Cotton Bowl Classic (1)
Reese Davis — ESPN CFB GameDay
“I'm coming to you fresh and refreshed with an ice-cold Coors Light. It's the 2021/2022 College Football Playoff, live from AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas, where the Georgia Bulldogs and the Cincinnati Bearcats are set to collide.”
“Welcome, everyone. Today we're kicking off the show with a very special guest. Who's Nest? Bill Goldberg! The greatest wrestler in history—and, oh yes, an All-SEC defensive tackle back in 1989. Otherwise, the usual familiar faces are here as always: Lee Corso, Desmond Howard, and David Pollack. And I'm Reese Davis.”
“Two undefeated teams are meeting today. Both squads have racked up thirteen wins without a single loss between them. Bill, first to you—how do you feel about your alma mater?”
Bill Goldberg — GameDay Special Guest
“Couldn't be prouder. Kirby Smart has done incredible things for Georgia. Their defense is the best in the nation—that goes without saying—and this year the offense is elite too. I'm a happy man. Hahaha. These days I actually find myself counting down the days until game day.”
#. December 31, 2021
#-1. Arlington, Texas, United States
#-2. AT&T Center
“Everyone, eyes up!”
“…”
“Give me two or three minutes. I want every one of you locked in and listening. We are in the middle of building our own legacy right now. And each of you is building yours as well. How? By winning. Do you understand? A legacy only has value if you keep protecting it. And that is exactly why we've bled, sweated, and drilled the way we have.”
Coach Kirby Smart's words—that you have to be ready to do anything to protect what's precious—wove together with that single word, legacy, into a surge of motivation that filled the room.
The air inside was calm, but the temperature was high.
Everyone wanted to be out on that field already.
The coach asked again.
Were we ready to protect what mattered?
There was no need to answer out loud.
Because of course we were.
Whether it was a person, or football the way it was today—as long as something precious never betrays the trust you place in it, the devoted are always ready to pour out everything they have.
I was one of them, too.
“A-Yo, Listen!!”
“?”
“??”
“We're gonna do it right out there in a minute, but first! When we get out of this tunnel and step onto that field, I want every single person in this building to be SCREAMING!! You got me?! Joy for the people cheering for us—and FEAR for everyone who's against us!! You got me?! Then let's practice it! Buuuuuuull Dwaaaaaaags-!”
“WOOF!!”
“WOOF!!”
Watching me pile a few more lines on top of the coach's chant, Coach Monken gave a little thumbs-up from across the room.
Soon it was time to enter the field. We kept trading energy with the teammates around us, and starting from the guys closest to the door, we poured out into the tunnel.
Naturally positioned at the very back, I shouted a few letters toward the guys leading the line.
“DYJ!! DYJ!!”
Do Your Job.
“TT!! TT!!”
Trust Teammates.
These weren't slogans I'd made up on a whim—they're expressions used constantly in football.
Do your own job.
Trust your teammates.
The most fundamental things demanded of any player.
“LET'S GO-!!”
Sedrick's booming voice rang out from up ahead.
He's got the makings of a great leader too.
Part of it comes with the center position, but even as a sophomore he'd made the current O-line—guys with personalities every bit as strong as their frames—follow him.
Warren McClendon and Justin Shaffer, the two biggest influences in the room, are heading to the NFL next year. Once they're gone, Sedrick will get to flex even more.
Peter and Willi aren't the loud types, and Warren has always been Sedrick's steady right hand.
Next year, too, our O-line is going to be a force.
I'd bet ninety-nine percent on it. No—99.9.
“Whoo-—”
Once I confirmed the line ahead of me had thinned out, I started walking slowly toward the exit, thick with smog pouring from the machines.
Little lights fired up from the floor as always, marking the path. Head bowed, I took a few more steps—then stopped and drew in one deep, long breath.
Now was the time to let out who I am.
“KEI TE PAPA PAKANGA— HUA-!!”
BOOM!!
POW—!!
Every time I threw my whole body into another line of the chant, fireworks shot skyward as if keeping rhythm with me.
At first I had to concentrate hard just to time it right. Now I could simply enjoy it.
And so—
“AIA KA MOI!!!!”
—I'd even earned the right to add a line like this one.
What does it mean?
The King is Here.
I have arrived.
After delivering the line I'd decided to add starting today, I broke formation and sprinted down the corridor the marching band had opened up, straight toward my teammates.
The echo of the fireworks.
The roar of the stands.
The music.
All of it tangled together into one enormous chaos—but my head was perfectly clear.
My teammates had taken their positions up ahead, and without a moment's hesitation I dove into their midst, planted myself at the center of the huddled circle, and roared:
“I'M HIM!!!!”
There couldn't be a more arrogant claim.
There couldn't be a more confident one.
But we've earned the right to say it.
Hoping this massive wave of momentum would swallow Cincinnati whole, I began the hype speech in front of my brothers.
@@@
Sean McDonough — ESPN Play-by-Play
“The direction of the National Championship remains anyone's guess—but today, two teams will move one step closer to that blurry silhouette. It's College Football Playoff semifinal day at the AT&T Center in Arlington, Texas. The Goodyear Cotton Bowl Classic! Undefeated number four Cincinnati meets undefeated number one Georgia. Kirby Smart, who has turned a great season into a great era, now chases a championship for the second consecutive year.”
“And here's Kirby Smart's offense! Dwayne Moi Stone! Only the second player in history, after Archie Griffin, to win the Heisman Trophy in back-to-back years. Quite simply: unstoppable. That's the consensus on this quarterback.”
“And the defense? It goes without saying. Georgia boasts the nation's best unit with the fewest points allowed in recorded history. Jordan Davis. Travon Walker. Devonte Wyatt. Lewis Cine. Quay Walker. An astonishing five players on this defense carry first-round talent for the 2022 NFL Draft.”
“Standing in their way is Desmond Ridder. The Louisville, Kentucky native is the winningest quarterback in Cincinnati history. A gifted dual-threat signal-caller—the question is how much further he can push the Bearcats into the record books.”
“Good evening, everyone! I'm Sean McDonough, alongside the Ram Truck Kickoff. With me is Todd Blackledge. Todd, you know as well as I do how enormous today is—not just because it's a semifinal, but because one of these two undefeated teams is about to see its perfect season end.”
Todd Blackledge — ESPN Analyst
“That's right, Sean. On paper, Georgia certainly looks like the far better team. But as Georgia's own coaches have acknowledged, Cincinnati is a tremendous football team. Their roster is built on more than thirty seniors, and they've won twenty-two of their last twenty-three games. That said—Georgia hasn't lost in two years.”
@@@
Cincinnati (4) — 00
Georgia (1) — 00
The moment the referee announced Cincinnati had won the coin toss, the Bearcats' section ignited.
All that fuss over winning a coin toss.
Well—I can't say I don't understand.
It's the playoffs.
Momentum matters enormously in a game like this.
Cincinnati won the toss, but what they chose wasn't to receive—it was to start on defense.
Unusual, but a wise choice.
Against us, anyway.
“Special teams!!”
Coach Dan Lanning bellowed the special teamers onto the field, and while they streamed out, Laura Rutledge found Coach Smart and started her sideline interview.
Of every professional sport out there, football has to have the most frequent—and closest—sideline interviews.
What were they talking about?
I traded jokes with Coach Monken while I waited.
“Told you it was nothing but compliments about me.”
“Did you skip your meds again today?”
“Already took three. Can't you see how clear-headed I am?”
“All I see is a lunatic about to go on a rampage.”
“Correct answer.”
“Save your energy. Quit running your mouth.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As kickoff approached, the roar kept climbing.
I wished somebody would measure the decibels right now—it had to be as loud as a plane taking off.
Across the field, Cincinnati's players were hopping in place along their sideline, while we waited calmly for their number 91 to boot it deep.
KJ was back to return the opening kick.
Kenny lined up as the lead fullback.
Cincinnati's special teamers swayed their arms side to side, finding their rhythm, and started their run—and 91's kick sailed high and clean out the back of the end zone.
Legs full of adrenaline, apparently.
Slipping the helmet from my hand onto my head, I found the offense gathering around me and shouted:
“You know what we're here to do?! Take a BITE out of them!!”
“TEAR THEM APART!!!!”
“That's it!! Let's Go!!”
@@@
Sean McDonough
“Dwayne Moi Stone—only the second player ever to win back-to-back Heismans. He is in the midst of one of the greatest single seasons in the history of college football. 5,213 passing yards. 58 touchdowns. He's closing in on a mark only Joe Burrow has ever owned: 5,000-plus passing yards and 60-plus touchdowns.”
Todd Blackledge
“They're saying more than twenty NFL teams would hand him a starting job tomorrow, which is just remarkable. And the fact that he's staying at Georgia another year—that has to feel like a nightmare to every other program in the country.”
@@@
First and ten from our own 25.
We opened with the run, same as always.
First I jet-swept Brock right to left to read Cincinnati's defensive reaction, then—off the play call—worked the RPO handoff to James Cook.
Right before the snap, number 13 had motioned toward Brock, but with no other defenders moving, it was clearly a decoy.
Sure enough, number 13 came straight off that outstretched-hand fake and blitzed. Shallow thinking.
A gap opened up exactly where it should, James Cook darted through it for better than six yards, and only a tackle finally brought him down.
The tackler was number 3—Cincinnati's safety.
“Hurry, hurry!”
Second and 4.
Our first two plays had come scripted, pre-loaded, so we lined up and set the offense without any extra signals.
JB cycled out and Darnell came on in his place, while Brock shifted from the line to the slot, stacking a bunch to the left.
James Cook still stood behind me.
“Go Red 80-!! Set!!”
Beep—!
The instant I barked “set,” Cincinnati's number 92 flinched and twitched forward.
Every O-lineman shot up and pointed at him at once—and before the referee could even announce the foul, the Cincinnati players were backing off their five yards.
This was the result I'd been fishing for. That's why I'd changed the play call—after deliberately running the original call the snap before.
They were guaranteed to bite.
From here on, Cincinnati's D-line and their bench were going to have very crowded heads. The key was making sure they never deciphered the rules behind our play calls.
First down renewed. The 36-yard line, defense's territory.
From the sideline came the screen pass signal, meant to rattle Cincinnati's soft edges, and I stayed in the shotgun, calling the original play again.
“Go Red 80-!! Ready-!! Set!!”
Snap!
The moment the ball arrived, the O-linemen nearest the screen side peeled off the line of scrimmage.
The pass was going out immediately anyway—as long as the snap was clean, there was no reason to keep blocking the D-line.
With the entire left side of the field set as decoys, Brock was the receiver on this play. Why a tight end instead of a wideout? YAC, pure and simple.
Yards After Catch—how much ground a receiver gains after securing the catch. Ladd puts up good YAC numbers, but that's strictly when he's running his routes.
Jordan Addison shines making catches in the end zone, but his ability to take a screen and go is a touch lacking.
AD is a bit closer to Jordan's profile, and George would be the ideal choice on a play like this—except he's still rounding back into form after his injury, not fully ready yet.
And as a substitution chicken-for-pheasant, well—Brock's skill set is simply too good. The kid's a lock for Freshman of the Year this season.
Even now, Brock took my screen behind Darnell, Peter, and Warren McClendon's wall and ripped off fourteen yards.
He went down just short of the first-down marker, but we drove him forward on pure strength and pushed from behind—another five yards tacked on.
First and 10 again.
This time the deep-shot signal came in.
Four receivers spread left and right, the tight end staying off the line to help pass protection, and one running back kept in to guard the backfield.
For the first time all game, I lined up under center—and number 13's mouth hadn't stopped moving once.
“Brace yourself!! I'm going to EAT you alive!!”
Yeah, yeah.
Knock yourself out, buddy.
Number 13— incapable of standing still, yapping nonstop, constantly shifting—was the backbone of Cincinnati's defense.
Ty Van Fossen, a veteran of the college game. A mike linebacker who'll blitz all day but never once drops back into coverage—an annoying kind of player, honestly.
Right now, as Cincinnati's front tackles drove hard into our blockers, he lurked just beside the violent collision in the trench.
Like some stalker, his eyes were locked on me, his whole body language saying he didn't care about anything else on the field.
Number 21's power rush drove McClendon backward and the pocket collapsed—and the instant I moved to escape it, 13 came charging at me.
Ah. Now I get it.
So that's the plan?
As I scrambled sideways, 13 committed to the rush—and I kept my feet churning before slamming on the brakes, hard.
“?!!”
Get lost.
Sucker—.
The sudden stop he never saw coming sent 13's hand skimming past my shoulder. I took off downfield, and the moment I crossed the first-down marker, I slid.
Number 1 and number 0 were both bearing down on me from the front and the side—pushing my run any further would have meant eating the tackle.
I'm not afraid of getting tackled.
It's the freak injuries you can't predict that scare me.
Having picked up another easy first down on the ground, I lightly flipped the ball to the referee and glanced toward the sideline.
Same concept as the play before.
“Run it again.”
The reason I hadn't gotten the pass off last time was the route combination—it wasn't quite right.
So I signaled the same base, same protection, then added the adjustment:
“Two-Jet! Z-Shallow Cross. X-Spider. Y-Carrot.”
Snap!!
Cracking a team like Cincinnati takes patience.
They've posted results nobody saw coming, results that stunned the whole country—which means they carry enormous pride in the brand of football they've always played.
That's why, against a team like this, rather than rushing the attack, you start with the tiniest crack you can find and work it wider.
Under center again.
And the play call.
“Turbo, set!!”
Taking the snap and turning my back, I faked the handoff to Zamir, faced front again, and tracked Brock and Ladd crossing behind the line.
Jordan and AD were running behind them, but the defense was matched up man-to-man and the safety had taken away the deep middle.
I erased the fast, deep options instantly and gave the ball a light tap with my left palm—then fired the pass up the middle.
Two-Jet. Two receivers on the Z.
Their routes were the shallow.
A short run forward, then a sharp break across the middle—crossing paths with each other as they go.
I picked Ladd, the closer of the two, as my target—and the instant he reached for the catch, a Cincinnati defender wrapped him up first and dragged him down.
“That's a foul!!”
The yellow flag fluttered down practically within pointing distance of the infraction. I pumped my fist, celebrating fifteen free yards.
The Pac-12 referee announced defensive pass interference—fifteen-yard penalty—and just like that, we were knocking on the door of the red zone.
From here, the play-calling belonged to me.
Option play. I turned to the sideline and ordered the personnel group I wanted, built the formation to my taste, then stood before the huddle.
“Left swing slot attack, trips left. Strong dummy. Mom said come home.”
Snap!
It was a touch far out—but if anything, that's exactly why this call would work.
Mom said come home normally pays off inside the ten, but weighing Jordan's speed, our O-line, and the soft spots in Cincinnati's defense, I judged the distance right.
It could fail. But that didn't scare me.
Hardly the first time.
If you let fear take root in the face of mistakes, failure, and pain, you will never become a great football player.
Trying even when it looks impossible—
we call that courage.
And I have always—
“Go Red 80-!! Turbo, set!!”
—tried to run with courage in my chest.
A pocket, protected and steady.
James Cook picked up the safety blitz.
That leaves one man open behind.
Jordan shed Cincinnati's number 1 with room to spare, and having already decided where he'd be running, I let the ball fly.
The pass cut through the air at full speed.
And I raised both hands to the sky.