2021 National Championship (2)

People who have never actually played football love to say this while watching the game on TV.

"How do you miss that?"

"Come on, how do you not catch that?"

And our answer, every single time, is never "Try it yourself." It's one word: "Helmet."

Think about it. How many people on this earth would ever dream of doing vigorous exercise in a helmet meant only for football games?

You don't even need to work out hard. Wear one for a single day of normal life, and you'll understand just how irritating this thing—so essential to our careers—truly is.

Once the helmet goes on, about ninety percent of what we call peripheral vision simply ceases to exist.

In plain terms: it's suffocating as hell.

But.

Do it often enough, and you get used to it.

I took the snap, turned my back to the line, and sold a play fake to James Cook.

Then I came around—and something red flashed on my left.

Henry To'oTo'o.

By rights, I should have looked right and delivered the ball to my target on that side. Instead, I changed my mind on the spot and took off running to the right.

No.

My feet were already moving.

This was pure instinct.

Damn it.

No pass happening, then.

Running wasn't going well either.

In the end I threw the ball out of bounds, and at the Alabama 38-yard line we found ourselves staring down Third & 6.

Henry To'oTo'o had chased me the whole way and gave my shoulder a pointless shove, then shouted loud enough to make sure I heard him.

Alabama had finished off the drive they'd carried over from the end of the first quarter with a 31-yard field goal.

Bryce Young was certainly doing better work than last time out—but running back Brian Robinson Jr. was twisting his whole body into every gap, clawing out yards with merciless persistence.

Of course. His condition arrow is pointing straight up today.

"Damn it, Jam. Do that one more time and I'm telling them to put Broderick in."

After tossing a word at Jamaree Salyer, the guardian of my blind side, I barked out the play call delivered from the bench.

Clap!

Ninety-five percent of a good quarterback's ability is innate, and five percent is earned through effort—but the vast majority of what a quarterback shows on game day rides on the play calls coming from the bench.

The play caller has to send out timely, well-designed attacks, sure. But a huge part of the job is also the trust he communicates to his quarterback.

No matter how clever a play is, if the quarterback's skill or condition is a mess, it's worth nothing.

So getting the quarterback into a good headspace—letting him lock in on the game and actually enjoy running the plays—that, too, is the mark of a head coach or coordinator worthy of the title play caller.

By that measure, I am a blessed quarterback.

Coach. And Coach Monken.

Because I can feel both of their trust.

It was the same right now.

Facing a situation where a failed conversion would hand possession straight back to Alabama, they had sent in a play that leaned entirely on the quarterback's own ability.

As a play caller, that's a real gamble—one bad break and it becomes the decisive mistake that costs points, even the game itself. Still, it was a decision more than worth attempting.

Third down conversion.

It's always electric. Today, more than ever.

The fingertips inside my gloves tingled.

Rubbing the fingers of both hands together, I lined up in the shotgun, confirmed my teammates were set, then fixed my eyes on the line of scrimmage and read the defense's movement.

Alabama had started in a 4-2-5, and the instant I called the play they shifted into a 5-1-5 look.

Henry To'oTo'o had taken his place on my blind side again, just like the last play. Salyer said he'd handle it—so I had to trust him.

James would take care of the rest on his own.

Georgia has no fools dumb enough to fall for the same thing twice.

Clap!!

Sedrick's snap drifted slightly to the right, but that was fine. All I had to do was turn my body naturally with it.

The line of scrimmage began to knot up with bodies, and within my narrowed field of vision I stared at the empty space—the place where no one was.

Then I slapped the ball twice with my left hand.

One Mississippi.

Tap.

Two Mississippi.

And then—

Missi—

Exactly two and a half seconds later, I whipped my right arm forward, and the pocket stayed safely protected until the pass was away.

Henry To'oTo'o had been right there, but he was flat on the ground, shoved over by Jamaree—and my left-side guardian spun away from the fallen man shouting, "Not twice, baby."

The pass was still in the air.

And I was smiling.

Because when your blind side is protected, there is nothing in this world that makes a quarterback happier—or feel safer.

45 Baby Whiskey.

This ridiculous play name exists because the first target's route wobbles violently left and right.

He pushes straight upfield, then works about four yards toward the sideline, then bends his path back to the middle.

Meanwhile, on the Z-Booty Alert, the three receivers stacked on the right (trips) run their prescribed paths—and they're the decoys. The real one is him.

Brock Bowers.

The surest bet for SEC Freshman of the Year this season, already penciled onto the SEC First Team, a tight end who will without question be drafted in the first round of the NFL and grow into an All-Pro someday.

Brock, who had covered serious ground to loop back around, caught the ball diving toward his head with both hands, clean as a whistle.

The defender wearing 31, who should have been chasing him, was standing in some entirely wrong zip code, and the safety had gotten sucked in by the bunch and was trailing deep behind.

The catch itself was the first down. From here on, it was YAC territory—so all that was left for me was to shout.

I LOVE THAT KID!!!

Brock advanced almost fifteen more yards, and once I confirmed the play had landed in full, I turned toward the bench and roared.

The sentence was short.

I know.

Right now, every ounce of this glory belongs to Brock.

The cameras, too.

The broadcasters, too.

Even the fans in the stands, this instant, are praising Brock's play and showering him with their loudest cheers.

But every quarterback has them.

"You ripped that one."

"That kid's shoulders are gonna be swaggering now, huh?"

"Don't throw him the ball next time."

"Kekeke. Like that'd happen."

"Let's Go, Cap. Let's get a touchdown."

"Oh, yeah."

These guys are, through and through, the quarterback's men.

Even when a receiver bails out a bad pass with a superhuman catch, the O-linemen come straight to the man they protect and tell him, "That was a killer throw."

Which is exactly why I can never forgive the quarterbacks who get branded arrogant, selfish, and cowardly by the writers who don't know them.

Without these big men, there are no good plays.

As we just saw.

Both teams' personnel groups shifted, and the bench, having put two tight ends on the field, called for the blunt approach: punch it forward with raw power.

Matching that, Zamir came in at running back, and this time the plan was to hand him the ball and let him run.

How many yards would he bring us? No telling.

He might even lose yards.

Football always executes its passes and its handoffs from behind the spot where the play begins—so if the ball doesn't advance past break-even, you go backward.

That's why we fight, savagely, every single down.

Yards. Inches.

Centimeters. Millimeters.

Sometimes you lose the whole game over a fingernail's width of ground you failed to gain.

That is football's foundation.

Men carrying the most monstrous bodies on the planet claw for barely ninety more centimeters, tackling and being tackled, bleeding, sometimes breaking bones.

That's why people love this sport.

Because it takes aim at the cruelty humans have hidden away.

And I am no different.

I'm addicted to this cruelty.

Zamir took the handoff and hurled himself into the pit of agony, and even watching him get crushed flat between two tackles after grinding out his yards, I pumped my fist with pure joy.

Don't understand it?

Then you simply don't love football yet.

Squeeek—

Football is one of the few sports that lays a head coach's and his staff's abilities utterly bare—which is why, every single year, how a program assembles and holds on to its coaching staff accounts for an enormous share of its results.

When Alabama's offense visibly weakened this season, some people began arguing that the program had failed to fill the void left by its graduated stars.

Even granting that Bryce Young more than filled Mac Jones's shoes, they said, losing the nation's best running back and wide receiver at the same time was unmistakably a wound.

It wasn't wrong.

But it wasn't right, either.

The reason Mac Jones–Devonta Smith–Najee Harris—the so-called Big 3—had been free to rampage across the field at will owed more than a little to a man celebrated as a genius of offensive design.

Steve Sarkisian.

The current head coach at Texas.

Nick Saban decided to ignore the transmission from the play tower and pulled off his headset, turning to look at Bill O'Brien.

Including ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the play that produced the interception which had set up the last touchdown, every passing design drawn up at the crucial moments kept running straight into Georgia's defense.

Alabama's play caller had been Nick Saban all along—but the foundation of the offensive playbook was entirely the work of Bill O'Brien's team.

Nick Saban knew it.

Knew that he looked like a man casting blame.

But the truth inside him was that he was blaming himself—for having involved himself less than before during the offseason preparation.

Nick Saban shouted at Bill O'Brien, jammed the headset back on—and the passing play attempted on Second & 5 ended in the quarterback's worst color.

The play had been read perfectly, instantly.

On the surface it might have looked like the O-line's failure to contain Jordan Davis, but this had been a shallow route off a quick slant.

Nakobe Dean was already waiting in that lane, and with his first target erased, Jordan descended on Bryce Young.

"GOD! DAMN IT!!"

Football head coaches are, almost without exception, short-fused.

Otherwise, they couldn't survive the stress.

Nick Saban tore the headset off again, rough and graceless, and his frustration spilled out into the open—which made Bill O'Brien feel all the more hunted.

On the day the running back's condition crested, the passing game had to open up to crack Georgia's defense—but with the pass failing at the decisive moments, the running game's force was bleeding away too.

Unable to simply hand the ball back, Bill O'Brien had to clutch at any straw he could reach, and in the end he resolved to put the game on his most trusted running back's shoulders.

The play was delivered by hand signal—but Nick Saban's eyes were still fixed in disbelief.

And so began Third & 5.

Brian Robinson Jr. shot into the crease his O-linemen had carved out—but this time, too, Nakobe Dean was there to shut the door.

Countless bodies came crashing down over the fallen Brian Robinson Jr., and with the first down still undetermined, the head referee approached the spot.

At last, the ruling came.

It was—

The ball had died barely a few inches short of the first down marker.

Nick Saban, ordering a fourth-down attempt instead of a punt.

This was the National Championship Game.

Alabama had flashed their hunger for points all the way down to the Go For It, but they couldn't punch through the wall our defense had built.

Maybe it was wounded pride at surrendering rushing yards so freely early in the game, but from the start of the second quarter, every man on the back level behind our front seven had awoken at once and begun to play angry.

Nolan Smith, forever the consummate team player who moves willingly as a single piece of the puzzle, is a creative and devoted edge.

And Nakobe Dean, holding down the MAC on the opposite side, gets underestimated by NFL teams for his small 180-centimeter frame—but with fast, dynamic defense, he fills every breached gap before it can widen.

And the two in the middle?

Channing Tindall.

Quay Walker.

Their eyes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for reading a game, their instinct for sniffing out the seams in an O-line—they make me nervous in practice.

The front, honestly, has been a given since last year—not once have they failed, so I take it as a constant. But a back level awakened like it is today? One glance at the line of scrimmage and what lies behind it, and the air simply stops.

That's what I want to talk about.

Before we took the field for the second half, I raised my voice in the locker room.

The response came faster than I'd expected.

So I had to settle my brothers down for a moment.

There was still time.

…

…

The moment the draft came up, laughter and whistles rippled through the room.

Every face brightened.

But there was more.

…

…

CLAP!!!!

The sound came up a little ragged and out of sync, so I shouted again.

CLAP!!!!!

That time, I was satisfied.

So I roared.

Yeah.

This is what I wanted to say.

This is the sight I wanted to see.

Someone near the door shoved it open with a rough sweep, and without a single exception, every one of my brothers thundered out of that locker room, roaring.

A few of them came to me, clasped my hands, pulled me into hugs—every one of them complimenting the speech.

And Coach was no different.

"Haha. You were recording?"

"Damn right."

"Well then, this one's officially part of my legacy too."

"…You're damn right about that. Let's go. We've still got a second half."

"Yes, Sir."

Flipping the helmet in my hands down onto my head, I walked slowly out of the locker room, now nearly empty.

Out in the corridor, the heat my brothers had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠left behind still hung in the air.

"Whoo—"

Thirty minutes remaining.

I will make this victory certain.