Football Doesn't Give You a Choice
January 5, 2022
United States — Tuscaloosa, Alabama
University of Alabama
Mal M. Moore Athletic Facility
Meeting Room
With the National Championship looming this Sunday, Alabama's defensive coaches were deep in a torment of their own making.
"Oh, that's just insane."
"How in the world did he evade that?"
"Run it back."
"...."
What they were watching was a play from Dwayne Moi Stone in the playoff semifinal against Cincinnati just days before.
A ferocious line push had split the O-line open, and a defender came crashing down on the quarterback as he scrambled out of the pocket. An outside linebacker was charging in full pursuit at the very spot he was running toward.
It should have been a certain tackle.
"How does he stop on a dime from there?!"
Dwayne Moi Stone slammed on the brakes and stopped cold, while the defender—having read his path and committed to the angle—achieved nothing but a swipe at empty air.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Stone exploded back into his stride and picked up the first down with ease.
"That kid is too good."
"Beyond excessive, honestly."
"I've never seen FTR at that level. Maybe peak Tom Brady could pull it off, but a college kid? No way. It's not possible."
What had them marveling wasn't the run itself.
It was the moment he slipped the defender.
Feel The Rush.
The ability to read a defender's movement intuitively, merge it with the information his eyes were already gathering, and make the correct choice in real time.
So many quarterbacks lack it entirely that calling it a "requirement" would be absurd—these days it's regarded as the first condition of becoming an elite quarterback.
Look at the play again: the moment the right pocket collapsed, Stone took off on his legs—and even though his gaze was still pointed left, his reaction speed was monstrous.
What do you even call that?
Talent?
Or instinct?
"Both."
"?"
"What's there to debate? That kid has both."
Nick Saban, having wrapped up his meeting with the offensive coaches, stepped into the room, found his seat, and sat down. Then he waved a hand for them to continue.
"We were discussing whether the 3-3-5 might be our best look."
"You mean locking down the backfield?"
"Yes. I was thinking it might be better to force them to lean even harder on the run."
Alabama's defensive coordinator, Pete Golding, sounded reasonable enough. And to be fair, Georgia's starting running back duo—Zamir White and James Cook—both possessed the kind of top-tier NCAA talent that could carry them straight into the NFL.
This season, Zamir White had logged 957 yards and 11 touchdowns on 171 carries, while Cook's pure rushing numbers were lower—but he'd been just as dangerous in the passing game, shuttling between slot and Z-receiver alignments in the running backs' Jet Sweep packages.
Refusing to pressure players like that was, in a sense, foolish. Football lately had drifted toward an era where a live running back energized an entire offense—and given Dwayne Moi Stone's ability, betting against the pass was a gamble with enormous downside.
Nick Saban didn't want to do it.
This is a remarkably common mistake: doubting your own way of doing things before a game of enormous magnitude. No one in the building understood better than Alabama's head coach that for teams, the experience of defeat is the surest road to repeating the same results over and over.
And yet, on some level, he understood.
His most trusted right-hand men were agonizing over a novice's trial-and-error, right when it mattered most.
He called it pressure.
"We do the best we're capable of doing. What matters is whether we've poured everything into the players so they can empty the tank out there. Results can't be manufactured by preparation. Preparation is exactly what it says it is—preparation."
Georgia had tortured him last year and this year alike—but it was because of this Nick Saban that Alabama had built the greatest era in SEC and NCAA history.
Yet just as a rising sun must set, the Nick Saban era that had stretched across more than a decade was now teetering.
After adding a few more words for his defensive coaches, Saban slipped out of the meeting room and walked down the corridor, exhaling a long, slow breath.
"Whew—"
He swept a hand back through his hair, an old habit—and in that instant, catching his own reflection in the glass,
I've gotten old, haven't I,
he began to think about his NCAA coaching career, and what little of it remained.
January 6, 2022
United States — Athens, Georgia
University of Georgia
Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall
House of Payne
The pass drifted just a touch to the right.
I hate it when this happens. If someone had simply blown the execution, I could write it off as a mistake and just run it again—but right now, this was pure gear-grinding: the cogs weren't meshing.
When that happens, the answer is a conversation.
"What was your route just now?"
"Y-Dart. Blocking fake. Run about six yards, then bend into the post."
"Hmm—one second."
"Got it."
Even in practice, I always simulate game conditions. I imagine our defensive scouts pressing us the way a real defense would, and sometimes the scout-team guys actually help feed that imagination.
Anyway.
The Wide Clamp Z-Out and Wanda Y-Dart we'd been installing this session needed some tweaking.
I stepped away from Brock and walked toward Coach Monken—and he was already walking my way.
"Planning to modify it?"
"Yes, Sir."
Alabama had committed to a 4-2-5 nickel this year, and the whole structure of their second and third levels keyed off the movement of the linebacker stationed on the D-line. If we attacked the middle, we could constrain that linebacker's movement and stiffen their entire defense.
In the regular season, we'd chosen to shake up their decimated secondary in Pat Surtain's absence—but Alabama isn't stupid, and they wouldn't fall for the same trick twice. So this time, the approach had to change.
We'd assign their #31 to our fullback—but more than that, we'd let the kid wander himself into confusion.
And if it doesn't work?
Well. We'll see when we get there. Just because PLAN A hits a wall is no reason we can't improvise PLAN B or PLAN C on the field.
"Have him run a few steps upfield like it's a post, then stop."
"Trap him in the middle?"
"Yes. He's 190 centimeters. He'll take a high pass just fine."
"Then you'd better execute it properly."
"You know me, Coach."
"Damn it. Fine—run it."
"Yes, Sir."
After the adjustment, I relayed the change to Brock. Where the original design hunted YAC, the modified version became a steady earner—fourteen to sixteen yards of reliable gains.
The old version certainly had the higher chance of producing a big play, but I've always believed that hunting for those should be left to something like a single Hail Mary.
The very fact that football carves a game into snap-sized units and divides each drive into discrete plays tells you how deeply this sport reveres rhythm. Merely knowing that in your head, versus understanding it in your bones and feeling it, is the difference between heaven and earth.
Ever since my days as a head coach, I've worked to understand these things more deeply than anyone else—and now I'm folding that understanding into every play I run.
A true big play is born when every piece clicks into place inside a short, crisp offensive sequence. Anything else is just a gamble—nothing more than disguising a quarterback's limits or a deficient play design behind an opponent's defensive mistake, a sleight of hand meant to dazzle the fans for a fleeting moment.
Practice resumed.
This time, the pass arrived exactly where it should.
"Ohhh, yeah. That's it."
Satisfied, I gave Brock a thumbs-up, and he nodded back, setting up to run the same route again. Until it was perfect, we would repeat it however many times it took.
"Turbo, set!"
If, back in the spring of 2020, someone had predicted a team would rip off 33 straight wins in the SEC, the answer would have been unanimous: Alabama.
They would have been wrong.
The Georgia Bulldogs are the ones living that story.
Beginning with four straight victories to close the 2020 season, Georgia has now won 33 consecutive games.
Consider that the SEC is stronger than it has ever been, and that the revised transfer portal has made player movement easier than at any point in the sport's history—and the streak becomes all the more astonishing.
Across the last fifty years of FBS football, only two teams have matched or exceeded Georgia's march: Oklahoma's 47 straight wins from 1953 to 1957, and Miami's 34 straight from 2000 to 2002.
With a second consecutive National Championship, Georgia now stands on the threshold of matching Miami's mark—and with Dwayne Moi Stone remaining on the roster through next season, the longest winning streak in college football history is firmly within their sights.
(excerpted)
Built around the finest defensive unit of the 2000s—the Legion of Boom, L.O.B.—the Seattle Seahawks captured the Super Bowl in 2013.
The following year they rode that ferocious defense back to the game's biggest stage, only to fall just short: with one yard separating them from the end zone in the dying moments, a surprise pass at the goal line was intercepted, and Seattle settled for runner-up.
And that was the last of Seattle's golden age.
Every year after, they were rated among the league's powers and penciled in as contenders—but they never set foot on the Super Bowl stage again. In particular, the offensive coordinator carousel that began in 2015 and an O-line that never received real reinforcement are widely blamed for gnawing away at a quarterback's career that could have been so much greater.
Russell Wilson.
A man once rated a mere 2-star quarterback coming out of high school because of his height (180 cm) had become the most beloved man in the city of Seattle.
While countless NFL players found themselves mired in domestic violence and sexual misconduct scandals, Russell Wilson spent his weekends from his rookie year onward at the children's hospital, caring for kids battling pediatric cancer. His interviews were flawless, free of even the usual gaffes, and he never once clashed with a teammate—the league's model citizen in every sense.
But now, Seattle was witnessing the end of the Russell Wilson era and preparing for a new future.
.
.
.
January 9, 2022
United States — Renton, Washington
Seattle Seahawks Front Office
General Manager's Office
Right after the 2020/21 season ended, the Seattle Seahawks were confronted with the public airing of grievances from their own quarterback.
Russell Wilson, citing the Wild Card loss to the L.A. Rams that closed out his season and his own age, said: "If I keep getting hit like this, I can't be worth the money."
And he wasn't exaggerating. From his debut through the 2020/21 season, Russell Wilson had absorbed an incredible 394 sacks—2.7 per game, an average of 44 per season. A shameful ledger, to be sure.
That's a volume of sacks inside just nine seasons that would rank in the NFL's all-time top 20—a testament to just how wretched Seattle's offensive line had been.
Even so, Russell Wilson had delivered a Super Bowl to the team and carried them to the playoffs every year up until this season. Whatever Seattle's brass privately thought of him—mercurial, not worth the paycheck—they couldn't say a word against their quarterback in public.
Word had even come down that he would receive this year's Bart Starr Award, given to the NFL player who best exemplified outstanding leadership.
Normally, when a team casts off a player like this, the backlash is brutal. But mercifully for Seattle, it was Russell Wilson himself who had raised the complaints and demanded a trade.
Besides, back during his last contract negotiation he'd unilaterally set his own deadline and leaned on the team through a manufactured media campaign—so public opinion had quietly formed that shipping him out and building a new board wouldn't be such a bad thing this time.
Only one problem remained.
The price.
"Cleveland seems fairly confident of their position."
"So the talks are going smoothly, then."
"...."
John Schneider, general manager of the Seattle Seahawks, stood at the most important crossroads of his career.
Paul Allen, the owner whose fortune soared past the twenty-billion-dollar mark, had already thrown down his gauntlet: "Show me a new future within the next two years."
Which meant: fail to make Seattle competitive again inside Paul Allen's deadline, and John Schneider would be out of a job.
He'd run Seattle since 2010; his family's entire life was woven into this city. So he was doing everything in his power to stay.
That was also why, when Russell Wilson first vented his frustrations early last year, Schneider hadn't rushed to ship him out—he'd quietly let his value climb instead.
True, Wilson had now reached the age where the aging curve demanded worry, somewhere in his mid-thirties. But the NFL, then as now, swarms like moths to a flame around any quarterback who brings talent, character, and results. There was profit to be squeezed out of him, and plenty of it.
Which was why Cleveland had caught his eye.
"Can we squeeze the Browns?"
"Hard to say. We'll need to dig deeper."
"You have a week. Pull every scrap of information you can."
"Yes, sir."
John Schneider intended to send Russell Wilson and a package of low-value assets to Cleveland and bring back high-value returns—including the Browns' 2022 and 2023 first-round picks.
Cleveland was no team one quarterback change would vault into playoff contention, and if the aging curve arrived in full force, they could just as easily finish dead last.
If it played out that way, Seattle could deploy a bridge quarterback for a single year—then bring in Dwayne Moi Stone.
The world would sing John Schneider's praises: "He pulled off something great." Perhaps he'd even hear the words: "An achievement greater than a Super Bowl."
Dwayne Moi Stone was worth exactly that much.
It was an evaluation of a player with barely any NFL résumé, one that could crater at any moment—but even allowing for that, the picture didn't change. This was the best play on the board.
After the meeting ended, John Schneider sank deep into thought.
The truth is, predicting which team will finish dead last in the NFL next season is a far harder task than picking the champion. If a team were as hopelessly grim as New York's two franchises, or as transparently future-focused as Detroit, fine—but every year, the NFL's basement produces stunning surprises.
Ninety percent of those come down to the quality of the quarterback play. Even so, next year's worst record rests in heaven's hands.
"Whew— it has to be Cleveland."
John Schneider found himself recalling the voice of Isaac L. Allison, the magnate he'd been speaking with frequently of late. A man who doggedly drove toward the PLAN A he'd set for himself—yet, true to his billionaire's nature, a greedy one who wanted contingency plans covered from PLAN B all the way through PLAN M.
At the outset, Russell Wilson had been no more than PLAN D or PLAN E on Allison's board. Now he was a firm PLAN B.
The only snag was that the lawyers Deshaun Watson had retained were, apparently, masters at roasting the plaintiffs over a slow fire.
Click.
"Jennifer? Connect me to George Paton."
—Right away, sir.
John Schneider was reaching for PLAN B—shelved during the weeks he'd kept his eyes fixed solely on Cleveland.
In an NFL where everything begins with the quarterback question and ends with the quarterback question, the fierce out-of-frame scramble to acquire Dwayne Moi Stone was, today as always, playing out beyond the spotlight.
3:06 PM
United States — Indianapolis, Indiana
Lucas Oil Stadium
We'd left Athens early in the morning and arrived in Indianapolis, where the National Championship would be played.
"How are you feeling?"
"Makes me think Peyton Manning must have looked out at this same view."
"Haha. A man with a lot in common with you, that's for sure."
"That stings a little, Coach."
"?"
"If it were you, I figured you'd tell me I'm the better one of the two. Don't get me wrong—I love Peyton Manning's game. But I want to become a quarterback greater than he ever was."
"...If anyone can do it, you can."
"Thank you, Coach."
We exchanged smiles, and the head coach and I embraced.
He's someone I genuinely respect and genuinely like. His temperament runs a touch too soft for managing pros wrapped in ego, but at the college level he could build a coaching career to rival Nick Saban's—or surpass it.
Though of course, that too would come down to his quarterback recruiting.
Football doesn't give you a choice.
"I'll be back here before long—I'll try to get attached to the place."
"Haha. Do that."
"Yes, Sir."
The "before long" I'd just spoken of wasn't tomorrow.
It was the NFL Scouting Combine.
This stadium hosts the Combine every year—geographically the fairest dome in the country, which is how the tradition took root. At first glance it looks like a factory built in the American Midwest, but as the years passed a retro boom took hold, and today it's counted among the most beautiful stadiums in the NFL.
With the full practice session ahead, I wandered the field slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the surroundings.
There's no denying it.
It's a magnificent place.
I felt it in my past life too—wherever you look on this field, absolutely nothing grates on the eye. I happen to love Peyton Manning's brand of football, so I even thought it might not be a bad place to play—but the Colts fight for the playoffs nearly every year, so the odds were slim.
This season they needed just one more win to reach the postseason, and their finale was against the Jaguars—a comfortable victory expected.
And yet. You never really know.
That's football for you.
Upsets love games exactly like this one.
"Moi!"
"!"
The instant I turned toward the voice, the ball was already in front of my face, and I reflexively twisted my body and threw my arms up to shield it.
Thwack!
Off in the distance, Zamir was snickering.
"Are you insane?! That almost hit me in the face!"
"Oh, come on. It's not like that would've hurt you."
"The hell it wouldn't! You want to take one and find out?!"
My return throw came in as hard as I could manage, and Zamir dodged it with lightning quickness—then insisted my throw constituted a serious criminal offense before bolting.
I could've run him down at full speed without breaking a sweat, but with tomorrow's game coming, I decided to save my legs.
Damn that guy.
There goes my train of thought. Where was I?
Ah, right.
Football is the hardest sport to predict on the planet.
Which means you'd better have your preparation locked down tight.
Because upsets happen anyway.
"All right. Let's go."
Clap!!
Once my eyes had taken in the field, I walked off to find Coach Monken, and we began the final practice for tomorrow's game.