Slowly Becoming a Team
“DAY ONE!! LET'S GO!!”
The curtain had finally risen on the long-awaited camp.
Summer camp. Fall camp. Whatever you wanted to call it, it didn't matter.
I'd kept up individual training and my OSP work throughout the off-season after the National Championship, but for some reason, starting the first day alongside the head coach and the coaching staff made everything feel incredibly refreshing.
Under a clear midsummer morning sky, we took the outdoor practice field and crushed a high-intensity workout.
Easing your body back into shape gradually, like in other sports?
Football doesn't work that way.
On day one of camp, your body had better already be finished.
“Ready! Hut!”
And starting today, so did I.
It was time to start truly building chemistry.
With the defensive guys applying realistic pressure, I was watching how the receivers reacted — reading their bodies, their tendencies, everything.
Jordan and I were clicking like a well-oiled machine, and Coach Monken seemed to love our play.
“Good! Fuck! That's exactly it!”
“We're a dynamic duo, Coach!”
“Don't get cocky, dumbass! Next!”
Beep—
Ah.
God, I love this energy.
I'd been away from it for far too long.
“God Damn It, Arik!! You wanna ride the bench again this year?! Huh?! You don't wanna get on the field and score touchdowns?! Then do it RIGHT—!! Do! It! RIIIIGHT!!”
Coach Monken was screaming at Arik Gilbert partly because the kid was going through the motions — but the bigger reason was to inject tension into the entire team.
As a head coach, having someone like that around is a blessing.
Energy. Passion. Fire.
He never stopped pumping them into us.
And beyond that, the reason he rode us so brutally hard — harshly enough that it almost felt cruel — was because nothing was guaranteed.
Not even for me.
Of course, unless I got injured badly enough to miss games, the play-calling would stay in my hands. But every football coach shows up on day one of camp with a blank slate, meeting the players fresh.
And that's how it should be.
That's how a football team should be run.
“Alright—! Everyone! Gather around!!”
“···.”
“···.”
Before the summer sun baked the already sweltering field and melted us outright, Coach Smart called an end to the morning session.
We gathered in front of him and took a knee.
“Day one! Our goal is to strap the passion, the energy, and the hunger from last season right back on! You listen to me! The people out there look at us as champions! That's a fact, and all season long we're going to step onto the field with a champion's credentials! We have to carry ourselves accordingly! But understand this — the team that earned all that wasn't the one standing here now. Last year's team built it! Do you understand what I'm saying?! The team here today is going to make its OWN legacy! With this team, with these guys, let's lift the National Championship again this year! Eat a good breakfast, and I'll see you at afternoon practice. On three — Georgia! One, two, three!”
“”“GEORGIA!!!”“”
1. Georgia
2. Florida
3. Kentucky
4. Missouri
5. Tennessee
6. South Carolina
7. Vanderbilt
1. Georgia (95)
2. Alabama (38)
#. 2:30 PM
#-1. House of Payne
After breakfast and recovery, we killed some time hanging around the lounge and the like, then got back to work for the afternoon session.
“How's the new kid looking?”
“He's solid, Coach.”
“I mean Brock.”
“Ah — Brock's really good.”
Football training is different for every position, so all around us the sounds of grunting and pads cracking filled the air.
Meanwhile, I was having a leisurely conversation with Coach Monken.
“He's got something instinctive about him.”
“Instinctive?”
“Yeah. Like he always finds the right spot.”
As I'd said, the most important position in this year's offense was the tight end spot that Tre' McKitty had left behind.
George's ACL tear had opened a serious hole at wide receiver too, but Jordan could fill it well enough — and we had JB and KJ, plus Marcus back from last year's injury.
Since Darnell couldn't provide stability as a slot receiver, what the team really needed was a tight end who could catch.
“Talk to him a lot. Build that connection.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Brock! Over here! Let me see you! Not you, Van! I mean the OTHER Brock! Get over here!”
Coach Monken pulled Brock away, and another coach took over the drills.
Cortez Hankton.
One of the team's most capable coaches.
A Texas Southern graduate, he'd signed with Jacksonville in 2003 as an undrafted free agent and, defying every expectation that he'd be cut immediately, spent four years with the team.
Granted, his NFL playing career was so modest you could say the stat sheet was basically blank.
But he kept grinding — Minnesota, then Tampa Bay, all the way through 2009 — and that's when the coaching offers started rolling in.
Cortez, though, wasn't ready to give up playing before he'd even hit thirty, so he took his game to the UFL and played until 2011, finally starting his coaching career at exactly thirty.
Before coming to Georgia, he'd passed through Dartmouth and Vanderbilt, and his current title was Pass Game Coordinator & Wide Receivers Coach.
“I looked at the materials you sent.”
“You did? What'd you think?”
“Mm — honestly, I was pretty blown away. Even in the pros, you almost never see a quarterback organize and present things like that.”
“I dumped every spare minute I had into it.”
“It's going to help a lot.”
“Has the head coach seen it too?”
“Yeah. We all went through it together.”
“Good to hear.”
During the OSP period, I'd run routes with every wide receiver on the team at least twice out on the field.
I took everything I picked up along the way — impressions, their route-running habits, the rest of their strengths and weaknesses — analyzed it, and packaged it up as a kind of scouting report to send to Coach Cortez.
Writing the report wasn't hard.
I'd done it for three years in my past life.
By now, analyzing a team's personnel from an ops tower and compiling a report was something I could do with my eyes closed.
“Ready, hut.”
Time to sync up with the receivers — they ran routes, I threw the ball.
The repetitions blurred together and time flew by, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Brock, who'd been pulled off to one side of the House of Payne for his own intensive drilling.
Probably today.
“Damn — that boy's about to learn a lesson he'll never forget.”
“You said it.”
What was dripping off his chin right now wasn't shower water — it was pure sweat.
The moment when House of Payne
starts to feel like House of Pain.
By now, I'd wager.
Coach Hartley was starting to look like a demon straight out of hell.
But hang in there, my friend.
Endure it.
It means they expect something from you.
If a freshman wanted to be the SEC's starting tight end by the season opener on September 4th, getting ground through the camp grinder was simply part of the deal.
Hustle & Grind.
RIP, Brock.
Ah — no.
Godspeed, rather.
#. August 4, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall
Day three of camp.
The guys were getting absolutely wrecked pretty much every single day.
Once the fall semester started on the 13th, practices would split back into morning and afternoon sessions like before, and that kind of rhythm break meant we had to build momentum hard in the early going.
Which is why, you know.
Sorry about this.
“Anybody wanna catch some passes for me?”
“Forget it. You saw him today.”
“I'll buy you guys a late-night snack!”
“Snack, my ass. Go dive into your bed right now.”
“Hey! Seriously?! Nobody?! Really?!”
One by one, the receivers filed out of Butts-Mehre.
I looked around at the ones still left.
“I guess I could help you out?”
“···.”
Grasping at straws, I tossed the ball at Sedrick — who fumbled around and dropped it.
Great. Fantastic.
“So are you at least going to snap properly?”
“Snapping I can do like a machine.”
“You screw up once, and it's instantly over.”
“Heh heh. Anyway, I'm heading out too.”
“Yup.”
Ah—
Damn it.
I was just feeling a little short today.
I wanted to throw more.
If nobody would catch for me, there was no reason to wear out my shoulder — I figured I should just call it a day.
And then.
“Want to throw with me?”
“Huh?”
A savior appeared.
Brock.
But this guy.
“You sure you're up for it?”
“Well, forty minutes or so is fine.”
“Love it. Let's go.”
“Yeah.”
Ever since day one of camp, Brock had soaked up every bit of attention there was to soak up. He'd puked during the first two days of training, and today had barely managed to sprint to the bathroom and heave up whatever was left inside him.
It's rare to see a solidly built teenager — a high school standout, no less, 6'3" (191cm) and 240 pounds (109kg) — throwing up from exhaustion.
“That just means you're important.”
“Whew — believe me, I can feel it.”
“Good. Dinner's on me later tonight.”
“Sweet. Where do you want me?”
What I'd originally planned to run was something else entirely.
But there was something I'd wanted to try with this guy too.
First up.
“There's this play called 'Hello Kitty.' We rode it hard as hell last year.”
“I've heard of it.”
“Yeah? Okay, take a look at this first.”
“···.”
I pulled up the tablet and showed him 'Hello Kitty.'
“Now the next one.”
“Got it.”
After watching a few different plays, Brock nodded like he understood.
The combined scheme work and full offense-vs-defense simulated practices weren't scheduled to start until Monday of next week, so getting a head start like this would definitely help him too.
“What's the call going to be?”
“I'll call hut, then drop back three or four yards. Right after that, I'm looking at you and throwing.”
“Got it. Let's run it.”
A D1-caliber player is basically a semi-pro.
So the preparation came together fast.
“Ready — hut!”
Just like I'd said — called the hut, dropped back.
And threw the pass, eyes on Brock.
“Was that one right?”
“It was technically, but that's only because it's your first rep.”
“Then don't sugarcoat it — tell me straight.”
“Oh — you like it rough, huh?”
“I'm at Georgia right now, trying to win a starting tight end job as a freshman on a National Championship team. What do you think?”
When we first met, I'd thought he was a bit of a teacher's pet.
Turns out the kid was absolutely dripping with stones.
I like it!
“Alright. Then I'm coming at you hard.”
“Bring it.”
Honestly, I'd just been trying to scratch my own itch.
But the session turned far more serious than I'd expected.
An hour later, we ended up at the Chick-fil-A.
“Who's your role model?”
“Gronk.”
“Oh—”
The 'Gronk' Brock mentioned was the nickname of Rob Gronkowski, widely regarded as the greatest tight end in NFL history.
Drafted by the New England Patriots in the second round, 42nd overall in 2010, he'd risen to become the NFL's signature tight end in just his second professional season.
He was especially brilliant at finding and attacking the empty zones in the red zone, and he holds the record for the third-most touchdowns (93) by a tight end in history.
What makes that remarkable is that he did it in only 143 games. Compare that to Antonio Gates in first place (116 TDs in 236 games) or Tony Gonzalez in second (111 TDs in 270 games) and you get the picture.
Being a constant target meant he took a mountain of hits and his durability suffered for it, but as a pure offensive weapon, he was the greatest tight end the NFL had ever seen.
Among active tight ends, Kansas City's Travis Kelce and San Francisco's George Kittle play a similar style.
So apparently Brock wanted to be like them.
Hmm—
Perfect fit, honestly?
Personally, I believe a tight end becomes truly dangerous when his value as a slot receiver outweighs his value as a run-blocker.
“You know what I was thinking?”
“?”
“Your chemistry and mine are going to click this year. You know what I mean? I think you're going to be a hell of a teammate.”
“Haha. Works for me, then.”
“Right — anyway. Let's eat.”
“Yeah.”
We were in the process of building this year's team.
And the start of it didn't look bad at all.
#. August 9, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. House of Payne
“Ready—! Hut!”
I'd felt it last year too.
But this year, even more so.
Seriously.
“Goddammit.”
“Told you, Moi. You're blessed.”
“Shut up. By the end of camp, we'll see who's laughing.”
“Kekeke. I'll be watching.”
Travon Walker flashed me a smug grin, and I was waiting for the day I got to scream "I told you so!" right back at him — but at the same time, since he happened to be right, I couldn't really muster a comeback.
Peter came shuffling over, scratching his cheek.
He apologized to me.
“Sorry, man.”
“You're good. Let's run it again.”
“Yeah.”
Of course, I was the only one who felt that way — Coach Smart, Coach Monken, and Coach Matt Luke were all spitting mad.
Day one of offense-vs-defense team drills.
Our O-line was getting pushed around by the D-line.
And not just pushed — dominated.
“Ready—! Hut!”
Same story right now.
Only reason I was still standing was that the defensive guys had to pull up and stop instead of tackling. If this were a real game, I'd already be flattened by a sack, rolling around the field like a rag doll.
But here's the thing.
Our O-line this year is actually really good.
Center Trey Hill and right guard Ben Cleveland had gone off to the NFL, sure — but the team had guys ready to fill those spots.
Peter, moving over to right guard.
Warren McClendon at right tackle.
Sedrick Van Pran taking over at center.
And the left side was Justin and Jamaree, same as last year.
And I'm saying this objectively.
Top three in the country. Easily.
Yet our own defensive linemen were handling these O-linemen like they were going up against second-stringers.
Just look at that.
Look at Jordan Davis's face.
The fact that he — our defense's quarterback at MLB — was wearing that kind of triumphant expression told you everything about how easily the defense was smothering the offense.
So.
Does my pride hurt?
You think it doesn't?
Huh?
Of course, thank God they're on our team, and yes, it's an incredible comfort — but that's that, and this is this.
“Ready—! Hut!”
This time my pass reached the receiver too.
But the defenders had already swarmed the area.
Jordan Davis sidled up next to me.
And leaned in to whisper.
“You just got sacked.”
“···.”
DAMN it!
How am I supposed to talk trash when I can't fire back a single word?!
After offense-vs-defense ended with us utterly crushed, I — now marinating in the cold tub — did my best to lift the spirits of the deflated O-linemen.
“It's fine. In the end, we're going to win this thing.”
“Whew—”
I was already killing myself trying to nurse the wounded guys back to morale, and then the defensive players strolled into the sauna mocking us on the way, and the team's spirits cratered even further.
Son of a bitch.
This genuinely hurts my pride.
Sooner or later, I'm getting revenge for this.
You're with me, right, boys?
Huh?
#. August 10, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. House of Payne
One of the changes COVID's rampage had carved into us last year was that far more people were hooked on the internet than ever before.
People who would've once ended up on TV were now filming 'YouTube' clips and 'TikToks' — and the athletic world was no exception, with powerlifters and the like becoming famous off it.
But I promise you this.
THIS is the real thing.
“Let's Go, Z!! Let's Go!!”
“Hoo—ah! Hoo—ah!”
With a 355-pound (roughly 161kg) barbell in front of him, Zamir was controlling his breathing and setting his stance.
And we were crowded around him, pumping him full of hype.
Power clean.
He was about to clean that thing off the floor.
“You got this—!!”
“LET'S GO!!”
“LET'S!! GO—!!!”
At 6'0" (183cm) and 215 pounds (98kg), cleaning 355 pounds is an extremely difficult feat.
But he does it.
And that's not all — 520 pounds (236kg) on the squat, 500 pounds (227kg) on the deadlift, 220 pounds (100kg) on barbell curls, and twenty straight reps at that same weight on bench press.
But here's the thing.
He's not even the best.
Plenty of linemen will knock out a 600-pound squat without breaking stride, and pump out a few reps at 500 on front squat.
Naturally, it's agony. It's pain.
Which is exactly why we scream.
“COME ON!!!”
Just moments ago, I'd hit a 640-pound squat (roughly 291kg).
New personal record.
And a new team record, too.
The old mark was Travon Walker's 635.
“How's it taste!! Take a big ol' bite of that!!”
Yeah.
I still hadn't gotten over the offense-vs-defense results.
And I wasn't alone — every offensive player whose pride got scraped that day was lined up behind me, striking the smuggest poses imaginable.
All eyes on the defensive side turned to Travon.
He shook his head and waved his hands. He was out.
We won.
“Feels fucking GREAT—!!!”
“LET'S GO—!!!”
Just to be clear, football team weight training isn't always about maxing out like this.
It's actually rare.
It's injury-prone and inefficient.
The purpose of a D1 football weight program is mobility — developing movement quality and durability that translate onto the field.
So it's much closer to a CrossFit-and-interval-training hybrid than powerlifting.
The reason this whole atmosphere had kicked up in the first place was actually a pride war between Lewis Cine and Zamir over the clean.
“Oh — great King Moi, we bow to you.”
“Keep going. More.”
“Kek-kek-kek-kek.”
Being worshipped by the offensive guys felt genuinely pretty great, and I slipped into the cold plunge to start my recovery.
“Whoa—! That's FREEZING—!”
Amid the endless cycle of training and competition.
We were slowly, steadily becoming a team.
Right now, with no outside opposition to stoke us, we competed against each other — but once the season started, it would be like none of this ever happened. We'd weld ourselves together and unleash all that energy on the teams standing across from us.
So until that day came, we had to keep competing in whatever form we could find, and never let the edge go dull.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
Timer's up — time for the warm water now.
Next alarm, back into the cold.
Day ten of camp.
Day eight of training.
Everything was moving along just fine.