I'm Bolder Than Usual

No sport anywhere in the world burns with quite as much fire as the SEC.

102,455 people.

Looking up at the stands of Neyland Stadium, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second-largest venue in the SEC after LSU, I found myself wondering what other sport on Earth could possibly pull in a crowd like this. Word was that the eighth-largest stadium on the planet had just recorded its second sellout of the season.

This is probably why so many football players remember their college games more vividly than anything they played in the pros.

It's beautiful.

Absolutely beautiful.

But.

"BOOOOOOO-!!!"

"MOI, SUCK!!"

Today, in this place, my team and I were the absolute enemy.

And not just any enemy — we were receiving a ferocious, full-throated hostility.

Do whatever you like. I'm going to do what I came here to do.

"…."

#. November 5, 2021

#-1. Knoxville, Tennessee, USA

#-2. Neyland Stadium

▷ 1Q – 0:37

14 – 14, Georgia (1)

10 – 10, Tennessee

The reason we'd surrendered double digits in a single quarter for the first time all season was Jermaine Burton's fumble.

On the opening drive, I lined up in the shotgun. Quick throw right after the snap. Early on, everything looked like it was going exactly to plan — until Tennessee's No. 13, Kamai Hayden, drilled JB with a tackle that knocked the ball loose. No. 1 of Tennessee scooped it up and sprinted straight for the end zone, and since our play design had left the left side completely empty, there was nothing we could do but watch the points go up. 0–7 to start the game.

Worse, we immediately gave away possession on two ridiculous penalties, and with 9:51 left in the quarter the score had become 0–10.

With a comeback desperately needed, Coach Smart and Coach Monken vented a storm of fury at the offense, and I — the man responsible for the position — promised I'd fix it, then stood in front of my teammates and bellowed without mercy. Just like this:

"HOW 'BOUT THEM DAWGS!!!"

HOW 'BOUT THEM OOOO is a nationwide catchphrase born from Dallas Cowboys fans, and it translates roughly to "OOOO is the best" or "How do you like OOOO now?"

The reason I'd shouted it the way I did, down 0–10, was to make my teammates — who could easily have shrunk under the pressure — remember who we were. That we were the best.

And that was exactly what it had become.

How's it taste when it's done to you?

On our third offensive drive of the day, we spent two minutes and fifty-one seconds finishing off a rushing touchdown through James Cook, and after the defense took the ball back in just three minutes, we scored again.

The play this time was our signature 'shake-the-tail' tactic, and AD, who ran his route exactly as drawn, hauled in a beautiful catch.

Now, the momentum had shifted.

"Shouldn't you have been doing this from the start?"

"Why are you giving me a hard time, Coach? I did my job fine."

"Well, you're the quarterback, aren't you!"

"…That is a perfectly valid point."

"Damn right it is!"

"I'm riding the momentum, Coach. I'll keep pushing."

"Look after Brock a little. He looks like garbage today."

"Yes, Sir."

Just as Coach Monken said, Brock looked rough today. His route running was as crisp as ever, but the blocking was another matter.

Since we'd gone to 1-2 PG, we were short a receiver, which meant the pocket needed extra protection for longer — but with one side getting punched open over and over, I'd already been sacked twice. I checked a moment ago: the spot along my left side, running down toward the hip bone, was burning red.

It still stings even now.

I got hit good, no question.

"Don't overthink it."

"…Yeah."

"If blocking's a struggle, just run your routes. Leave the blocking to Darnell. Forcing something when it isn't working never ends well. Sometimes taking the long way around is far wiser."

"I'll push through at least until halftime."

"Do that. Then just remember one thing. See No. 38 there? When he kicks his right foot out like a charging bull — that's the blitz signal. When that happens, you abandon your lineman and pick up 38. Got it?"

"I'll try."

"Good."

Darnell's been getting all the headlines lately, but the reliable, warm-stew-like presence on this offense is still Brock.

Thanks to the yards he grinds out on his routes, stretching defenses from their own territory all the way to midfield, our offense has sprouted wings. People tend to evaluate receivers individually, but broadcasters and former players know that everything on a football field is layered and organic.

The value of a tight end who forces an entire backfield to stay attached to him is beyond words.

Because of Brock, opposing teams are sometimes forced to insert a Nickel, and even when they don't, they have to dedicate an extra defender to him. He also drags backfields into zone coverage — and that kind of development is usually my favorite thing in the world.

Stack two or three receivers to one side, run them through precisely woven routes, and an opening will appear for one of them.

Our second score just now was exactly that.

Zone coverage cannot stop me.

The first quarter was about to end, so I stepped onto the field to meet the returning defense.

"Let's Go! Let's Go!"

To make full use of the two minutes of rest we'd been given, Coach Smart gathered the entire team around him. As I walked over, I lifted my head.

Up there. The VIP section.

He's up there. Peyton Manning.

"…."

The conversation we'd once shared came back to me.

["Well, if it isn't My Man-!"]

["The Sheriff. It's an honor to meet you, Sir."]

["There are a lot of stories floating around ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about you."]

["I hope they're good ones."]

["Haha. Of course. They say you run options in the red zone? And that you call the personnel groupings and direct the entire playbook yourself. Is that true?"]

["Yes, Sir."]

["Whoa. You know what? You're going to be even greater than me."]

["I appreciate that, Sir."]

["Keep grinding like you are."]

If anyone ever asked me what kind of quarterback I wanted to be, I'd tell them this: one who plays with the philosophy of Tom Brady and the execution of Peyton Manning.

Tom Brady, methodically bludgeoning a defense to death with short passes and relentless sequential offense, favored the middle of the field — which made the roles of his slot receivers and tight ends absolutely crucial. That's exactly what I'm doing now.

The only difference is that I lean far more heavily on my split ends than Brady ever did, precisely because churning up the middle and bunching the defense inside leaves the softened flanks ripe for the picking.

Of course, that's just the foundation of things — I don't run it the same way every single time.

And this is where the resemblance to Peyton Manning comes in. Especially in the red zone.

The second quarter began in short order.

And I showed them.

An offensive drive starting off a defensive stop.

We cracked the red zone.

"Under 45! Jet Rocker. Ice Cream. 456 Sanchez."

The moment I took the play from the bench and layered my own touches on top to complete the tactic, I judged that Tennessee's defense could withstand this drive.

So I did this instead.

"Switch! Switch!!"

"?"

"45 GINO!! 45 GINO!! Zamir! Jackson, Jackson!"

The original design was a play-action fake to Zamir after the snap, followed by a pass to Brock on the Jet Sweep, attacking the left edge.

But right now I'd called 45 Gino, a blocking scheme — and as the O-line fired into their gaps, Zamir would plunge in.

Whether I actually handed him the ball was my call.

And I wasn't going to.

Tennessee hadn't decoded our play, but seeing my teammates shift positions to match the audible, they adjusted their defense accordingly.

The middle got thicker. The flanks, thinner.

"Red 80!! Turbo, SET!!"

Take the snap, turn back, fake the handoff. Play action. Then I tucked the ball and took off running to the left.

I could see Tennessee's No. 2 and No. 4, camped in the right corner of the end zone, waver for just an instant — and as I built up my momentum, they read my intent and burst forward.

But I was already three yards from the goal line. Without a hint of hesitation, I dove, my right arm — the one cradling the ball — stretched out in front of me.

The standard for a football touchdown is simple.

Cross the goal line in possession of the ball. That's all.

You don't have to touch it to the ground.

The ball in my hand plowed into the pylon planted at the corner of the end zone and knocked it over. Having slipped past No. 2's desperate, grazing tackle attempt, I tumbled a couple of times out of bounds along the sideline — then sprang straight up and hurled the football, which I hadn't let go of for a single second, down into the field.

Otherwise known as the Gronk Spike.

(Gronk Spike).

One of the most common touchdown celebrations in the NFL, created by Rob Gronkowski, the greatest tight end of the post-2010s era. Every decent tight end spikes the ball after scoring — this time, I'd come up with it half on the spot and just slammed it into the turf.

My teammates came crashing into me.

Either way, the bottom line was that Tennessee had humiliated us in the first quarter, and I intended to pay it back in full.

Fortunately, the defense felt exactly the same.

Second quarter.

Georgia's trademark defense roared back to life.

In the drive that followed the concession, Tennessee couldn't cross their own 25-yard line, and on our fresh possession we began tormenting a now-shaken Tennessee defense.

Thirteen yards. Six yards. Five yards. Twenty-one yards.

A drive that started at our own 31 advanced another 45 yards over seven tries.

We weren't in the red zone yet, but I decided there was more than enough room to gamble — and so I called my second audible.

"MOM SAID COME HOME!!"

Yes.

That exact play.

An emptied backfield. Two tight ends flanking the right side of the O-line.

In this scheme, the slot receiver is the target — and I planned to hand that role to Brock.

He'd come back to life for sure in the second quarter, and if he could find the end zone here, the second half would take care of itself.

But this chance would come only once.

Brock had to deliver too.

Before the snap, I sent Brock, who had been lined up on the right alongside Darnell, over to the left. Tennessee's No. 38 in the middle shifted right in response — but with two wide receivers already over there, they'd opt to wall it off with zone coverage.

If Tom Brady was lethal after the snap, Peyton Manning was a master of painting the picture before it.

Just like him, right now inside my head, Tennessee's defense was already moving — I could see exactly how it would unfold.

Of course, I could be wrong. The odds were fifty-fifty.

But what mattered was whether I trusted my own read, and whether I could attempt the gamble with PLAN B — and the plan after that — already waiting in my head in case PLAN A got slammed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shut.

I was ready. All my teammates had to do was move.

"GO RED 80-!! READY-!! SET!!"

Sedrick's snap came in a touch low, but I sank my hips fast to take it cleanly, then straightened up immediately.

After all, I needed time.

My eyes had been locked on Brock from the very start, and the instant I confirmed No. 38 backpedaling after him was choosing to patrol his zone rather than chase, I swung my arm without hesitation.

The spot I was throwing to was empty right now.

But it was about to be exactly where Brock would arrive.

The score that had stood at 14–10 at the end of the first quarter was suddenly 27–10. If we converted the PAT it would be 28–10, and even if the extra point failed, the momentum had already swung entirely our way.

In football, a single missed field goal or PAT can change everything — but this time, I had absolute confidence that no such blunder would trip us up.

Camarda nailed the kick with total confidence, and on the very next possession we sank a 36-yard field goal.

31–10.

As the lead ballooned in the blink of an eye, I could feel the far sideline and the crowd starting to wobble.

But this wasn't over yet.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

Or, more precisely — atoning for a teammate's mistake.

With Tennessee facing 2nd & 8 at our own 36-yard line, Nakobe came off a blitz, shed the No. 58 blocker, and charged straight at the quarterback. From the hands of Tennessee's signal-caller Hendon Hooker — hammered by a tackle painful just to watch — the ball squirted loose.

Travon scooped it up. Standing 6'5" (196 cm) but flaunting a nimble 270-pound (roughly 122 kg) frame, the big man rumbled an incredible 33 more yards before finally going down.

The sideline had long since been pandemonium. We bounced in place and screamed our lungs out, roaring at the top of our voices and showering the defense — who had done it yet again — with praise without reservation.

First and goal at the 21, just outside the red zone.

Coach Monken came over to me.

"Let's go straight to the option."

"Yes, Sir."

"1-2. Put James in. He looks good today."

"Let's do it. What's the call?"

"Wing Man."

When I declared I was pulling the Wing Man out of the drawer where it had sat since early in the season, Coach Monken asked if I was serious.

Admittedly, even without me playing lead run-blocker, we could at least count on a field goal.

But look at this atmosphere. How on earth do you just let a moment like this pass by?

Considering the energy pouring out of my teammates and the swagger currently swallowing the entire team, it felt like not using Wing Man right now would be a crime.

In the huddle formed before we broke the huddle — I delivered the call.

"Gun. Marching Band. Left Wing Man. Left Swing. 654 Double."

"DAMN!! This is a real play?!"

"I drew it up. Why?"

"Because it's INSANE, that's why!! Let's run it!! This is gonna be so much fun!!"

"Time to shoot some adrenaline. Let's Go!"

Clap!!

Maybe it was because of that conversation with Peyton Manning.

I'm bolder than usual.

Not that I'm blindly bulldozing forward — every tactic, every possible response, I'm still coldly sketching out in my head at all times.

As the formation set itself, a thought suddenly struck me.

If this works, it's going to need a new play name.

Marching Band, at its core, peels some of the O-linemen off the line to serve as bodyguards for the running back — and on top of that, I'm planning to take on the job of protecting James Cook myself.

What would fit?

Princess?

A princess must be protected, after all.

Hmm. Not bad.

Resolving to run it by Coach Smart later, I bellowed the call with everything I had, into a Neyland Stadium drenched in boos.

"READY-!! SET!!"

* * *

#. The same moment

#-1. VIP Section

The instant a quarterback was added to an offensive scheme that protects its running back through the O-linemen every team already has, the people watching it could no longer stay in their seats.

When Dwayne Moi Stone started running, Peyton Manning shot up from his chair — and when the young man plowed Tennessee's safety into the turf, the whole section filled with gasps.

And then, the touchdown on top of it all.

"What the HELL IS THAT?!"

As if he couldn't believe his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own eyes, Peyton Manning grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and the people around him wore nearly identical expressions.

This was the moment his alma mater was being dismantled in front of the whole country — and even so, this once, there was nothing he could do about it.

Everyone would understand.

It was that astonishing.

"Moi is toying with them, completely."

"The gap is just brutal."

"Georgia is the real deal this year. They already had the best defense in the nation — and now their offense is elite too. Without the quarterback they'd probably rank around fifth in the country, but Moi has upgraded the entire product."

Having delivered his short and weighty assessment, Peyton Manning predicted that another massive storm would break the moment today's game ended.

Georgia's quarterback was showing everything today.

Passing. Rushing. Audibles.

And run-blocking on top of it all.

Dwayne Moi Stone's play was like an assortment box packed with every joy the game had to offer — a continuous chain of moments that would have NFL owners drooling uncontrollably.

It was no accident his jersey was the third best-selling in the nation. No accident that the broadcast networks were salivating.

Good quarterbacks are always around. Some of them are even exceptional.

But.

Becoming a star is a different thing entirely.

You need a magnetism the public cannot refuse — and you need to know how to produce results worthy of it.

Whatever team it ended up being, the franchise that landed Dwayne Moi Stone in next year's draft would experience at least a thirty percent economic surge. Season ticket prices would leap, and any empty seats left behind by years of losing records would fill with fans without the slightest effort.

What's more, at the very start of his debut, networks would compete furiously just to broadcast his games — and after two or three of those, the franchise would print enormous money.

Advertising rates for football games are extraordinarily expensive.

They blow past every other sport, casually.

He'll build a legend, and then leave.

Georgia seemed impossible to stop now. And they showed no intention of stopping themselves.

His alma mater's defeat had come squarely into view.

But.

'This is fun.'

Peyton Manning was watching today's game not as a Tennessee graduate, but in the pure spirit of a football fan.

.

.

.

.