Nothing's Easy, But You Can Make It Easy

After last week, I had a pretty clear picture of what my life would look like this season.

When the game ended, I skipped traveling with the team and stayed in Charlotte with Hannah instead. We spent the night together, and by Sunday afternoon we were boarding separate flights. Once the weekend game wraps up, the official team schedule ends with it, so there's no problem with me not moving with the squad.

I wrote off Sunday evening entirely for rest, then from Monday on, began preparing for the UAB game on the 11th.

University of Alabama at Birmingham.

The Birmingham campus of Alabama. A CUSA school.

"How about a Give and Go?"

"What?"

"You know, like in basketball. Send the running back through on a jet sweep, I hit him with a quick pass, then I take off in that direction and get a pitch right back."

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

"I'm serious. Think about it for a second."

Week 1 against Clemson had given me a shot of confidence, and now my mind was drifting toward bolder plays.

Codename: Basketball on the Field.

In other words — just basketball, plain and simple.

In football, you only get one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forward pass per snap, but there's no limit on backward passes. The classic example of a play exploiting that rule is the flea flicker, which has evolved into countless variations over the years — and I wanted to put my own twist on it.

Coach Monken was looking at me like I'd lost it.

"What? I think it's pretty good."

"See? Coach Cortez thinks it's fine."

"You lunatics. Fine — go ahead, do whatever you want."

'Do whatever you want' meant, as far as I'd learned in a year alongside him, go develop it properly.

And I was pretty sure it could work.

"Brock!"

After morning practice, on the way to the dining hall, I called out to Brock up ahead.

Brock, now the team's starting true freshman tight end, had made his talent unmistakably clear in the first game. Eleven targets, nine receptions, seventy-nine total yards — an 8.8 yard average. Excellent numbers.

Thanks to him, my job had felt remarkably comfortable.

As a target option, he was already far better than Trevor — a solid pass catcher whose routes remained merely average — and above all, his spatial ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠awareness was exceptional. Just as impressive was the habit he'd built of protecting the ball in traffic, never fumbling even in the thick of coverage.

"I've got a killer idea."

"What is it?"

"It's for when the defense blitzes."

Back in high school, and again last year as a freshman, my taste as a quarterback had always leaned toward giving my tight end more opportunities to be the target.

It was the same in my past life, too.

Use your tight ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end well in the offense, and you can throw an entire defense into confusion — forcing not just the linebackers but even the safeties out of position, which makes life much easier for your wide receivers.

A defense trying to stop a wide receiver streaking down the sideline is unlikely to succeed with just one corner. That's why they keep a safety deep — to clean up after the corner gets beaten, or to cover the middle when a blitz leaves it exposed.

But if those safeties keep having to worry about the middle, the sidelines naturally loosen up. Which means creating one-on-one matchups between your receivers and their corners becomes far easier.

Why does that matter?

Unless the defender is truly elite, doesn't the offense win one-on-one situations basically every time?

There's more. The moment a wide receiver gets five yards past the line of scrimmage, the corner covering him can't lay a finger on him until the ball arrives. Excessive contact at that point draws an immediate pass interference flag — a fifteen-yard penalty and an automatic first down.

That's why this matters. Getting your wide receivers isolated in one-on-ones against the corners out on the perimeter.

"You'll be running the shallow route."

"No blocking fake?"

"Nope. You just take off straight down the field."

If Brock executed this exactly the way I was asking, it would go a long way toward torching blitzes.

"Want to try it out later today?"

"When? Tonight?"

"Yeah. You busy?"

"Nah, should be fine."

"Good. Let's grind again today."

On a side note — Brock has a girlfriend too. Her name is Cameron Rose. They went to different high schools, but at a party thrown by a mutual friend they locked eyes and hit it off instantly. Rose is studying marketing and advertising at the University of Tennessee, close enough to my own field of study that we'd chatted a few times when we were together.

From what I'd observed, she was a thoughtful woman — someone who understood what mattered to her boyfriend and respected it.

I liked her.

Not in a weird way. Just — as a friend.

Anyway.

That first game had revealed strengths and weaknesses in my teammates that never showed up in practice, and I'd be working them into the games ahead. Of course, that was ultimately the head coach's and the staff's job, but the quarterbacks — who sit in on more meetings than any other players — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have their own influence to exert.

Wednesday, with no morning classes, the routine was: eat, hang out with the guys at Butts-Mehre for a bit, then be in meetings by 11:20.

"Big weekend coming up, huh?"

"What do you think? Obviously."

"Damn. I've really missed this."

"I've never even experienced it."

"Kukuku. That's why — I'm going to kill it. Guaranteed."

This weekend's Week 2 game was our home opener of the season — and the first game in two years with full attendance allowed.

Sanford Stadium's capacity: 92,746.

I expected a proper welcome from the fans.

9:40 PM. Vandiver Hall, Room 607.

With the day's schedule done, I got back to the dorm, changed into something comfortable, and started a video call with my friend.

Amon-Ra St. Brown. The guy had been drafted by the Detroit Lions in the second day of the 2021 NFL Draft back on April 30th — fourth round, 112th overall.

"How's life over there?"

"What's the temperature right now?"

Fifty-five Fahrenheit — about thirteen Celsius. Georgia was sitting at eighteen right now. Amon-Ra had spent his whole life in California and was used to warm weather, so September at thirteen degrees had to feel alien to him.

"No thanks. It's cold there."

About six weeks before the draft, a Big Deal had gone down between Detroit and the Los Angeles Rams. Detroit sent Matthew Stafford to L.A., and in return received the Rams' starting quarterback Jared Goff, plus a 2021 third-rounder, a 2022 first-rounder, and a 2023 first-rounder.

Among NFL insiders, the current verdict was that Detroit had hit the reset button and extracted maximum value from Matthew Stafford. Goff was a serviceable bridge quarterback on top of that, and the haul of assets they'd accumulated in an instant earned praise too.

Which is why they were now being named the team with the best shot at landing me in 2023. Nobody knew whether Detroit would secure the number one overall pick that year, but the argument was that even through trades alone, they could put the most attractive cards on the table.

Some went even further: if Detroit failed to land the 2023 number one pick, they could offer up their entire current stash — two 2023 first-round picks, two second-round picks, and two third-round picks.

That's a trade package any franchise would seriously consider even for the most hyped quarterback prospect alive — and they could still throw in 2024 picks on top.

"Yeah, well — they did handle this one well."

"Word? What kind?"

A bridge quarterback — the player who holds down the middle ground until the franchise's real quarterback arrives. When someone says, "He's a bridge-level guy," it means he's not good enough to hand a franchise over to.

Out of the NFL's 32 teams, only about 20 to 24 franchises on average have a genuinely good quarterback. In other words, at least eight — as many as twelve — are living on borrowed time.

"Being in the same time zone now?"

"Hope so. Anyway, I'm turning in. I've gotta get up at the crack of dawn again tomorrow."

"Rub it in, why don't you. Just wait. Two more years for me."

Tap.

Whirr—!

Now the day was finally, truly over. I closed the laptop and dove into bed.

Ahh. This. This is it.

If you ever wonder whether someone actually made the most of their day, just watch how they feel when they dive into bed at night. Feel nothing — no emotion, no sensation? That's a day wasted. But if there's nothing else you want to be doing, if the day's events drift through your mind — a sense of accomplishment, or of honest exhaustion — then you spent the day properly.

I love this feeling. It's why I want to live intensely, every single day.

Hannah sometimes tells me I need to let myself unwind too, but Saturday night through Sunday is enough for that.

"…"

As the night deepened, I buried my face deep into the pillow — another 4:50 AM wake-up waiting for me tomorrow.

September 11, 2021. Athens, Georgia. University of Georgia.

I'd never seen the campus this packed with people since I enrolled. A tradition suspended by COVID, now back.

The Dawg Walk.

"Let's go, boys!"

Coach Dan Lanning's voice boomed out, and the cheerleaders hoisting giant flags set off toward Sanford Stadium first. Already, you could hear the chants of "Go Dawgs!" — they said around six thousand people had gathered.

The Dawg Walk, starting precisely two hours and fifteen minutes before kickoff, is one of Georgia's traditions: we set out from Lumpkin Street, pass through the cheering crowd, and enter through Gate 1. As we weave between them, the fans shower us with unreserved love, shouting Go Dawgs or Woof. And the marching band, lining the route like a wall of barricades, plays without a single pause.

Why is college football special?

Couldn't this one thing explain it all?

Thousands of people show up just to watch us walk into the stadium — gladly cheering us on. And for us players, to endure those thousands of eyes with composure, you have to get used to it fast. There may be football players who stumble in playoff games, but there are none who buckle under the gaze of the fans.

Because they've already been through this since college.

We and the pros aren't so different.

"Mo-ey!"

"Let's go, Moi!!"

According to an ESPN survey conducted just days ago, I was now the second most popular athlete in the state of Georgia. First was Freddie Freeman of the Atlanta Braves, with me hot on his heels — the only amateur athlete on the entire Top 10 list.

Once we entered through Gate 1 and stepped inside the stadium, we met another set of fans — the lucky ones who got to greet us within the walls. The most famous of them were the head coach's family, and I was closest with William among them.

"How many touchdowns you scoring today?"

"Hmmm — four? Or five?"

"Make it five, promise!"

Touchdowns don't come just because you want them, but I was confident I could manage four or five. UAB wasn't exactly a powerhouse, even by CUSA standards.

"Then — should we do the one we practiced?"

"Yeah!!"

When we showed off our rehearsed handshake in front of everyone, the head coach burst into a hearty laugh.

"So that's what you two were doing at my house lately, huh?"

"Yes, Coach!"

Haha.

William is going to be a football player one day. He wants it himself — which is why, whenever we're on the field, he calls me Coach instead of by my name, just like his dad.

"See you later, then."

"Yeah!"

The Dawg Walk truly ends when you've run the full length of the end zone and come out the entrance on the far side.

The locker room atmosphere was unmistakably different. Everyone was slightly heightened. Someone cranked the music way up, and a few guys who'd been swaying to the rhythm slowly gathered until a dance floor broke out in one corner of the room.

Meanwhile, I took my seat and checked my messages.

Hannah was on her way here right now. She was still a little stung by the group of girls back at her college who'd branded her a traitor, so I'd need to comfort her properly after the game.

The "traitor" business had come up because Hannah — an Arizona State student — was dating me, a Georgia student. ASU wasn't even in our conference, so I'd told her to write it off as pure nonsense.

Which it genuinely was.

"You got any sunscreen left?"

"Here. Take the rest."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Brock thanked me and headed back to his spot, and I carefully applied the sunscreen to my face before taking the field.

And then, as I stepped outside.

"Ay, Warrup!"

"Been a while."

A certain very famous group was there to greet me. Migos — Quavo. Offset. Takeoff. Of the three, Quavo and Takeoff were uncle and nephew, and Offset was a friend of a cousin. All three were Georgia natives, and Quavo had actually played quarterback all through high school — a serious football fan who'd been the one to reach out to me first, back in the beginning.

"And here — take this."

"Huh? What's this?"

"Open it first."

"?"

When I opened the extravagantly luxurious-looking box Quavo held out, a dazzling necklace appeared. A gold pendant nearly the size of my palm, shaped like a crown, with the word MOI emblazoned beneath it in red.

My eyes went wide with shock, and Quavo explained exactly what I was holding.

"The chain's platinum, the crown's solid gold. Ruby, emerald, topaz, sapphire — all real too. Only the cubic zirconia's fake. But even so, this thing cost seventy grand to make."

"What? Seventy thousand dollars?"

"Your boy here finally spent some real money! For my brother! You feel me? Let's throw on that chain and take a photo together after the W tonight. That thing's cold as ice."

Rappers sure spend money like it's water. I suppose that's just their version of swag.

Startled as I was, the gift didn't feel like a burden in the least, so I thanked him honestly, hugged Quavo, and promised I'd absolutely keep our deal — we'd take the photo together and post it on social media.

Guess I'd better work extra hard today.

"By the way, I heard you've been in touch with Tre, too?"

"Ah, yeah. He said he'd come by later."

"Yeah, I heard that too. We've been to his games a few times. We're close, you know."

"Watching from the lounge together later?"

"Probably."

Quavo was famous for his temper, but in front of me he'd never shown that side, not once. I left him with a see you later and headed off to warm up, and Migos departed the field flanked by their security detail.

Now, it was entirely my own time.

Shh—

Breathe in everything good.

Whoo—

Breathe out everything bad.

Slowly, as the breath steadied the thoughts, silence arrived at some point — and only the task in front of me remained.

I love the field. I always have, and I still do. Even last year, when the fire here briefly went out, stepping onto the field was something I looked forward to.

There are no easy games on this field. Never have been.

But you can make them easy.

That's the part I love. That even if nothing comes easy — you can make it so.

"Hey!"

"?"

Hannah, arriving just as warmups were winding down, came down toward the bottom of the stands and called out to me with everything she had. I glanced around me — not that it mattered — then broke into a bright grin and sprinted over to her. I gave a light hop, hooked my hips over the railing, and wrapped my girlfriend up in a hug.

Doing better than I expected?

Yeah, well. Honestly, I hadn't predicted this level of it either.

"Was the trip okay?"

"Mm. Hey — those are my friends over there."

Hannah earned a solid income as an influencer and was still bringing in money from a wide range of ads. Lately, though, she seemed to be focusing more on makeup and athleisure content than bikini modeling.

That was out of consideration for me, too. I was grateful for it.

"Love you. See you in a bit."

"Love you too."

"So — where are you sitting?"

"Over there. About midway up."

"…Got it."

"Mm."

Hopping back down off the railing, I drew a heart for her with my hands — a trick Hannah had taught me — then spun around and dashed back onto the field.

The stands were still a bit sparse. But before long, this place would be packed to the walls with people.