoa in hand, I sank into the couch and put on Ohio State's games from this season.
The Rose Bowl had left us about ten days of preparation — and for all the Heisman hubbub, I hadn't gotten nearly as much film work done as the timeline demanded.
But this next game is the last one.
The Sugar Bowl, that is.
And conveniently, the opponent was Clemson.
"These guys are genuinely ridiculous."
I've felt it time and again, but—
Ohio State has no middle ground.
Look at the Sugar Bowl: suddenly, in the second quarter, both sides of their ball went berserk and blew a 14–14 game open to 35–14. Their scoring drives? 10:35, 5:12, and 0:11.
Ohio State's current quarterback is Justin Fields.
Originally — he was supposed to be one of ours.
He came to Georgia, spent his freshman year as Jake Fromm's backup, and mid-season got tangled up in an argument with some baseball players who hurled racial slurs at him.
The guy who caused the trouble was kicked off the baseball team and then expelled from the school entirely, but by then Fields wanted nothing to do with Georgia anymore, and during the transfer portal window, he left for Ohio State.
Well.
I understand.
Even I've had groups of guys on campus who can't stand the sight of me mock me with slurs about being Asian.
The American South.
Can't be helped.
And in America, fame works against you in a way — there's no shortage of idiots who'll deliberately scratch you just to shake loose some settlement money.
Kind of like how girls want our last name, you know?
Get famous, and the headaches come free of charge.
Anyway.
Justin Fields definitely carries some ugly feelings toward Georgia, and come game day, he'll be trying to spin all of it into fuel.
Should our defense keep him bottled up?
…Well.
If they can't, so be it.
Just like against Alabama — if the defense can't contain their offense, then I'll simply go out and manufacture points of my own.
Football is that kind of sport.
And that is something only—
Only a quarterback can do.
Whew—
Somehow it was already 11 PM.
Time to start winding down for bed.
.
.
.
.
Hawaii quarterbacks are always something special.
@FootballKing_Moi — go take it all the way. 🏝🏈
#. January 10, 2021
#-1. Miami, Florida, USA
#-2. Miami International Airport
From the moment the plane's wheels kissed the runway, I felt a warmth like I'd come home to Hawaii.
The air. The humidity.
That particular salt-kissed scent the sea breeze carries.
Everything was just — good.
"Damn—!!"
"I mean it. Damn! I'm dying, it's so good."
Miami in January averages around 23 degrees.
Today it was 25 — warmer still.
Shorts and flip-flops practically materialized in my mind.
And surfing.
"Seeing you like this, it's honestly a miracle you chose Georgia."
"Weather and football are two different things, man."
"You know you're famous on campus, right?"
"What, for being the cold guy?"
I nudged the snickering Darnell aside and settled deeper into my bus seat.
What he'd just brought up — yeah.
I know it all too well.
People on campus pick me out from a hundred yards away.
One look at my frame and they clock me as an athlete; one look at my shoulders spread wide and they know it's football.
But right now, in three-to-five-degree campus weather, exactly one person walks around in a beanie, scarf, gloves, and a thick, long parka.
Me.
So everybody knows.
Plenty of photos have already been taken — I'm sure they're all over social media by now.
Some people spin elaborate fantasies about what'll happen if I get drafted to a team in some frozen city, but humans are adaptable animals. I'll manage just fine.
I mean — unlike that meme going around with the guy layering shirt over shirt until he's a walking blimp, I don't plan on suffocating myself in clothes.
Though I'll admit I'll dress a little heavy.
Anyway.
"Hey, you know that thing?"
"?"
"Big bro's gonna kill you tomorrow. I'd bet money on it."
"Bull. Whatever — go ahead. Do whatever you want."
Do whatever I want?
Wasn't planning on anything less?
One day before the National Championship.
There's none of the usual pre-game pageantry — no ceremonies or events the day before. But tomorrow, we are going to fire off one hell of a celebration.