What Happened in Jacksonville (3)
Halftime
FLORIDA 0 0 — 0
GEORGIA 10 24 — 34
While Trent Balke quietly worked through his paperwork in his office, the Jacksonville Jaguars' scouting team could only let out low, admiring sighs, tangled up in complicated feelings.
A completion rate of 77.8 percent (14 of 18).
208 passing yards.
Two touchdown passes.
The numbers on the surface were excellent enough, but something else shone even brighter — something the stat sheet alone couldn't explain.
How he played immediately after taking a sack.
His decisions under pressure.
His ability to diagnose a defense.
Dwayne Moi Stone was wrapped, head to toe, in exactly the kind of qualities that would make an NFL scout drool uncontrollably.
"What do you figure the odds are he busts?"
"Still, gotta be at least ten percent."
"Not fifty?"
"That's what I'm saying."
At a joke only they themselves could understand, the room broke into laughter.
NFL scouts like to pass a saying back and forth among themselves: "Of every professional sports scouting corps in existence, ours is the most incompetent."
And in truth, of all the sports with a draft system, football is the one where No. 1 overall picks and top-round selections fail most frequently.
The small sample size already makes it hard to fully evaluate a player, and there are plenty of strange cases where a strength in college becomes a weakness at the professional level.
Look no further than this year.
Jacksonville's No. 1 overall pick.
Trevor Lawrence.
Trevor Lawrence, graded as a guaranteed career All-Pro, had built his reputation on his delicacy and composure inside the pocket.
But now that he was in the pros, that very strength had mutated into a flaw: he times his passes like he's watching a metronome.
In a league where the frequency and violence of pressure are not even comparable to the college game, Trevor Lawrence's playstyle was starting to look downright leisurely.
Of course, he was a rookie barely a year into his career.
He would surely improve going forward.
But the undeniable fact remained: if they could turn the clock back to day one of the 2021 NFL Draft, they would have made a different choice.
"Trent would've taken that deal without a second thought."
The avalanche of calls Jacksonville had fielded back then.
San Francisco's courtship in particular had been staggering.
Three years of first-round picks.
Four years of second-round picks.
The 49ers had even offered to sweeten the package with several players — that was how desperately they wanted Trevor Lawrence.
But Jacksonville never succumbed to that enormous temptation, and in the end San Francisco settled for Miami's No. 3 pick, taking Trey Lance on pure projection alone.
If they could go back with the memories they had now, Jacksonville would have passed on Trevor Lawrence and taken San Francisco's future instead, along with their starting quarterback, Jimmy Garoppolo.
Some fans might have been disappointed to miss out on Trevor Lawrence, but even they would have understood.
Seven high-round picks, for God's sake.
Four straight years of selecting the best talent available that year.
And even if they didn't want rookies, those picks could simply be recycled as trade capital to bring in the players they actually needed.
It was, quite literally, a winning hand.
"...Since we're on the subject."
"?"
"What kind of haul is that goddamn lucky team holding the 2023 No. 1 pick going to get offered?"
"...."
At national scout John Stevenson's casually tossed question, the Jacksonville scouting team went silent as mutes who'd swallowed honey.
Three first-round picks for a quarterback who hadn't played at an FBS school, barely showed anything at the FCS level — the second tier of college football.
And Trevor Lawrence's value: seven combined first- and second-round picks, plus a serviceable quarterback who'd thrown for 5,000 yards and 34 touchdowns over the past two years.
If Dwayne Moi Stone kept performing like this this year and next, the value of the 2023 NFL Draft's No. 1 overall pick was bound to skyrocket to unprecedented heights.
"I'd say five years of first-rounders just to open negotiations."
"Wouldn't that top the Herschel Walker trade?"
"Top it? That would just be the starting point."
"Whew — that's genuinely insane."
The value of the Georgia quarterback was climbing by the day.
And whichever team finished dead last in the NFL next year looked poised to obtain the future they desired — one way or another.
#. The same time
#-1. Chicago, Illinois, United States
#-2. Soldier Field
#-3. Front Office
The Chicago Bears are as famous as any team in the NFL for how long a single family has held them.
Halas.
Named for George Halas, a star end from the league's early days, Chicago took the name "Bears" because their crosstown baseball team, the Cubs, meant baby bear.
Today they are also known as the franchise with the oldest owner in all of professional sports — 98 years old.
Since the legendary season remembered as the '85 Bears, and since 2006, which might have delivered the team's second Super Bowl, Chicago has been mired in a long, stagnant swamp.
Over the last fifteen years, they've pressed the reset button four separate times, and not once has the rebuild taken.
The 2017 draft, in particular, which reduced the Chicago Bears to a laughingstock, was such a legendarily bad haul that even the verdict "Even the Cleveland Browns wouldn't have done this" got thrown around.
And this year, too, through an outrageous trade-up and free-agent signing, the Chicago Bears found themselves mocked yet again.
After all, they'd handed over their 2021 first-round and fifth-round picks, plus a 2022 first-rounder, to acquire a quarterback who would have slid to them at No. 20 anyway.
Worse, it later came out that not only the Giants — the other party in the trade — but every team picking from No. 12 through No. 19 had no intention of drafting a quarterback.
Reading the intentions of other teams and building your draft plan around it is itself a core competency. Which meant the general manager's incompetence had just been bared before the entire world, yet again.
The name of the man who had dragged the Bears into this pit of despair was Ryan Pace — the author of two of the worst drafts in NFL history.
And yet the reason he'd kept running the Bears was, curiously, that he produced good results in the win column.
Also important was the fact that the team's elderly owner doted on Ryan Pace like a grandson.
But.
"You're telling me you're scrapping the entire draft plan?"
"That's how it is. Just get the files organized."
"...."
Ryan Pace had been fired, effective moments ago.
He would leave the team when the season ended.
The decision came out of a meeting led by George McCaskey, son of owner Virginia Halas McCaskey — and the reason the scouts had been summoned today was that reset button, pressed yet again.
Which also meant that the other key officers of the front office would be losing their jobs along with him.
As the scouts filed out of the chairman's office with hollow expressions, George McCaskey — who had removed the sitting president and decided to run the team himself — pressed the speakerphone button and called for his secretary.
Click.
"Did you get ahold of Joanne?"
-Yes, sir.
Joanne McCaskey was George McCaskey's niece, a gifted student enrolled at Stanford.
A business major, Joanne McCaskey was slated to join the Bears the moment she graduated, and the family thought highly of her sharpness and her eye for the game of football.
By the original schedule she should have been on a plane to Chicago by now, but she'd been unreachable for the past two hours.
-Joanne's in Jacksonville right now.
"Jacksonville? Why on earth is she there?"
-She says she went to watch a college football game. Georgia versus Florida. A friend begged her into it, so it came together suddenly.
"This friend — the one you mentioned before?"
-I can't say for sure, but I believe so.
"I see. Understood."
Click.
Starting two years ago, her niece Joanne had found herself a best friend.
A granddaughter of the family group that owned Marathon Petroleum Corporation — one of America's leading oil refining, transport, and marketing companies — the two had met at Stanford.
That company, The A.G, headquartered in Findlay, Ohio, was currently plotting an acquisition of the Cleveland Browns.
With sitting owner Jimmy Haslam implicated in another massive tax-evasion scandal, the second of his career after 2013, they appeared to be circling the opening.
Only after confirming her niece's whereabouts did George McCaskey finally relax, and turn to carefully reviewing the plan for the fifth reset button he had just pressed.
"This time, for sure...."
With things as they were, last year's drafted quarterback, Justin Fields, had to be carried to the bitter end, come what may.
The future Chicago was currently planning involved deliberately gutting the roster as much as possible in the coming offseason to stockpile draft picks — and, ultimately, setting their sights on the No. 1 pick of 2023.
But unlike those other teams, they had no intention of drafting Dwayne Moi Stone. They wanted the future he could be traded for.
Multiple first-round picks.
Multiple second-round picks.
And multiple players.
That was the rebuilding strategy Chicago had in mind.
#. Miami, Florida, United States
#-1. TIAA Bank Field
4Q – 01:23
FLORIDA 0 0 7 0 — 7
GEORGIA 10 24 14 7 — 55
"That's it!!"
"THAT'S MY DAWG!! THAT'S! MY! DAWG!!"
"Go on, take a bite out of that!! Huh?!"
Just moments ago, freshman cornerback Kamari Lassiter — in the game only as a sub — had come down with an interception.
It was Florida's third giveaway of the day, and the mistake that would put the final period on the game.
Florida had stuck with their starting quarterback until the very end, trying to shave the deficit by even a point, but once it came to this, the result was worse than simply throwing in the backup.
The remaining minute and twenty-three seconds could be spent doing nothing at all.
The game was over.
"That makes it eight straight~~"
"We're unbeatable. Nobody can stop us."
"Eight in a row-!!"
"How's it taste!! Huh?!!"
Beat Florida by 48, and it would be the largest margin of victory in the rivalry since 51–0 in 1968.
Georgia had trailed the all-time series at 9 wins and 12 losses since the 2000s, but with this fifth straight win over the Gators they'd flipped the momentum — and now they'd ride a 48-point blowout straight into the future with all that swagger in tow.
Soon after, Stetson took the final snap and knelt it away, and with 31 seconds left, the game was simply over.
"Good work. Good work out there."
After trading greetings with the Florida players streaming past, I came face to face with Anthony Richardson, the freshman who'd played the second half as the Gators' backup quarterback.
He'd thrown a touchdown that even Emory Jones, the starter, couldn't manage — one scintillating pass that landed a direct hit on our defense.
It was just the one play, granted, but the way he kept grinding out rushing yards left an impression.
"You were impressive out there."
"Not compared to you, I wasn't."
"Squats. And footwork drills. That's all it'd take, and you'd get a lot better."
"Haha. What, you gonna be my coach now?"
"I'm dead serious. Remember what I said."
Maybe it was just a guy his age reacting that way to someone equally young telling him this, but he didn't exactly strike me as the type who worked all that hard.
What a shame.
A body like that.
His loss, I suppose.
After chatting a while longer with a few others, I did as I always did and went looking for Hannah.
But then.
"Hey!"
"...."
"HEY!!"
"Hm?"
Someone was calling out to me, and I turned my head.
Some girl was waving both arms in the air.
She had a t-shirt and a pen in her hands, and honestly it was the little boy standing next to her who caught my eye more than she did, so I shifted my steps over — figured I'd sign something at least.
Well, the person who called me first comes first.
I took the pen she held out.
"You're seriously incredible."
"Thanks. Want me to put a name on it?"
"Yeah. Michael. That's my little cousin's name."
"Getting it for your cousin, huh?"
"He's your fan. And I've been watching your play for a long time too, for what it's worth. How on earth are you that calm in the pocket?"
"It's my second life."
"Huh?"
"Haha. Just kidding. Here you go."
I handed back the shirt, then took the football the shy little boy beside her held up and signed that too.
Even in the middle of it, the girl kept chattering away.
"I'm Joanne!"
"Uh-huh."
Girls who pestered you at events like this, trying desperately to weave themselves into your life, existed by the truckload — so I assumed this was more of the same and made to brush past with a polite nod.
If she hadn't said what she said next.
"Joanne McCaskey! Niece of George McCaskey! You know George McCaskey, right?! He runs the Bears! Hey! Can you hear me?!"
"...."
It might have been utter nonsense, but at the words niece of the Chicago Bears' president, I stopped mid-stride and turned back to look at her.
Pale white skin and red hair.
Plain, understated clothes.
Apparently not the flashy type.
"Can I DM you?!"
"...Sure! Why would I say no?"
"Thank you! And!"
"?"
"Congratulations on the win! Good luck!"
"I've got more luck than I know what to do with. Take care!"
Whether she really was George McCaskey's niece was something I could verify later, when the DM actually came in.
Or I could just block her. Whatever.
"Who was that?"
"What, where?"
"You were talking to some girl over there for a minute."
"She said her little cousin's my fan, so we talked for a second."
"...No girls. I mean it."
Ever since the thing at the club last time, it was Hannah who'd started showing faint signs of possessiveness.
It was a little transparent. Steam was already hissing out of the kettle.
"See you outside in a bit."
"No kiss?"
"Not a chance."
I don't believe Hannah spent that whole night with another man. There was probably some flirting, some physical closeness, but I believe her when she says she came back alone, drunk.
It was simply that she broke a promise, and I was disappointed in her for it.
Love between a man and a woman is held in a glass cup called trust — and once it shatters and scatters, putting it back the way it was is nearly impossible.
Even if you glue the broken cup back together piece by piece, there will always be a hole somewhere, and everything inside will slowly leak out.
In the end, to make up for it, one side has to keep pouring feeling into the vessel without pause — and no human being can do that forever.
So. Has our cup already shattered?
Right now, I'm standing here, wondering.
#. October 31, 2021
#-1. Athens, Georgia, United States
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607
Knock knock.
Click.
"Oh! It's Squid Game, isn't it?"
"Nailed it on the first guess. And you're... unmistakably Mario."
Super. SUPER Mario, thank you very much. See this mushroom here?
"Good for you. Get in here."
James Cook, dressed head to toe as Super Mario, stepped inside, and I threw a salute at the person I came face to face with before shutting the door.
Click.
"Let the party continue-!"
Today was our first Halloween party of our college years.
The atmosphere was 180 degrees different from last year.
I was hosting it myself, right here in the dorm, and thanks to weeks of steady promotion the place was overflowing with people.
A white kid I'd met at school named Toby was on DJ duty, and the house was stocked to the rafters with food and drinks.
Admission required a negative COVID test from yesterday morning and proof of a first vaccine dose.
The football guys, naturally, got in automatically.
They'd all been tested yesterday, after all.
And every one of them was fully vaccinated.
The rules of the party were simple: No Drugs. No Sex.
That was the whole list.
"Where's your girl?"
"Over there."
Hannah was with her friends' girlfriends right now.
When our eyes met, she waved and smiled.
"What's she dressed as?"
"WandaVision."
"Ahh...."
"She even dyed it a little red this morning."
"A girlfriend who dyes her hair for a costume...."
"Kills me, right?"
"You're telling me...."
After bumping fists with James Cook, I grabbed two beer bottles off the table behind us and handed him one.
"Damn. Thank God — I'll at least get to enjoy my last Halloween."
"You've still got one last Christmas left."
"Which means I get to see that hideous sweater again this year."
"Kukukuku. I've got one too."
James Cook, a senior this year, was heading into the NFL Draft come spring.
He loved the university dearly and was dead set on graduating, so he'd kept his grades solid right alongside his football.
College football is full of guys who can't stay academically eligible and burn a fifth-year season instead — which made someone like James Cook, who'd finished every credit and was graduating on time, the rarer case.
Though, of course, the guys taking fifth-year seasons mostly do it because they lack the talent to get drafted anyway.
"You're leaving after next year, right?"
"Yeah."
"Gonna miss you."
"Eh. I can always come back later."
"You think your brain's still gonna work by then?"
"Says the guy acting like he's been through it?"
"Kukukukuku."
That quick exchange with James Cook was, in truth, about the diploma.
In America, finishing a four-year degree means taking at least four classes per semester — and graduating early demands a minimum of five.
But as a football recruit, I simply don't have that kind of time, and even squeezing in the minimum units UGA requires is a tightrope walk.
Some of the guys had told me that if that was the case, why bother managing grades at all — but keeping my credits in order is a matter of my own pride, too.
"Whatever I take on, I want to do it well. All of it."
"Greedy, aren't you."
"Obviously."
The mellow music shifted into something groovier, and a small cheer rippled through the room.
Was it time to start moving?
"This body's gotta go find its woman."
"Go for it. I'm gonna try to land one myself."
"Godspeed, you dog."
A Halloween party where everyone set their burdens down for one night and just enjoyed themselves.
Today, I had no intention of thinking about anything complicated.
"Let's go dance."
"Yeah."