Hello Charlotte, Hello NC

Last Wednesday, before afternoon practice, Coach came up to me and asked if I had any free time on Saturday. When I told him I was planning to spend it with my girlfriend, he said in that case, why not bring her along to his house for dinner. He seemed to have something on his mind, so I said I'd be there.

And then, today.

Coach.

“A pregame speech?”

“That's right. For every game we play from here on out.”

“….”

He had asked me to deliver the pregame speech.

To be precise — the Hype Speech.

“Over the course of camp, I've found the effect your voice has on this team very interesting. You don't get to give the hype speech just because you're good at football. That's a leader's job.”

Was he acknowledging me as a leader?

Coach said that was exactly it.

“You could become Georgia's Ray Lewis.”

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

“Ray Lewis. He was a tremendous leader.”

“He was. One hell of a man.”

The most important thing in football is toughness. Physical toughness, and mental toughness. Men with the most vicious bodies on the planet throw everything they have into every single snap, lunging to devour the man across from them. It is painful, and it is dangerous. It takes real courage. That's why, before every game, we run a special ritual called the hype speech — and normally, it falls to the team's leaders. The player most famous in this department is Ray Lewis, a former MLB who made his legend with the Baltimore Ravens. Ray Lewis's personality, his energy, and the pregame hype speeches built on top of them show, better than anything else, what a football leader is supposed to be.

“He wants me to give the hype speech.”

“That's awesome. It suits you.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah.”

On the way home from dinner, Hannah cheered me on, saying I'd do great. I knew I would, too. I hadn't intended to turn him down in the first place. And yet the reason I felt like I was hesitating now was simple: I was racking my brain trying to come up with something truly worthy. Something that belonged to Georgia alone. Something that belonged to us. With two weeks left until the season opener, I wanted to have the real thing ready before then. What would be best? I needed to think this through properly.

The fall semester had started ten days ago, and campus had swung back toward the pre-COVID normal we all remembered. Seeing the streets packed with people lifted my mood.

Except.

“Ah, damn it.”

Not everything was good.

Alexi Rozmajzl. My ex-girlfriend, and I kept running into her far too often. A Georgia freshman this year, Alexi had already become a campus celebrity, trailed everywhere by a pack of white girls who followed her like disciples. Even now, a line of them — all the same type — was filing out of the Jeep Alexi had rolled up in.

For the record, they do not like me. They must have heard something. Even at this moment, the girls around Alexi were shooting me looks hot enough to scorch my face.

Eyes narrowed to slits.

“Give it a rest, seriously.”

With a sigh and a shake of my head, I got my feet moving again and put the scene behind me fast. My destination ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was Einstein's. Just about every decent college campus in America has an Einstein Bros. Bagels, and after morning practice I always ordered a latte absolutely drowning in caramel syrup there.

“Ahh — this is the stuff.”

One sip of a sweet latte, and all the stress evaporates. I shot Brandon, who'd made the coffee, a satisfied thumbs-up, then hummed my way toward the Academy building.

My ex-girlfriend, what a joke. The past is just the past.

Last Saturday, Week 0 games unfolded at five college football stadiums across the country. Week 0 is something of a college-football-only tradition, created by the NCAA to squeeze more games onto television broadcasts. Every December, the NCAA asks every Division 1 school whether they're willing to play in Week 0, and schools that answer yes are granted the benefit of one extra home game. Along with the Hawaii Rule — which fully reimburses travel expenses for any team that agrees to an away game at the University of Hawaii — it's one of the rare regulations that actually rewards you at the league level.

And so, starting with Week 0, the fever of fans who'd waited all year for college football began to spread across the land.

I felt it keenly, too.

Radio. Podcasts. News outlets. Requests poured in from all over wanting interviews, and after consulting my agency, I met with a few of them. People asked me, “You're about to play football in front of packed stadiums again — how does that feel?” and I told them it was a moment I'd waited a very long time for.

I meant it, too. I'd missed a full stadium.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Then let's get right into it.”

This coming weekend, we open our season against Clemson in Charlotte, North Carolina. Clemson ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came in at No. 4 in the preseason AP poll and is still regarded as the powerhouse of the ACC — but their sapped offense is a serious concern. Their starting quarterback. Their starting running back. Their No. 1 tackle and their top two receivers — all gone.

While we're on the subject: despite all the hand-wringing, Trevor Lawrence put on a Jacksonville uniform as the No. 1 overall pick anyway. Which meant DJ Uiagalelei, last year's backup, was now the starter, and freshman Will Shipley out of North Carolina was expected to take over at running back. The receiver corps looked just as thin — nobody on the roster seemed capable of filling the void left by Amari Rodgers and Cornell Powell.

To be fair, we'd lost a starting cornerback and two excellent linebackers ourselves. But considering who we had left, plus the fresh defensive talent we'd added, stopping Clemson wouldn't be hard.

The key was our offense. How many points could we put up?

Especially —

Early momentum. That was going to matter.

“How's Clemson looking this year?”

“They've become a defense-first team.”

“Yeah?”

Clemson's defense remained virtually untouched from last year. Bryan Bresee (DT). Myles Murphy (DT). Tyler Davis (DT). Andrew Booth Jr. (CB). Nolan Turner (FS). James Skalski (LB). Baylon Spector (LB). Those two linebackers in particular had graduated but stayed at Clemson under the COVID exception rule — and they'd be playing all the wiser for it. And sophomore Bryan Bresee, with another year of experience under his belt, had every chance of looking better than he did last season.

Anyway. The real film breakdown starts Wednesday. So that can wait until then.

Right now —

“Whoa. This is a lot.”

“It won't be easy.”

“Guess I'll find out.”

Time to do something else entirely.

Scritch— scritch—

With NCAA players' NIL rights now guaranteed, the schools had gotten serious about monetizing them too. Starting this Friday, Georgia planned to sell the new season's merchandise — jerseys and more — at the pro shop inside Sanford Stadium, and among the items were jerseys and helmets bearing my signature. Over today and tomorrow, I had to sign five hundred jerseys, one hundred helmets, and an equal number of mini helmets.

A Georgia football jersey retails at $86.90, while a full-size helmet and a mini helmet run about $169.99 and $99 respectively. But a jersey with my signature on it sells for double the price, and the helmets are exactly twice as expensive as well. The school agreed to hand over half of the sales revenue, and for signed items, two-thirds. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠That's 50 and 67 percent of the pure profit left after manufacturing costs and Nike's cut — and according to my agency, it should come out to somewhere between $3.5 and $5 million.

Still, it's something. This is $4 million worth of labor.

Scritch— scritch—

“Why'd you stop?”

“Signing?”

“Yup.”

“Jesus. That's awesome.”

Jermaine Burton poked his head in, dropped that one-liner, and drifted off; after that, a handful of the guys kept popping in for a look before disappearing again. Nobody had ever manufactured and sold merchandise this way — not like an NFL team — so they all seemed fascinated. The guaranteed rights of publicity had changed the landscape.

Now, you could sell your own signature.

“Let's stop here for today.”

“Really? I can keep going.”

“I'd like to, but don't you have class?”

“Oh. Right.”

Class, then afternoon practice the moment it ends; dinner after practice, and meetings after dinner. With the season opener right around the corner and me being the quarterback, my days had become a nonstop sprint.

“Could you have the rest sent to my dorm?”

“How much is left?”

“Hmm — I'll finish all the mini helmets today.”

“Got it. I'll move them over later.”

“Thank you.”

Out of Butts-Mehre, straight to the parking lot. I climbed into the car, turned the key, and pulled out immediately. The few short minutes driving to the building where my class waited — I put the play calls on through my phone.

“I-Trace. Left Trip. A-gap….”

Practice, meetings, memorizing play calls. Class, homework, marketing appearances. These days I was busier than I'd ever been back when I was a Super Bowl head coach in my past life — my days left absolutely no room for idle thoughts to sneak in.

I'd gotten up thirty minutes earlier than usual to get breakfast ready, and as planned, I walked into an empty practice locker room. There was a single whiteboard inside, and after confirming it was spotless, I stood in front of it.

Then —

I picked up the pen.

Squeak— squeak— squeak—

Three words, written in thick, bold strokes.

THE THREE NO.

And beneath them, I filled in the rest.

NO EGOISM.

NO FEAR.

NO L.

These were the words I'd settled on after more than ten days of agonizing, ever since Coach asked me to give the hype speech. I intended to build everything on this foundation. And then I kept moving the marker. The sentences kept taking shape, one after another.

Mmm—

Perfect.

It felt far more solid than what I'd first imagined, and standing there in front of the whiteboard, I smiled.

“What the heck~~~~~”

“Good morning.”

I turned around to find Zamir — second man in — setting his bag down at his locker. He stared hard at the whiteboard, then drifted closer, and I rested a hand on his shoulder and gazed fondly at the finished work (?) I'd just completed.

“This is your hype speech?”

“Yup. What do you think?”

“Not bad. No — actually, it rips. This is awesome.”

“Can't wait to do this out on the field.”

“Figured. Even just looking at it gets my blood going.”

After that, the teammates trickled in one by one, every single of them curious about what was written on the whiteboard and drifting over. The guys told me I'd worked hard on it. They encouraged me.

“Seeing this — the season actually feels real now.”

I liked Nakobe Dean's short take. Yeah. That was exactly what I'd hoped my friends would feel. The first game of the year, you can't help but be more fired up and hungry for it — you've waited so long — but at the same time, it often comes when you haven't fully gotten your feel back, when you haven't settled into the massive current of a season yet. Which was exactly why the first hype speech mattered. So did the first impression my teammates would take from it.

Only after the entire team had checked out the whiteboard did I finally leave the practice locker room and make my way to the House of Pain. Word had somehow gotten around — Coach Monken, who hadn't even set foot in the locker room earlier, said to me:

“THE THREE NO, huh?”

“How did you know that?”

Coach Monken shrugged with a mischievous grin and gave my back a light pat, and Coach, watching from a distance, flashed me a warm smile and a thumbs-up. Did somebody snap a photo and send it around? Probably that. Well — so what? Who cares. I was satisfied with the result, and judging by my friends' reactions, the reward for the effort had landed in full.

One day before we left for Charlotte.

I started the day with everything I had.

“LET'S GO, DAWGS—!!”

Another joyful day of football, right on schedule.

COVID was still plaguing humanity, but the effort to return to normal life had restored a great many things to the way they used to be. Normally we fly out of Athens–Ben Epps Airport near campus when we travel for away games, but last year the state government had ordered it closed, and we couldn't use it. Now it was back in service, and we arrived at the runway about a ten-minute drive from campus.

Inside the charter plane, a bag of snacks waited at every seat.

“What's in them?”

“Ham & cheese. The rest are all about the same.”

“Oh — ham & cheese. Eating mine right now.”

“Me too.”

I bit into my sandwich and looked out the window. About seventy minutes to Charlotte.

Our matchup against Clemson in Charlotte, back-to-back years now, was being billed as the Top Five Showdown — the most hyped game on the entire Week 1 slate. Personally, I figured it had all the makings of the proverbial big banquet where the food runs out — but I intended to blow Clemson apart with everything I had.

It was a short flight, so far more of the guys were awake than asleep.

“We're doing that thing tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.”

“Damn— this is gonna be so much fun.”

“I want to feel it already.”

“Feel what?”

“The energy. The power. All of it, you know?”

“Tell me about it— we've forgotten for way too long.”

“Last season was way too short.”

Football seasons are short and the games are few as it is, and last year COVID had trimmed the regular season down to just nine games. We were in the SEC, at least, so we got to square off against powerhouses like Alabama and Florida and enjoy it — but nearly eight months without a game had every inch of me itching beyond endurance. Extend the season, though, and everyone's body would break somewhere before they ever reached the NFL.

The plane touched down on the runway before long.

“Hello, Charlotte. Hello NC.”

Walking out behind Sedrick's smooth little greeting, I waved toward the people at the airport who'd recognized us. The airport scene was unmistakably different from last year, too. A big crowd, and brighter faces all around. The moment I took it in, I couldn't hold myself back. I felt like I had no choice but to show Clemson, once and for all, what proper territory-marking looks like.

So I pulled out my phone.

One post declaring my resolve.

The reaction to it was explosive.