If Not Me, Then Who?

#. December 6, 2021

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607

Finals for the fall semester weren't until tomorrow, but for the football team, this past Friday had been the last day of class.

Call it one of the perks of being a varsity athlete.

Not that we got out of finals entirely. Those, we still had to take.

Knock knock.

"Moi!"

Hm? Who is it?

"…."

I crept toward the door and peered out through the peephole to find Danny Jensen, one of the building's managers, standing in the hallway.

Only then did I relax and open the door.

Click.

"He-ey, Moi. Almost forgot to give you this."

"What is it?"

"Something that came for you."

"…."

The moment I took the envelope from Danny Jensen and checked the sender, I knew exactly what it was — my ticket to New York.

The Heisman Trophy Ceremony, of course.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Strange kids around here these days, huh?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

"What? Seriously?"

"Yup."

As my fame has grown, so has the number of girls trying desperately to get tangled up with me in some way or another.

What they're after falls into three broad categories.

A simple hookup.

Next, pregnancy.

And last of all, a lawsuit.

They'd pretend the relationship wasn't consensual and file suit, hoping to latch onto promising young men with big futures and even bigger paydays.

Right after the SEC Championship ended, I was staying with my family in a hotel suite in Atlanta when, around one in the morning, a girl I'd never seen before was caught loitering in the corridor outside my room.

She had an unopened condom in her pocket and, as it turned out, wasn't wearing any underwear at all.

Chills ran down my spine.

Worse, she wasn't even a UGA student.

Dorm security is actually pretty tight, but according to her confession to the police, she'd spent seven hundred dollars just to get her hands on the door access code.

And the girl who'd sold it to her was now facing disciplinary action for violating school policy — and from what I've heard, expulsion was all but certain.

Throwing away her chance to graduate from Georgia for a lousy seven hundred dollars — you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger fool.

Spurred on by the incident, the school announced it would be installing fingerprint recognition systems across every dormitory on campus, including Vandiver Hall, and would be allocating budget to begin construction soon.

Should've done that from the start.

Anyway.

"Make sure you get yourself some lunch, okay?"

"Will do."

Click.

I closed the door and walked toward the table, tearing the envelope open to check the contents.

As expected — an invitation to the Heisman Trophy Ceremony.

Last year, everything had been handled remotely through the school.

This year, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it looked like I'd actually be going to New York.

Bzzt— bzzt—

Hm?

From somewhere a short distance away came the faint vibration of a phone, and when I stepped into the bedroom, the screen of the cell phone sitting on my nightstand was lit up and glowing.

I picked it up and checked the caller — my agent, calling from L.A.

"Hello?"

-Champ! Got a minute to talk?

"Of course."

Leigh Steinberg said he'd also received word from the NCAA recently, and asked whether I'd gotten my invitation to the Heisman Ceremony.

When I told him I had, he said that was perfect.

-I want to line up a few engagements.

"On the day of the ceremony?"

-Before it. Think you can manage that?

"I'd love to, but I still have finals to take."

-When?

"From the 9th through the 15th."

For the record, the Heisman Trophy Ceremony falls on December 11th this year, once again keeping its traditional Saturday 8 p.m. slot.

-We'll handle the school on our end.

"How?"

-Think you could take your exams tomorrow and the day after?

Hm.

I hadn't expected that, but it wasn't really a problem.

I'd been diligent with my coursework all year — every assignment turned in, quiz scores strong. A 4.0 was well within reach, and since I'd been steadily prepping for finals anyway, taking them a little early wouldn't hurt.

The only thing nagging at me was a promise I'd made to some friends, but if it was for work, they'd understand.

-Good, then. Tomorrow and the day after — how does that sound?

"Yes, sir. I'm ready whenever you are."

-I'll call you back within the hour.

After the call ended, I glanced at the time on the screen and debated what to do about lunch.

Did I really want to eat delivery alone?

Or should I call some of the guys over?

There was no more football on the schedule until next week.

The reason was obvious — finals. We could still train individually, but from here on out, the head coach and the rest of the staff were officially teachers now.

Players with shaky grades would be gathering at the coaches' houses every day starting today to study, while anyone needing specialized academic support would be taking separate classes through SAAC.

Me? I was never in that conversation to begin with.

There were a few others outside it too, as it happened.

Peter and Brock among them — they'd probably come if I called, but I had no idea how long this call with the agency might drag on.

Hmm—

My preference was clearly to round up the guys, eat together, and play some games ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠afterward, but I decided to exercise a little restraint today and settle for delivery.

Why not treat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠myself to some Korean chicken for the first time in a while?

That felt like a very good decision.

There was a location of bb.q, the famous Korean chicken chain, about five minutes' drive from here, and its reputation among UGA students was stellar.

"…Alright, order placed."

Half fried, half Golden Fried — plus dumplings, onion rings, and a fun little item called Sotteok Sotteok — grilled sausage and rice cake skewers.

Now, then.

Might as well relax until the food arrives, right?

Thud!

A rare stretch of leisure time.

Sweeter than honey, this rest.

#. December 7, 2021

#-1. Florham Park, New Jersey, USA

#-2. New York Jets Front Office

Traditionally, New York is known as the state with the biggest, most fanatical sports fandom in America.

And indeed, New York is home to famous franchises like the Yankees (MLB), the Mets (MLB), and the Knicks (NBA), while the NFL can boast three teams within its borders: the Jets, the Giants, and the Bills.

Here, though, lies a deliciously ironic little fact: the Jets and the Giants — the two teams that actually carry the name "New York" — play in the state of New Jersey.

The Buffalo Bills, meanwhile, are based in Buffalo, New York, which has led some fans to crown them the "real New York team."

Of course, Jets and Giants fans refuse to hear it.

They insist that they are the true New York franchises.

And to be fair, the Jets and Giants rank above Buffalo in franchise value — the Giants in particular sit third in the entire league, behind only Dallas and New England.

The Jets, on the other hand, managed a mere seventh place — because of the economic profile of the fans who root for them.

-Hey! You bunch of idiots!

"…."

-You think I bought those expensive season tickets to watch THAT kind of game?! If you can't play, then just don't play next year either! You absolute simpletons!

"Haah—"

The man exhaling a long sigh as he fielded an angry call from a season ticket holder was Blake Jordan, who'd long since muted the receiver.

The New York Jets had finished dead last in the AFC East yet again this year — the sixth time since 2014.

There'd been a stretch of respectability from the late nineties through around 2010, but these days, the basement was simply home.

The problem was that Jets fans were among the most fanatical packs of drooling idiots in the entire NFL, so every time a weekend passed, the staff braced themselves for suffering.

After a full morning of complaint calls, Blake Jordan felt like quitting on the spot — if only he didn't have a mortgage.

"This goddamn team."

"Again?"

"Yep. Been hell since yesterday."

Having finally carved out a moment for coffee, Blake Jordan traded gripes with another male employee in the break room.

Ninety percent of the people working here had taken the job because they loved the New York Jets; only the ten percent directly involved in running the club operated on pure business logic.

Which meant the rank-and-file employees' conversations weren't all that different from what the fans were saying — and Blake was no exception.

"Why are our head coaches always such garbage?"

"If the people upstairs knew that, would we be in this mess?"

"Haah— damn it."

Two head coaches bore an outsized share of the blame for the Jets' miserable collapse since 2015.

First was Todd Bowles, who'd made his name lifting Arizona's defense to the top tier of the NFL. The man had ability — just terrible luck in every imaginable form.

Only weeks into his tenure as head coach, his starting quarterback got into a fight with a teammate and took a punch that broke his jaw. Every plan went off the rails at once.

To make matters worse, the Jets' notoriously incompetent front office kept stumbling over its own feet, and in four years as head coach, Bowles never once got to build the team according to his own vision.

His entire contribution boiled down to two tank jobs in pursuit of the franchise quarterback who was supposed to carry the team's future.

Then in 2018, hoping to develop that drafted quarterback Sam Darnold, they named Adam Gase head coach — only to fire him before he could even finish two full years.

Hiring a coach who'd failed miserably in Miami was baffling enough on its own, and even the parts of him that had earned good reviews vanished completely once he arrived in New York.

The Jets' fans, for their part, mostly responded with resigned gallows humor: "Well, of course. That's so us."

"We're terrible."

"Hey, at least we're better than the Browns."

"And better than the Giants."

"Heh heh. Can't argue with that."

The one thing all three NFL teams just mentioned had in common was a cursed, bottomless lack of luck at quarterback.

And if you asked whether any other positions fared any better, Jets fans would, nine times out of ten, avert their eyes.

That was precisely why the front office ranked among the franchise's gravest sins — year after year, they pulled off the grotesque feat of spending premium first-round picks on players no other team in the league would have touched until much later.

Every now and then lightning struck and a pick turned into a home run, but had they simply drafted along the path of reason, the roster would have been infinitely better.

"It should've been Dwayne Moi Stone, not Zach Wilson."

"Then we'd have been stuck watching Adam Gase the whole time."

"Honestly? That'd be better. We fired Gase — so what exactly got better? We just got screwed. This team has no dreams and no hope."

"They pay us well, though?"

"Screw you. Wow. What a consolation prize."

Having unloaded his full stock of sarcasm, Blake Jordan poured himself one more cup of coffee and left the break room.

Back in April's draft, the Jets had selected a quarterback named Zach Wilson — which meant their odds of bowing out of the Dwayne Moi Stone sweepstakes were extremely high.

Not that anyone could have known.

Just as Sam Darnold had been traded to the Carolina Panthers barely three years in, saddled with the label of failed quarterback, Zach Wilson might well follow the same path.

And above all, the Jets were the kind of team that could finish dead last without even bothering to tank.

"Haah—"

Back at his desk, Blake Jordan let out a long sigh, picked up the receiver, and pressed the blinking green button.

"Jets front office, how may I—"

-Drop dead! All of you—!

"…."

Click.

Blake Jordan pressed the mute button again.

His sigh, today as always, ran deep.

#. December 8, 2021

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. Athens–Ben Epps Airport

Having finished all of my finals across yesterday and today, I was on the verge of boarding the private jet the agency had sent and heading for New York.

I'd be spending about a week in the city working through a packed schedule of appearances, and I was told that without COVID-19, the same would have been true last year.

Wade Buck.

The agent who'd be accompanying me on this trip.

"Have you been to New York before?"

Have I been to New York?

You're kidding me, right?

I lived there for at least fifteen years.

But there was no way I could say any of that, so I had to smile and answer that this would be my first time.

"Then we should do some sightseeing too."

"Sounds great."

"Haha. New York is a magnificent city."

Yeah—

I'll grant you that.

It was a city where moths drawn to the light of success gathered to burn in brilliant fireworks — where ninety-eight percent or so never reached their goals, went down in glorious flames, and flew home to regret their wasted years. And even so, there was no denying its pull.

Although, come to think of it.

Football there was an absolute joke.

When I was first reborn, the New York Jets were, for a while, a legitimately respectable upper-tier team in the AFC.

But the team's management was such a clown show that they'd fire genuinely good coaches over one or two down seasons — simply because the coach's influence had grown too large — a genius move, truly.

The Giants weren't much better, treating Eli Manning — the franchise quarterback who'd delivered them two Super Bowls — like a used rag in the twilight of his career.

Sure, it's rare anywhere in the NFL to see a franchise QB get a proper sendoff at the end, but what the Giants pulled off back then went beyond "classless" into genuinely pathetic territory.

The Buffalo Bills at least ran their team within the bounds of common sense, but on the whole, the state's football scene fell far short of the city's reputation.

"First, take this."

"What's this? A schedule?"

"Nailed it on the first try. How'd you know?"

"Just a guess."

Reads me like a book.

In my past life, I was a Korean adoptee with a documented history of child abuse, and after winning my first Super Bowl, I'd become a nationwide sensation.

I appeared on every famous TV show there was, shot a pile of commercials, and spent plenty of nights with actresses and models.

Back then, too, my agent would hand me one of these schedules whenever we traveled, so the moment Wade offered me the tablet, I knew exactly what it was.

"Today wraps up with the cover shoot."

"And I see there's more tomorrow."

"Right. Tomorrow's a longer day."

A few months ago, EA Sports — with the NCAA's name-image-likeness rules finally loosened — had announced they were reviving the game series they'd once shut down.

EA Sports College Football, a series that at one point had been even more popular than Madden, was slated for release next year, and I'd been chosen as the sole cover athlete, with the shoot happening now.

And tomorrow, at a different studio, I'd be fitted with all sorts of sensors for full-body motion capture.

"Your story will be told exactly as it happened."

"Does the main character start out in Hawaii?"

"Yes. That's the concept."

"Nice. My family's going to love that."

EA Sports' recent titles had come with a separate mode called My Career, where you played a character from his school days all the way through his journey to the pros.

The backdrop for that hero's story was set to be Hawaii, and I was genuinely curious how faithfully they'd capture my hometown.

"The 10th is an ad shoot?"

"Yes."

A commercial shoot in the morning, an interview in the afternoon, and by evening, a Sports Illustrated cover shoot.

The concept: a two-time, back-to-back Heisman winner.

"You're talking as if I've already got the trophy."

"Well, don't I?"

"…I mean, honestly? Fair."

"Hahaha!"

This year's Heisman finalists were all quarterbacks.

Bryce Young.

C.J. Stroud.

Kenny Pickett.

First, Bryce Young?

I shelved that kid myself.

Bryce Young Who?

He should be thanking me for not doing that again this time.

Next, C.J. Stroud.

A redshirt freshman at Ohio State. Good player, sure — but everything he does, I did first, and better.

And finally, Kenny Pickett.

Him, or Aidan Hutchinson — the other name people kept bringing up. Same difference, really.

No, seriously.

If not me, then who?

American sportswriters have always hated handing out awards like MVP to the same player year after year, but if anyone else took home the Heisman this season, the award's very credibility would take a body blow.

So.

It has to be me.

"We're taking off shortly. Onward to New York."

"Works for me."

A private jet sent by the agency.

People here for me.

It finally felt like things were moving in the right direction.

Something told me this New York trip was going to be a whole lot of fun.