Rivalries Always Mean Something
Clean, Old-Fashioned Hate.
It's the rivalry between the Bulldogs and the Yellow Jackets. In other words, us and Georgia Tech.
The two universities, sitting barely seventy miles apart in Athens and Atlanta, have competed across every field imaginable for over a century, and no battleground has been fiercer than football.
Aside from last year, when the schedule was reshuffled by COVID-19, they're also famous for playing every single year during Thanksgiving week.
And as the name suggests, the atmosphere at this weekend's game promises to be deeply personal — raw, unfiltered hatred on full display.
Still, the game itself is bound to be a blowout.
GTU is a 3-and-8 team this year.
Granted, they went 3-6 last year too, languishing at the bottom of the ACC, but I'd heard they at least put up a more interesting fight then.
Swack.
I reached to the side, picked up the bottle of cola, and brought it straight to my mouth.
"Whew-"
I was currently watching film of GTU's defense from this season on my tablet, and the reason they're a bottom-feeder was on full display. When you consider that head coach Geoff Collins first built his reputation as a defensive coach, a collapse like this in his third year at the helm is hard to fathom.
Should I blame the defensive coordinator?
Maybe. No — actually, almost certainly.
"Unbelievable…."
Maybe it's just the habits and memories left over from my days working as a football coach, but every time I watched an amateur coach fail at the three basic virtues he absolutely must uphold, my blood pressure climbed.
Recruiting. Development. Deployment.
A football coach's job is to stock the roster with talented players, develop their abilities through fall camp, and then position them where they can actually succeed.
But for reasons I couldn't begin to guess, GTU's coaches — I could overlook the first two, maybe — had been playing their guys in all the wrong spots. A kid who should be at linebacker was sitting deep at safety, while a kid built to play edge was planted in the middle of the box.
Good for me, I suppose, but what did those kids do to deserve it?
Ten of the starters or near-starters on GTU's defense were seniors. When you factor that in, defensive numbers this bad were proof that their recruiting had failed too.
Fine, no 5-Stars — the program's been down lately, I get it — but they should have made up the difference with 4-Stars and 3-Stars.
The last game of the season looks like it'll be a comfortable one.
What was that I said just now?
You heard me.
This week, the 2021 college football regular season comes to an end. The game after this one is the SEC Championship — against, in all likelihood, Alabama.
….
I set the tablet down for a moment and picked up my phone instead.
Hannah didn't come to Athens last week. Said she had a friend's surprise birthday party.
I already consider the relationship effectively over. The only question is when she'll finally tell me the truth. That's all I'm waiting on now.
The photos taken in the jacuzzi of that luxury villa — you know, the trip she claimed was just the girls — showed no trace of any other woman. Not anywhere.
Whatever.
Even back when we were first getting to know each other, Hannah would go on about how she liked "older men," or how she'd "never dated anyone longer than three months."
How long were we together? Four months, give or take?
While we were together, I did the best I could, and I never so much as looked at another girl — so I have no regrets there. It's just that dating is a little exhausting. Because you can't help but hope for something.
Monday night. Being alone at a time like this is actually a relief.
#. November 22, 2021 — Tuscaloosa, Alabama — Mal M. Moore Athletic Facility — Head Coach's Office
The outlook for the 2021 Alabama Crimson Tide — a program long rated alongside Georgia as the traditional powers of the SEC — looked much as it always did: crystal clear.
Yes, they'd lost key players at every position on both sides of the ball, but over the past few years they'd restocked with the best talent in the nation, year in and year out. The hole on the offensive line that some pundits had flagged? Filled by landing the Tommy and James Brockermeyer twins. Beyond that, freshmen like JC Latham, Dallas Turner, Damieon Payne, and Jarden Roberts were slotted in to shore up the offensive line and the front seven.
The void left by Mac Jones, meanwhile, could be filled by Bryce Young — rated the No. 2 quarterback recruit in last year's class.
Their aggregate talent might be a shade smaller than last year's. But not nearly small enough to keep them from overtaking Georgia, the best team in the country.
Nick Saban, head coach of Alabama. He genuinely believed it.
And then trouble erupted from a completely unexpected quarter.
Personnel.
It all began when Steve Sarkisian — who had served at Saban's side through last season, running Alabama's offense — took the head coaching job at Texas.
A total turnover of the offensive staff. When a college coordinator gets a head coaching job, it's standard practice for the offensive assistants he worked with to follow him out the door.
Tight ends. Running backs. Offensive line. Cornerbacks. Special teams. Four coaches who had managed five position groups packed their bags and followed their leader to the Longhorns, and even the quarterback room Sarkisian had overseen himself was handed to a new voice.
Bill O'Brien.
The man had coached the NFL's Houston Texans from the 2014 season through the middle of 2020. He'd come up in the tree of Bill Belichick — the greatest head coach in NFL history.
But like so many failed protégés of the Belichick tree before him, Bill O'Brien trod the exact same path: he parlayed the reputation gained in a master's shadow into a position of responsibility, tried to imitate the philosophy exemplified by "The Patriot Way," and crashed spectacularly.
O'Brien's Texans made the playoffs four times in six years, but his heavy-handed approach turned the locker room into a disaster zone, and the franchise's operations rotted along with it.
And yet Nick Saban rated Bill O'Brien's offensive coaching highly. His reasoning: as long as O'Brien wasn't handed full authority, they could cherry-pick his strengths alone.
….
Nick Saban, likewise with one regular-season game left to play. His eyes were locked on the monitor.
"Still no improvement."
"Worst it's been since 2007."
"It's like they've got duct tape on the bottoms of their feet. Not one of them knows what his own job is. Damn it. We should be far, far better than this."
Alabama currently sat at 11-1 — the best record in the SEC West. Until last week they'd been the No. 2 team in the nation behind Georgia, but after giving up 35 points at home to Arkansas, their advanced metrics slipped and they surrendered the spot to Michigan.
Saban knew better. He knew the AP poll didn't matter — it was an inherently unfair ranking to begin with. What mattered was the message embedded in each week's poll, and that message was unmistakable: Alabama's play on the field was not good.
"Doug is a disaster. And Bob, who brought him in, is a disaster too."
"Bob" — BOB — was the nickname for Bill O'Brien. Bill O'Brien.
And "Doug" was Doug Marrone, the man who'd coached the Jacksonville Jaguars until last year — the very architect who had buried Jacksonville's present so deep in the dumpster that the franchise had no choice but to hit the reset button.
When O'Brien first floated bringing Marrone aboard, Saban had casually voiced his concerns, but the man was so confident that Saban trusted him and approved the hire. The result: Alabama's offensive line was left in shambles, on track to post the most tackles for loss and sacks allowed of Saban's entire coaching career.
Thanks to that, Bryce Young — the same man who, with last year's level of protection, would be competing with Dwayne Moi Stone for the top spot — had slid to 1.5.
And the problems didn't stop there.
Of all the offensive coaches O'Brien brought in, exactly one was doing his job properly: the running backs coach. And here was the critical flaw in that — no matter how well the running backs coach performed, with the offensive line collapsed, no one was going anywhere.
Saban's second-worst rushing attack ever had failed to crack five yards per carry, and not a single individual running back was averaging five yards a carry either. The passing game was no salvation — with an O-line that folded at the first touch, they were surrendering a sack on roughly 7.8% of dropbacks.
"It's over. At this rate, we can't beat Georgia."
"…We'll just have to find a way to fix it."
"I certainly hope so."
A rare sight — Nick Saban showing frustration. But it was understandable. Everyone in his office right now was a core staffer who'd worked beside him for four years, and every one of them knew their team was the most vulnerable it had been in a decade.
"Whew — let's stop here for today."
"Yes, sir."
The group, who had used a "defensive meeting" as the pretext to pick apart their own offense, filed out with practiced nonchalance and ran into the offensive coaches in the hallway.
Whether it was poison or food, the rest of the season had to be walked together. Pete Golding found it faintly amusing that he was behaving that way — and he'd spent months now loathing the men around him who did nothing but talk about the NFL.
"Back when I was in Houston…."
"Jacksonville wasn't my fault, you know."
"If these tight ends want to make the NFL, they need to work harder. They've got to be good enough to keep up with my coaching."
"…Bullshit."
Two words muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear — words that spoke for Pete Golding and every defensive coach in that building.
#. November 27, 2021 — Atlanta, Georgia — 10th Street NW
The moment the bus rolled off the highway at Exit 84 and onto Fowler Street, hostile energy radiated from every direction. The Georgia Tech campus straddling Atlanta's northern edge was packed to overflowing with people cursing our existence.
"Go to hell-!!"
"We're gonna burn you all!!"
"Ready to die today?!"
Ah-
There it is. Rivalry.
The atmosphere was so vicious it made last year's road game look like a friendly scrimmage, and I flipped into combat mode without missing a beat.
"Everybody keep those windows shut!"
….
"Hold on. Wait."
"?"
Darnell was about to roll the windows up on Coach Monken's orders when I told him to leave them open just a crack.
"You serious?"
"Yeah. What, it'll be fun."
We were stopped at a light inside the Georgia Tech campus, waiting to turn, and fans heading toward the stadium were booing on one side of the street and singing on the other.
Ramblin' Wreck from Georgia Tech.
That's GTU's official fight song. The "Ramblin' Wreck" of the title is a nickname for the Ford Model A — and at the same time, it's a word for GTU's students and the mascot of their athletic teams.
And this song tells you exactly how much GTU hates us, because the official fight song played at every single one of their games contains the lyric To Hell with Georgia. In other words, whether they're playing Arkansas, Mississippi, or some team from CUSA or the ACC, whenever this song comes on, everyone chants "To hell with Georgia!"
Compared to that, we're practically dignified.
Well. That's what being the classier side means, I suppose.
That said, when we play Georgia Tech, our Bulldogs do their own version — whenever the song comes on, we swap in the final line: "To hell with Georgia Tech!"
Highjacking the enemy's fight song and rewriting the lyrics — honestly, there's no cheaper, more effective way to taunt an opponent.
Beep—
The driver pulled up at the designated spot for visiting buses and opened the door, and the team started filing out from the front. When I stepped down the stairs and out into the open air, an enormous chorus of boos erupted around me.
"MO-I SUCK!!"
"MO-I SUCK!!"
"MO-I SUCK!!"
Yeah, yeah. I hear that every road game.
I pulled my headset down over my ears like I was listening to music, then smiled angelically and waved at them as though they were my own cheering section. The reaction was immediate.
"FUCK YOU!!"
"Your mom!! Your grandma!! And your auntie too — screw every last one of them!! I'll kill you!!"
"We're gonna burn you!!"
Go ahead and scream all you want — my family is doing just fine. Incredibly, unbelievably fine, in fact.
My parents have finally started spending the ten million dollars I gave them on themselves. They built the biggest, nicest house in Paia, and bought their dream cars — one each, parked side by side. A few days ago I noticed Mom wearing some flashy gold necklace, and it cracked me up against my will.
"I'm probably gonna live a long time."
"What? What's that supposed to mean?"
"My mom taught me when I was little. Apparently there's a saying in Korea that the more curses you take, the longer you live."
"Damn- then you're definitely gonna live forever."
"Kekeke. Exactly."
Bobby Dodd Stadium, Georgia Tech's home field, used to be the home stadium of the Atlanta Falcons — so the visiting locker room is actually decent. Honestly, it's heaven compared to some places. The worst we got this year was Vanderbilt's locker room, and even that was tolerable, all things considered.
"Where you headed?"
"ABC. They wanted a quick interview."
"Damn it. How come they've never called me once?"
"If it bugs you that much, go play quarterback."
"Get outta here."
After firing off a crisp salute at Zamir, I changed into my practice gear and followed an escort into some office. The people seated around the table rose and came over, and I shook each of their hands in turn.
"An honor to meet the best player in college football."
"You're too kind. Nice to meet you."
"I'm Bob Wischusen. You'll know Dan and Chris, I expect?"
"Of course. You gentlemen are famous."
Dan Orlovsky of ABC, calling today's game, is a rock-solid quarterback who spent thirteen seasons in the NFL. Granted, most of that career was spent as a backup — thirteen years, just 26 starts — but there's a reason five NFL teams wanted this man at one time or another. His grasp of the game and his tireless professionalism made him a model for young quarterbacks in every locker room, and at times a spiritual anchor for QBs fresh off their rookie seasons.
How do I know that?
Because I heard it. From the man himself.
"Haha. Matthew told you that?"
"He did. We talked on the phone yesterday too — he spent a solid thirty minutes on nothing but you. Said you were the most diligent player he ever met in the NFL."
Matthew and I are still close. Same with Mahomes.
After greeting sideline reporter Chris Borden as well, I took the seat that had been prepared for me.
"Shall we get started?"
"I'm ready when you are."
The interesting, granular details broadcasters drop during game coverage almost always come from meetings like this one, shared directly with the players. Naturally, the hotter a player's name, the more of these sit-downs he gets — and this was already my third this season.
ESPN. CBS. And now ABC. One from each network.
"Do you have a special celebration planned?"
"Hmm — if I score a touchdown. A rushing one, I mean."
"Can you tell us what it is?"
"Night Night."
"Night Night? What's that?"
"WWE. CM Punk. You don't know it?"
Traditionally, football players and professional wrestlers have close, frequent dealings with one another — different sports, but the same core of pushing the body past its limits and forging it. Ever since Big Show, whom I met last year, wrestlers have been sending shoutouts my way one after another.
One of them is CM Punk, a hugely popular and famous wrestler, who told me I should use his celebration. Apparently nothing stirs up a rivalry quite like it.
He didn't forget to tell me to come to Chicago, either.
"Haha. That's fun."
"Right? He's a diehard Bears fan, you know."
After the celebration talk, the conversation drifted naturally to the NFL.
"I know it's still a bit early to ask…."
"Very early. A whole year left."
"Which would mean… next year is your last in college?"
"Barring anything unusual, yes."
"Probably better we keep that between us, then."
"Agreed. Feel free to use it next year."
From there the broadcast crew asked about my family back in Hawaii, what I'd learned growing up as a member of the Stone family, and so on. Even on questions that would never make it to air, I answered every one in good faith, and the meeting wrapped up after about ten minutes.
"I sure hope we get to see that celebration."
"So do I. And if I'm being greedy — I'd love to land the dagger, too."
"Haha. We'll be watching for it."
"Yes, sir."
Click.
Whether the opponent across the field is strong or weak — a rivalry always means something. Standing on a stage where history woven from countless stories has hardened into tradition is, in itself, an immense honor.
Like I said in the meeting, if I'm going to be greedy anyway, I'd love to punch in the dagger with a touchdown of my own. I flirted with the idea of making it a statement — but then worried I'd be muddying the waters before a bigger fight, and settled on playing it like any other week.
Because the one that truly matters is next week. The SEC Championship, at Mercedes-Benz Stadium, against Alabama — our rivals in a very different sense than Georgia Tech.
"Big bro is back at la—"
Nobody's here.
Tsk.
I grabbed my gloves and neck warmer from my locker, then walked out onto the field in its balmy 52 degrees — a temperature everyone else still insists on calling "warm."
Mmm-
Too early for the neck warmer, maybe?
Perhaps I've actually started adjusting to the mainland after all.