2020 National Championship (2)

Only half the game had been played.

And yet the Buckeyes' locker room had fallen dead silent.

A 21-point deficit.

In college football, that isn't an impossible mountain to climb. But it depends on who's standing across from you — and mistakes kept piling up, too.

The absence of placekicker Blake Haubeil, out after testing positive for COVID-19, had made itself painfully felt on the field. His replacement, freshman Jake Seibert, had botched one PAT kick, and of the three field goal opportunities he was given, he'd missed both that required more than 35 yards. That meant seven points Ohio State had simply thrown away — and had they converted them, the entire complexion of the game would have been different.

They were already being written off as underdogs, and now the personnel losses on game day itself had begun to feel like cold, hard reality pressing down even on the players fighting to keep their spirits up.

Ryan Day stood in the most difficult position of his career, and every word out of his mouth mattered.

"I'll admit it. This is a hard situation. But…"

Meanwhile, in Georgia's locker room, Dwayne Moi Stone had quickly reined in the giddy buzz, and Head Coach Kirby Smart was working to tamp it down completely.

"We spent the last four months grinding through the hardship of COVID-19 — and we're almost within reach of the result!! Don't you dare let it slip away because you couldn't endure thirty more minutes!! Thirty minutes of patience! Thirty minutes of focus! You can do this!!"

And among the insiders watching the National Championship from the stadium, the consensus kept flowing in the same direction: Georgia held an overwhelming advantage. Ohio State did need to mount a comeback, they said, but nobody could quite see how they'd manage it.

Justin Fields was a textbook dual-threat quarterback, but the habits drilled into him under Urban Meyer were baked deep into his game, and there were clear limits to how much scoring beyond expectations he could manufacture. Above all, that style only worked if the running backs were healthy and productive — and Trey Sermon had already hurt his ankle on the touchdown play in the first quarter and left the field. Master Teague was another good back, but he was a short-yardage specialist, which came with its own ceiling.

COVID suspensions.

In-game injuries.

Everything was working against Ohio State.

Georgia, on the other hand, had flaunted the full strength of the SEC. Save for a single personal foul that wiped out a touchdown, they'd been superior to Ohio State on both sides of the ball. Dwayne Moi Stone toyed with the defense at will and produced three touchdown passes, and the running backs who had looked slightly underwhelming in the SEC Championship and the bowl game were excellent today.

"It's basically over."

"So it's the age of Georgia, huh?"

"Wrong. It's the age of Moi."

"Fair enough."

With the Georgia Bulldogs' name all but engraved on the 2020/21 National Championship Trophy, the players of both teams stepped back onto the field with everything they had left. Ohio State's fans refused to surrender hope and kept cheering — but even that paled beside the sheer momentum rolling off the Georgia sideline.

Early in the third quarter, Ohio State managed to hold the ball for a long stretch and work their way down near the red zone. But a crushing offside penalty on the offensive line, followed by a holding call, cost them both yardage and downs, and all they had to show for the drive was a nerve-racking field goal — three points, and nothing more.

Now it's our turn to put points on the board.

First, we need to start chewing up yardage.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

As Alabama's games this season made clear, a great running back makes an entire offense look effortless. If Najee Harris is a five-star back in every conceivable respect, Zamir White is a player who'd earn five stars for his frame and athleticism — but he isn't the type to create something out of nothing on his own.

Instead, if you hand him a hole properly carved out by meticulously designed LoS blocking, his ability to slam into it and punish it is the best I've seen. And if the defender he runs into isn't the hard-hitting kind, he can hand out an all-time highlight reel to anyone clumsy enough to come at him halfheartedly.

Exactly.

Like right now.

"Whoaaa-!!"

The instant Ohio State's cornerback went flying off Zamir's brutal stiff arm, I couldn't stop the shout that burst out of me. I shook my head side to side, repeating the same words.

"That's cold, dude. That's cold."

It was, quite literally, a chilling play.

Zamir had brought us a first down. The strategy had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worked — we'd pushed the linebackers to one side with our blocking and play design, then matched Zamir one-on-one against the cornerback.

Yardage kept coming after that. Three yards on a rush. Nine on a slant-shallow. First down, renewed. Next came twelve on a left-side Marching Band run.

And after that — I took off running myself.

The reason I don't particularly enjoy taking off on my own is simple — the risk of injury skyrockets. So whenever I scramble, unless I'm ambushed from a blind angle, I make a point of going down and taking the tackle before anyone gets a free shot at me.

Even now, the Ohio State defenders standing in front of me wore the sour expressions of men disappointed they hadn't been allowed a tackle. I got to my feet, handed the ball to the official, and immediately looked toward the sideline. It was the 2-1 PG sign, so I nodded.

"I Right Tracer. Zone Left. 20 Arc. We're going Turbo."

Smack!

We could score a touchdown on this very drive, but five yards or so would be plenty. Ever since we'd come back out of halftime, there had been a play sitting in my head — one built specifically for the red zone. To run it perfectly, we needed to advance at least to the 13-to-15-yard line, and that was exactly what this call was for.

I Right Tracer.

First off: whenever an I attaches itself to a play call, that means I-formation. A fullback settles in directly behind the under-center quarterback, and the tailback lines up behind him — that's the foundation of this attack. Right Tracer specifies the direction and shape of the run: we're going right, but because it says tracer, the tailback takes the handoff, not the fullback. He is, quite literally, the pursuer. If the fullback carried it out of the same formation, the call would be I Closer; if both backs faked and I threw, it'd be I Shield. Naturally, play calls differ from team to team, so another program might name them something else entirely.

The Zone Left that follows is the blocking scheme — everyone pushes left. The real key, though, is the 20 Arc assigned to the tight end lined up on the right: the two-gap of the defensive line is the rush path, so he's to clear out everything around it accordingly. It's a running play, so there are no calls for the wide receivers. They just run their routes hard and sell it.

"Red 80-!!"

One Mississippi.

I scanned the defense. Nothing unusual jumped out.

"Turbo, set!!"

On the quick snap call, the ball hit my hands, and I pivoted my body around.

The first thing I saw was Kendall Milton. He was playing the fullback role. James Cook is far too slight to block, and Kenny McIntosh has the size but simply isn't a natural run-blocker. Kendall is the one who makes up for that — at six-foot-one, 220 pounds, he's the ideal build, and his run blocking is high caliber, which is why he takes the field so often in tracer-type plays.

Milton brushed past me.

The ball found Zamir.

And I turned to look behind me.

Six yards? Seven? I couldn't say precisely, but it was clearly beyond the five we'd needed, and I clapped my hands together, letting the satisfaction show. While the other teammates went to reach down for the fallen Zamir, I sent the signal to the bench — the one that said I'd be calling the red-zone plays myself.

When we run option plays inside the red zone, my signal stops the sideline signs entirely.

Can every quarterback do this?

No. Absolutely not.

Even NFL quarterbacks aren't granted this much freedom. It's only because the coaches' trust in the things I've proven has piled up that we've been running it this way since the middle of the season.

"Hey! Over here!"

Checking that the play clock read 32 seconds, I called my teammates in and set the huddle.

Time to try out the play we'd prepared.

"Hey, G. You ready for that hat trick?"

"Born ready."

"Alright. Let's go."

The play was called Gotcha.

It's a word with a lot of meanings, but in this case, it carries a teasing, got you kind of feel. It's a passing attack built on the 2-2 PG out of the under-center position, and what makes it fun is the movement of the man who'll be the receiver — George. Darnell Washington lines up as a blocker on the left side of the offensive line, Tre' takes the spot to my left at under center, and Zamir settles in a step behind. Since we're collapsing the offense's width dramatically, the two wide receivers, who'd normally split left ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and right, cram in tight against the O-line — George lines up in the slot, and Jordan becomes the X receiver.

That's the base formation.

"Red 80!!"

One Mississippi.

I'd spent six weeks practicing this. Every scrap of free time between everything else, over and over with the guys, syncing our rhythm, refining the parts that felt off — and only last week had I finally gotten the green light.

Two Mississippi.

After the first call, I let two full seconds tick by to ratchet up the tension — then demanded the quick snap.

"Turbo, set!!"

The instant the snap came, McKitty would shoot through the middle of the offensive line and bolt straight for the end zone. Darnell, who'd pretended to join the blocking, would slip his man with a fake and charge into the end zone as well. And Jordan, on top of that, would race toward the tight end's spot, dragging the cornerback along with him.

If the LoS — invisible to me now, moving behind my back — was unfolding the way I'd pictured it, then the middle of the field was, at this very moment, a rolling train wreck.

Zamir came sprinting in.

Play action.

I faked the handoff to him — and instead of spinning left the way I normally would, I turned my body the opposite way, checking for whoever was supposed to be beside me.

There, right in front of my eyes, was George.

We'd both retreated to the same spot.

Which meant now—

Turn.

I delivered the pass to George as he changed course and took off, and he tore through the completely abandoned left side of the field, straight into the end zone.

"LET'S GO-!!! LET'S GO-!!!"

"WOOOOOAH-!!"

Another play we'd built ourselves had landed.

That made the joy hit twice as hard. George and I rapped each other's helmets with our palms, then broke out the goggle celebration — we'd promised each other beforehand that if this play scored, that's exactly how we'd do it.

"I told you!! I said this thing works!!"

"Let's go, Dude-! Let's Go!"

I came back to the bench glowing, and Coach Monken was there to greet me.

"Mom said come home. Fooled 'em again this time, huh? Damn it. So what's it gonna be next?"

"Haha. Well. I'll have to think on that one."

"You lunatic. Great job."

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir."

Podlesny drilled the PAT, pushing us to 38 — and now the lead stood at 25 points.

That was a decisively damning margin. Even if Ohio State scored three touchdowns from here, converting a two-point try after every single one, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolute maximum they could reach was 24. The comeback was mathematically dead.

Ah—

This is easy. Too easy.

The summit of this year's college football is the Georgia Bulldogs — with me.

The moment Stetson Bennett, who had handled the final quarter, took the snap and knelt, we all charged onto the field. Red confetti erupted from every corner of the stadium without pause, and standing in the middle of it was an absolutely euphoric experience.

Around me, a friend simply reveling in it. A friend down on one knee, praying. Another friend, tears streaming down his face. Each was expressing the enormity of the championship in his own way, and as I looked around at them, something suddenly came to mind — and I started running toward one side of the field.

My parents.

If there was anyone I needed to share today's joy with first — anyone besides my teammates — there was no one else. Only them.

I waved to the cheering fans as I ran, then came up to the stands where my parents sat. The fence rose just barely above my head.

So Mom leaned down and wrapped me in her arms.

And Dad did, too.

"Oh, Moi. Truly, congratulations."

"We are so proud of you."

"Well — whose son am I?"

This championship was only a single stage of the journey I'd chosen in this life, but that didn't mean I wanted to cheapen what it was worth. Ever since I arrived here, I'd seized the reins of my own life and worked to resolve everything the way I wanted it resolved — and even the one thing I could never control, the outcomes on the field, I had finally conquered.

The relief of never repeating the regret-soaked life of my past, and a joy so full it was bursting out of every inch of me.

Above all — these two, right here.

They were the ones who taught me what true love was.

Because of them, I'd become a slightly better person.

Because of them, I'd learned how to love.

"I'm going to go join the team."

"Yes. Go on, son."

"Moi!"

"?"

"We love you!"

"I love you too!!"

My father wearing his heart on his sleeve the way he had today was a rare sight. He must have been that happy. The dad I know would want to watch every single Georgia game in person, home or away — and once the COVID restrictions lift, that's exactly what I'll arrange for him.

Back with the team, the staff were handing out hats and T-shirts. I grabbed one of each, and threw the hat on straight away.

"Moi!!"

"?"

"Moi!! Where are you?!!"

"I'm right here!!"

Trey Hill, calling to me from up ahead, pointed at the stage. Looked like he wanted me to go up. So up I went — and the rest of the captain group and Coach Smart were already standing on the dais beside me.

And then — Reece Davis of ESPN came over.

"What an absolutely tremendous season."

"Oh — thank you."

"You're in for some enormous things from here on out, son."

"Should I be afraid of that?"

"Not at all. Just enjoy the ride."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

After Reece Davis moved on, Bill Hancock, the president of college football, offered his hand.

"An impressive season. Well watched."

"Thank You, Sir."

"You were our savior this year. We look forward to great things from you."

"Yes, Sir."

Savior, huh.

Well — that was roughly true. Thanks to the hashtag I'd posted, college football had resumed. The losses couldn't be avoided entirely, but I'd minimized the financial damage to more than a hundred universities — damage that could have been far more catastrophic. As I'd said before, ninety-nine percent of the schools fielding Division 1 football teams run their entire institutions on the revenue football brings in. That was the part everyone had been forgetting.

I could allow myself a little pride in that, too.

"What are you grinning about over there?"

"We just won the whole thing. Aren't you happy?"

"No— not that. You just thought of something else, didn't you. Come on, admit it."

"What, are you psychic now? Get lost."

"Kukukukuku."

Confetti burst from every direction once more, and after Reece Davis and Bill Hancock finished their remarks, Coach Smart and I raised the trophy high overhead.

By the way.

Where was my phone?

My phone.

This exact moment —

I intend to remember it forever.