It Wasn't About the Ice Cream to Begin With, Was It?
On trade deadline day, the NFL was passing through one of the quietest stretches in its history.
Click.
Click.
Jon Robinson, general manager of the Tennessee Titans, idly flicking the end of his ballpoint pen, found the whole situation deeply fascinating.
Draft pick prices had soared through the roof, and everyone was simply trying to grab their cut. When you considered that a trade was supposed to happen somewhere in the middle ground between a small loss and a modest gain, it was only natural the market had frozen over.
Jon Robinson looked around the room at the assembled staff, and his mind drifted back to last winter.
"Let me ask you a question."
"…."
"…."
"Did we make a mistake?"
Born in Union City, Tennessee, Jon Robinson had entered the football world as a coach at his alma mater, but he soon realized he was drawn to front-office work rather than life on the field. Starting in 2002 as a regional scout for the New England Patriots, he was recognized for his ability and climbed steadily, serving as head of player personnel in Tampa before becoming the Titans' general manager in 2016.
The general verdict on him landed somewhere around "not bad," though critics noted he tended to be too passive at crucial moments.
The reason a man like that had asked his staff whether the team had made a mistake was a massive contract signed the previous winter.
The Titans' current starting quarterback. Ryan Tannehill. A man rated as an ordinary backup or, at best, a bridge quarterback who could carry an offense for about a year — and the team had handed him four years and a staggering 118 million dollars.
Yes, he had delivered a sensational 2019 season, good enough to win Comeback Player of the Year, but the prevailing opinion was that it was simply too much money.
The Titans had always built their identity on a suffocating defense, and for the past decade the quarterback position had given them nothing but headaches.
Jake Locker. Marcus Mariota.
Jake Locker had been drafted fourth overall in the first round back in 2011, but repeated injuries against NFL-level defenses forced him into an early retirement by 2015. Over thirty career games, he posted a 57.5% completion rate with 4,967 passing yards, 27 touchdowns — and 22 interceptions. For the fourth pick in the draft, it was a disappointing return on just about every count.
So in April 2015, Tennessee turned to Marcus Mariota, the Oregon redshirt junior from Honolulu, Hawaii, who had won the Heisman Trophy and captured the nation's attention. Using their own first-round pick at second overall, the team hoped this time they had finally found the man to lead their offense.
But despite five years of the organization's full-throated support, Marcus Mariota never developed into a true NFL starter.
And so the team had been forced to go hunting for a bridge quarterback yet again. Only this time, the man they found hit the jackpot.
Had they simply been too desperate? Had one decent year of production so intoxicated them that they committed an absurd mountain of money?
Ryan Tannehill had given the team an 11-5 record and a playoff berth last season, to be sure. But even if he could carry them through the regular season, he was not the kind of player who would deliver victories in January and February.
The AFC South, the division Tennessee belonged to, had long been regarded as the easiest road to the playoffs. Some even called it the farm league of divisions — because making the playoffs there was simply too easy.
"Six and two. That's a fine record, no question. But it's not because of an exceptional quarterback. It's a great defense. And Derrick Henry. We all know what's holding this team up right now."
Despite a quarterback whose quality swung wildly from year to year, Tennessee had still managed to reach the playoffs on several occasions — thanks to Derrick Henry, the running back known as King Henry.
Derrick Henry had arrived at high school already boasting a fully built 6-3, 240-pound frame, and on the strength of it he rose to become the most coveted running back prospect in the country. After an adjustment period in college, he exploded onto the national stage by winning the Heisman Trophy in 2015.
Yet when he actually entered the NFL Draft, he was met with skepticism — his body was deemed too big to play running back.
But in 2019, Derrick Henry proved that in the NFL too, a running back could carry an entire team on his back, elevating himself into the league's most feared offensive weapon.
This year, he had been relentless as ever, on pace to break the single-season rushing record — until yesterday's game against the Indianapolis Colts, where he suffered a season-ending injury.
And so, just hours ago, the Tennessee Titans had brought in veteran Adrian Peterson, who hadn't taken a live snap since September of last year. It looked like the immediate fire had been put out, but with Henry gone, a collapse in the standings was as predictable as sunrise.
The quarterback they had believed in so firmly. But the foundation of that belief was paper-thin. Without Derrick Henry, the Tennessee Titans had become a team that could expect nothing from its offense.
Of course, if the constant of their defense and the variable of Adrian Peterson's play both broke the right way, the regular season might not be much of a problem.
What mattered was the playoffs. And the Super Bowl.
"An elite quarterback."
As the meeting — little more than an exchange of grievances — drew to a close, Jon Robinson found himself thinking of a certain quarterback who would be flying into Tennessee this weekend.
A quarterback with exactly the same nickname as the running back the Titans were so proud of.
This coming weekend, the No. 1 college team in the nation, the Georgia Bulldogs, would face the Tennessee Volunteers in a Week 10 matchup.
Right now, media outlets everywhere were saying that anywhere from 14 to as many as 20 Georgia players could be drafted in next year's NFL Draft. Even the low estimate of 14 was a staggering number — since the draft was restructured into its full seven-round format in 1994, only two programs had ever produced 14 drafted players.
Ohio State in 2004. LSU just last year. If we sent 15 or more players to the draft next year, we would be writing a brand-new record.
Why was I bringing this up? Because of that guy over there.
Anthony Robinson, a college scout for the Atlanta Falcons, had been showing up on campus nearly every other day since last week. And today he'd brought minions with him. A new hire, apparently. Looked like it.
"Atlanta's been busy lately, huh?"
"They're right next door."
"Fair enough. What are they even missing?"
"O-line. Secondary."
"Whew— that's a rough shopping list."
If we define everything innate as talent, then football is a sport wrapped entirely in talent. Your body is innate too. Yes,The day after tomorrow effort can develop it — but that's really just painting a layer of hard work over the foundation already laid down by the thing called talent.
Some people look at linemen and say, "Don't they just need to be big?" To which I say: a thousand times no. Even with identical measurements, the quality of muscle and joints is heaven and earth apart between top-round prospects and late-round ones. In a sport where you spend your entire career testing your body's limits and grinding away at that ceiling, a naturally durable body is an enormous advantage. The toll injuries take here is greater than in any other sport.
Missing 4 out of 17 games is far more devastating than missing 10 out of 82 or 20 out of 162. That's why football emphasizes health as a virtue more than any other sport, and why a player with high durability is prized regardless of position.
Anyway. Atlanta, after a bottom-of-the-table season, holds the eighth overall pick in the 2022 NFL Draft — and using that pick on an offensive lineman from this year's pool would be a slight waste of talent.
Zamir or Justin would be, at best, fourth-round material, and the elite names — Broderick and Peter — are in the same class as me, only two years in. And yet they keep showing up? There's really only one explanation.
A trade.
Atlanta needs to start preparing for the post–Matt Ryan (QB) era, and this year's quarterback class being an absolute disaster must sting for them. Will they really be looking toward next year? Toward the end of Matt Ryan's contract? If so, they could start rebuilding from the line out.
Just as this year's quarterback pool is being called pathetic, there are positions that overflow with talent every year — and this year, that figurehead is expected to be the offensive and defensive linemen. Grabbing a solid lineman now is a win in itself, and existing assets can be used as trade chips down the road.
So. "They're going to jump into this too."
"Huh? What?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
With the memories of having sat on both sides of the table — as a front-office man and as a head coach — I could half-see what was moving behind the curtain. The everyday moments that seemed utterly ordinary. The gestures that seemed like nothing at all. Deciphering the meaning hidden in them was, admittedly, a matter for the impossibly distant future of 2023.
But someone, without a doubt, was already in motion. Because they wanted me. Or else to scavenge whatever crumbs they could.
Still, one thing was equally certain: the NFL is the sport with the most chaos, scandal, and sheer nonsense of them all. It's a place crawling with beasts so saturated with testosterone they've gone from stallion to lunatic, and once they cross the fence from college into the pros, half of them start believing they're gods.
Back in the day, I had worn my hands raw trying to tame those beasts into house cats. Being an Asian-looking head coach, I got brushed off constantly, and the moment I showed genuine fury at bullying disguised as pranks, everyone decided I wasn't cool. That part was fine. It was the kind of prejudice that evaporates as long as you produce results. And I did, in fact, produce them.
"Mo-i!"
"Hey, your girlfriend's calling you."
"Shut up. I'm off."
"Yep."
After giving Broderick Jones a light smack on the back of the head for calling Coach Monken my girlfriend, I hurried off toward the spot where the quarterbacks were gathering.
"You planning on warming up for the rest of your life?"
"No way, Coach. You just seemed low on energy lately, so I've been stretching out your idle time for you."
"Insolent punk! Think you can do some push-ups?"
"Forty? Fifty?"
"Wrong! Sixty!"
"Yes, sir."
Other people just can't understand that this is how Coach Monken and I play around. Even now, Van was staring at me like I'd lost my mind, and I finished a leisurely sixty push-ups and gave him a wink. He looked bewildered. Coach Monken clicked his tongue.
"Mo-i's eyeballs are permanently broken, but otherwise everyone's fine, right?! Let's go! Arms first, everyone, get them loose!"
This time we were headed to Knoxville, Tennessee. Hannah wouldn't be coming — a family event.
Why weren't we flying today? First, Athens was being hammered by wind and rain. And second — honestly, it barely makes a difference either way.
The flight to Knoxville takes about an hour, but the airport you land at is a bit out of the way, requiring another 30 minutes by bus. Rather than heading from campus to the airport, landing, transferring to a bus, and grinding through another half hour, a four-hour road trip was simply the better option.
It's got romance to it. What's not to like?
Plus, we got to travel in comfortable clothes. Though tomorrow, of course, we'd show up at the stadium in suits. Tradition and respect matter.
"Damn— feels like that weather earlier never even happened."
"Right?"
Once we'd left Athens behind and driven a while north, the sky that had been dark and spitting rain showed us a bright, clear face. Darnell in the seat beside me was already asleep under his headphones, so my conversation partners were Broderick across the aisle and Peter next to him. Broderick, whose attention had drifted off to the changed sky for a moment, came back with the tone of a man reclaiming a loan.
"Anyway, you're buying us ice cream later."
"Not even a 'please' — just 'you're buying'?"
"Damn— Dude! You eat because of us, don't you?"
"Just say you want to mooch for free."
"Kek-kek-kek. Now that'd be too blunt."
Wow. And this isn't blunt?
But whatever I said out loud, I was always ready to open my wallet for the O-linemen. I'd looked after them attentively since high school — if the big guys up front were willing to throw their bodies on the line for me, the odds of a clean pocket forming went way up. Also, they're kind of adorable.
Just look at these monsters, well past 300 pounds with faces like gravediggers, begging for free ice cream.
We'd get about 40 minutes of free time after arriving at the hotel and finishing our team meeting, before dinner. That's when we'd slip outside quickly and grab it.
"Did you scout out a good spot?"
"Oh— of course."
"What's this now? Cruze Farm?"
"It's this place. Ice cream and a show — two birds, one stone."
"You've got to be kidding me…."
The place Broderick had looked up, called Cruze Farm, was basically a wholesome version of Hooters. The girls weren't flaunting cleavage or anything, but they wore Alpine-maid-style outfits and took your order with a bright, fresh smile — then personally served the ice cream to your table.
It was never about the ice cream to begin with, was it?
"Hell Yeah!"
"…Shamelessness at that level is a talent."
"You're too kind."
And there I was, struck speechless in the face of sheer, unfiltered audacity. So this is how Coach Monken usually feels?
From my seat aboard one of four buses rolling steadily toward Knoxville, Tennessee, I briefly gained firsthand empathy for how my own brand of shamelessness might land on other people.
…
Gonna keep doing it anyway.
Taking a taxi twelve miles each way for a single scoop of ice cream is the kind of idea only a certified madman comes up with. The moment I learned just how far the hotel was from Cruze Farm, the whole thing suddenly became hilarious — I even felt something close to a thrill. And here it was: Knoxville's pride, Cruze Farm. I went with the Toasted Coconut Dip.
"I'm telling you, they need one of these in Athens."
"Seriously? You get worked up over that kind of thing?"
"Girls lose their minds over a uniform too. Everybody's got a fantasy! Am I wrong?"
"Me, no."
"Same."
"Oh, that's rich! You're obsessed with Black Widow!"
"That's because it's Scarlett Johansson!!"
Hm. For once, Zamir had a point. She was gorgeous in the Marvel movies. And in Lucy too.
"When we go pro, I'm absolutely landing a girl like that. You feel me? A jaw-dropping gorgeous woman. That's the future."
"Yeah, good luck with that."
This was about the caliber of conversation you'd expect from twenty-year-old hot-blooded males who'd just discovered a wholesome Hooters.
"Excuse me~~"
"Oh! Move, move!"
The moment the server Broderick had pointed out earlier as his favorite approached with our ice cream, he swiftly shoved me and Zamir aside to clear a landing zone. Then he flashed a smile.
Ugh. I saw something I never wanted to see.
"You guys are from Georgia, aren't you?"
"Yep. How'd you know?"
"You doofus. Look at what the man is wearing."
"Oh. True."
"Kek-kek-kek-kek."
Every time Broderick, thoroughly hypnotized by the girl, flubbed line after line, we had to fight for our lives to keep from bursting out laughing. Wait — this was his character? Broderick, who looked like he'd melt into a puddle on the spot, sawed off the departing girl with a pitiful aegyo farewell, and we all let out a silent scream and pointed fingers at him in unison. Zamir went so far as to mime throwing up. "Bleeeurgh!"
While Broderick, instantly promoted to designated prey, got ragged on by the others, I snapped a photo and posted it to social media, then slid my phone back into my pocket.
"…You said she's not coming this week?"
"Yeah. Family event, apparently."
"A free man, for once. You gonna make a move?"
"Not really? Not thinking about it."
When I answered Peter, Zamir — done teasing Broderick — picked the earlier thread back up and handed it to me.
"Pick one."
"What?"
"Selena Gomez? Or Ariana Grande."
"Both are a no, but Ariana Grande."
"Shiiit. Both a no? You're just into blonde white girls, admit it."
"Not really."
"Fine then, pick. What's your type?"
First off: Sydney Sweeney.
"Oh, she is seriously…."
"Perfect answer. Next?"
If I could choose any woman and were guaranteed to end up dating her, I'd personally want to meet Kendall Jenner at least once. But NBA players were her type. Her boyfriends were all from that world, every single one.
"But that's all just dating talk."
"If not dating? Marriage?"
"Yeah— for that, I'd want a smart woman. You know the type. So wise you just end up respecting her."
"…I don't get it."
"Me neither."
"You're insane. What are you, a grandpa?"
"This is why I can't talk to you kids."
"Hilarious."
"Kek-kek-kek."
I'd have loved to keep gossiping here all afternoon, but we had to leave soon or we'd be late for dinner. And being late meant real trouble. Miss it three times and you're suspended from playing.
"Excuse me!"
"?"
"You got something on you. Wipe it off with this."
"…."
The pink-bobbed girl I'd seen at the counter earlier had pressed a napkin into my hand, claiming I'd gotten something on me. Except… nothing was on me?
"…Ah."
Something clicked, and I stepped outside and unfolded the napkin folded in half. Sure enough, her phone number was written right there.
The guys watching over my shoulder lost their minds even harder.
"OHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"HE'S STILL GOT IT—!!!!"
Does she not know I have a girlfriend? Does she just assume I'm some football player? Well. Fair enough, I suppose. I felt my shoulders straighten slightly at the first flirtation in a while. Then I got in the taxi, rode a short way, and flicked the napkin out into the wind.
If I'd been single, I'd have texted her. But not while I was in a relationship. Cheating is just wrong, period.
That said…
"…."
Hannah must be busy — her messages were scattered and sparse again today. Hm—