2021 National Championship (3)

(Chris Fowler) — ESPN Play-by-Play

"Ball inside the 20. Alabama has to stop them here. Play action. They blitz—almost had him! Bowers hauls it in! The blocking held up! They did it!! Touchdown, GEORGIA!! Hold on—there's a flag on the field. We'll need to review that one… oh, yes indeed. Dwayne Moi Stone is saying the defense hit him in the helmet."

(Kirk Herbstreit) — ESPN Analyst

"Looks like it happened after the ball was out. Alabama's D-line opened up a great lane and the blitz was executed beautifully, but Moi was just a split-second faster."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

(Chris Fowler)

"So much rests on the shoulders of Bryce Young. This may be the most important third down of his career. He needs ten yards. From the pocket—he launches it deep downfield!! It's SHORT!! Intercepted by Kelee Ringo!! And he walks into the end zone!! PICK SIX GEORGIA!! The Crimson Tide is collapsing!!"

Alabama had ramped up the tempo in the second half, and to their credit, they'd scored more because of it—but then, so had we.

Desperate, Bryce Young kept slinging deep balls. Twice, his receivers had won their one-on-ones outright. This time, however, our defensive call worked to perfection, and suddenly it was one man against three.

That's how Kelee Ringo's Pick Six came to be—an interception snagged as cleanly as if the pass had been thrown to him personally.

Truthfully, the game had been over minutes ago, but I figured this score finally broke Alabama's will for good.

"Moi!"

"?"

"Put the headset on."

"Who is it?"

"Bob. He says he's got something to tell you."

Before I put that headset on, one thing worth mentioning: our team currently has three men named Muschamp on it.

Two of them are my friend Jackson Muschamp and his father Will Muschamp, whom I mentioned before the game. The third is Robert Muschamp, who advises on defense from the coaching tower.

Is sharing a surname just coincidence?

No.

Coach Robert Muschamp is Coach Will Muschamp's nephew, and back in 2015 he became a walk-on for the Auburn Tigers.

And like every walk-on, he was treated as little more than a practice-roster body—but thanks to an exceptional understanding of football, he earned a scholarship as a senior and appeared as a backup in seven games.

He never made the NFL, but that alone is remarkable.

It means he overcame his physical limitations through nothing but sheer effort and became a scholarship player on a D1 SEC team.

After graduating, he spent about two years as a graduate assistant at Tennessee, and Kirby Smart—who watched the Volunteers' defense improve during that stretch—brought him here to Georgia.

He's one of the reasons our defense has been so strong this year.

The man manages outside linebackers exceptionally well.

Anyway.

That's not what I was getting at.

It's about this man's name.

People outside the English-speaking world never quite understand why a Robert gets called Bob.

Here's the answer: laziness.

And laziness with a dash of swagger.

Robert's nickname is Rob.

But there are way too many Robs.

So what about Bob?

Not bad, right?

Let's all call Robert Bob from now on.

It sounds like a joke, but it's the honest truth.

Americans and the English language were never a serious match to begin with.

The moment I put the headset on, Coach Robert asked me how I'd managed to read Bryce Young's mind.

That's right—the defensive philosophy we'd established on Alabama's final third-down attempt had been my proposal. I'd made it right after their second-down play ended.

"I've watched a LOT of their film, sir."

—Haha. Well, you killed them out there.

"Yes, sir."

Saving the joy of victory and the congratulations for later, I pulled the headset back off and walked to the sideline.

The PAT was already done, and the scoreboard now showed one more point than before.

48–16.

The air around us had gone soft and warm.

"We're basically about to goof off for ten whole minutes."

"And that makes you happy?"

"Of course it does! You telling me it doesn't?"

Obviously I'm happy too.

The championship is right in front of us.

Special teams, who'd been busy all night, lined up for another kickoff, and Alabama's return man managed a forward push before being swallowed up by the tackle around the 23-yard line.

You could feel the fight draining out of them.

"We did it, man. The championship! And a 34-game win streak, BABY!!"

"Finish the shutout!!"

"Yeah!! Get after it!! Heh heh heh."

Having accepted their fate, Alabama sent out their backup quarterback, and barely 89 seconds later possession came back to us.

So we emptied our bench too.

92 seconds remained.

Once again, the Georgia Bulldogs were the best college football team in the nation.

(Chris Fowler)

"THE GAME IS OVER! AGAIN!! GEORGIA BULLDOGS ON THE MOUNTAINTOP! They did not lose a single game this year! And the same was true last season! Two consecutive years! The Georgia Bulldogs stand atop college football, UNDEFEATED! Kirby Smart's program is building a legacy for the ages!"

As the celebration was being staged on the field, one man stood off to the side receiving his congratulations in quiet.

Jere Morehead.

The President of UGA.

Despite COVID-19—the pandemic of the century—sweeping the world last year, Jere Morehead had raised the largest donation total in the university's history, and this year he'd pulled in a staggering 4.9 billion dollars.

Texas A&M raised 11.2 billion, to be fair, but Texas and A&M both pull in over 10 billion dollars a year—it's simply the nature of universities that produce the world's wealthiest tycoons. Harvard, for instance, brings in a minimum of 35 to 45 billion.

Until Dwayne Moi Stone enrolled, Georgia had averaged around 700 million dollars a year over the previous decade—and in 2020, despite COVID, that figure had more than tripled.

Then last year, it doubled again.

Naturally, the largest sum in the university's history.

So Jere Morehead was currently preparing a magnificent gift for the football team: starting tomorrow, roughly four months of sweeping construction would completely renew the training facilities.

To build the finest, most lavish training complex and stadium locker room in the university's history, Georgia was once again pouring in 110 million dollars.

It would hold its own against any NFL team's facility—frankly, players might one day look back and say, "College was better than the pros."

Amid the swirling confetti, the men on the podium delivered their remarks one by one and hoisted the trophy into the air.

"Jere."

"Oh. Mr. Jones."

"Congratulations. You'll be printing money again next year, I'm sure."

"Haha. Just good fortune, sir."

The man standing beside Jere Morehead was a senior NCAA official—someone no D1 university president could afford not to know.

"Football is the greatest business engine there is."

"I couldn't agree more."

"That young man truly brought you and Georgia a goose that lays golden eggs. No—let's say diamonds. Georgia's revenue over the last two years now matches what it earned across the entire decade from 2010 to 2019."

"Though I suppose even that will come to an end soon."

"Well. Only one year left, isn't there?"

Football is the only sport in the world where a single gifted athlete can exert enormous influence over an entire university and its city.

The reason the University of Georgia had been able to support disease control—and the bare necessities of daily life—across the entire state, Athens included, last year was precisely the success of its football program.

Thanks to that, Athens, Georgia now ranked as the American city with the highest quality of life, and the mayor—whose political career that distinction had greatly aided—was only growing friendlier toward the university.

Everything is connected.

"I wish you continued victory next year as well."

"Thank you."

Left alone once more, Jere Morehead watched Dwayne Moi Stone giving an interview on the field below.

A guileless young man from Hawaii.

Reshaping the present of the university and the city alike.

At this rate, I might have to put up a statue of him.

It would depend on what he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did in the NFL, of course—but Jere Morehead found himself thinking that a statue of Dwayne Moi Stone rising somewhere around Sanford Stadium wouldn't be a bad thing at all.

And he believed one thing more.

That the Georgia Bulldogs, having reached the very summit of college football two years running, would look much the same next year as they had this one.

Beyond a doubt.

Tonight was shaping up to be a beautiful night for him and for Georgia.

We kept the promises we'd made to each other and walked back into the locker room with our heads held high and our chests full of pride.

Champagne, beer, water, and every kind of drink imaginable were laid out and waiting—but before the real celebration could begin, the head coach said he had something to announce first.

And what was that?

"For the first time in history, a man has thrown for 6,000+ passing yards and 60+ touchdowns in a single season! Dwayne Moi Stone!"

"YEEEEAAAAH-!!!"

"Whoooo!!"

"MO-I! MO-I! MO-I!"

I had surpassed the 5,671 yards Joe Burrow once put up—the greatest single-season passing total in history.

Coach also told me I'd become the first player ever to log 6,500+ total offensive yards, passing and rushing combined. Standing before my teammates, I raised my voice and shouted:

"Let's go get 7,000 yards next year!!"

"LET'S GO!!!"

Alright.

Now the party begins.

Champagne and beer erupted from every direction.

Seeing as this wasn't our house, we'd taken every precaution to protect the locker room.

Granted, it wasn't anything we'd done ourselves—the equipment managers had meticulously laid down plastic sheeting everywhere—but either way, with the worry of wrecking the place off the table, we got to enjoy our victory purely.

Plenty of the guys in here weren't legally allowed to be drinking, but for one night, even the Attorney General would look the other way.

"Hey!!"

"??"

SPLOOSH!

Quay dumped a full bottle of champagne over my head.

The absolute menace.

And yet, I couldn't get angry even if I tried.

"YO!!"

Travon Walker climbed up onto a chair, pulled off his goggles, and bellowed at all of us with every ounce of air in his lungs.

"I love every single one of you! For real! Y'all know what I mean?"

"Don't tell me you're about to get all sappy on us?!"

"A-Yo! Yo, yo. Listen, listen. I'm dead serious right now. Last year, with COVID and everything, it could've been miserable—but football and you guys made me happy. And this year? It's twice as good as that, minimum. I'm heading to the NFL! But I've got one thing to ask of you! ONE MORE YEAR!! Let's build a dynasty!!"

"…"

They weren't polished words, not by any stretch—but they were genuine, and that made them hit all the harder.

Just as the room had gone quieter than he expected and Travon started to look flustered, I hoisted the beer can in my hand and answered the call for the guy who'd given us the speech of the night:

"ONE! MORE! YEAR!"

"Yeah—THAT'S what I'm talking about!"

Travon flashed a blinding white smile and pointed straight at me, and as the chant kept rolling—three words at a time—teammates all around began joining in, one after another.

One More Year.

A locker room where liquids had been flying every which way was now filled to bursting with those three words, and at the perfect moment, a song kicked in—and the liquids went flying again.

Damn it.

This is just too good.

Living each day with everything I've got. And within that life, having good people at my side—and having a day like today. I feel a fullness of joy and happiness that's hard to put into words.

Yeah.

One more year.

With the friends staying in school alongside me, and the new brothers who'll join us next season, I want to taste this feeling again next year.

And when that time comes, I want to be the one standing up there saying it—just like Travon did tonight.

If that becomes a tradition, how great would that be?

#. The Same Hour

#-1. Bronxville, New York, USA

Fifteen miles north of Manhattan.

Bronxville, known as the most expensive suburb in America, is the first choice for wealthy professionals working in New York who prefer a quiet place to live.

It's also known as the birthplace of the Kennedy family, John F. Kennedy included, and of Frank Abagnale Jr., the real-life subject of the book and film Catch Me If You Can.

Countless luminaries still call Bronxville home—and Roger Stokoe Goodell was one of them.

The sitting Commissioner of the NFL.

"…"

Goodell, who had been watching an ESPN program dissecting Georgia's championship win, rose from his seat and walked to the corner of the room.

In the study of the estate where he and his family lived, a selection of expensive whiskey was preserved at precisely the perfect temperature.

Browsing the collection, he picked out the bottle that pleased him most, popped the cap, and poured the amber liquid into one of the thick crystal glasses set beside it.

He found himself wondering.

Was it truly the right call?

Under its current trade regulations, the NFL stipulates the following.

In other words, for this year's 2022 draft, the first-round picks any given team could offer were 2022, 2023, and 2024—plus 2026 and 2028.

Since last year, roughly two-thirds of NFL teams had inquired about this particular rule, and the league had quietly moved to amend it.

Beginning this April, the window would shrink to three years, and the cap would drop to nine picks.

In short:

The best package a team could put together at the 2022 draft would be first-round picks from 2022 through 2024, plus second- and third-round picks from the same years.

The reason for the change came down to one man.

Dwayne Moi Stone.

And, in part, to another: David ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Tepper, owner of the Carolina Panthers—the only man who had ever picked up the phone and called him directly.

Within NFL circles, people openly wondered "how on earth the man ever made his fortune in investing"—David Tepper was that reckless when it came to running a football team.

It was one thing to fumble the very first snap. Even granting him that, he invested in uncertainty with almost no thought for the future.

Tepper was also famous for his impatience; trades had been blown to smithereens because the man couldn't wait a mere three minutes.

No matter how many times his general manager begged for 180 seconds, the moment his paper-thin patience ran bare, he was off shopping for a new trade partner.

By now every NFL team knew David Tepper's temperament inside and out, and they exploited it routinely whenever they dealt with the Panthers.

In Goodell's mind, Tepper's voice began to play.

"Let me get straight to the point."

Right after Georgia beat Alabama in the 2020/21 season, David Tepper had called him and asked, plainly:

Would it be permissible to offer five years' worth of first-round picks starting in 2023, along with the same number of second-round picks, all to draft Dwayne Moi Stone?

Goodell had found it thoroughly amusing that the subject of the sentence was a team that didn't even hold a 2023 first-round pick—but he'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠summoned his commissioner's composure and calmly walked the man through the details.

Tepper double-checked the rule twice more before hanging up, and up to that point, Goodell had simply assumed the Panthers were about to pull another stunt.

But as time passed, more and more teams began asking the same question—and by the time last year's National Championship ended, exactly twenty-one had come calling.

That was when it started.

Goodell's sense of crisis.

The nimble maneuvering of clubs probing loopholes in league rules had been eroding the NFL's competitive balance for years, and he refused to let it happen again. He immediately summoned the heads of every major department.

From there, they drafted the new regulation and quietly gauged each club's advance reactions as they went.

And at the end of all that, Goodell and the NFL concluded that revising the trade rules was something everyone would welcome.

Yet recently, a new question had begun to nag at him.

Would this actually hold?

Assuming Dwayne Moi Stone performed next season much as he had this one, his price tag was certain to be, at minimum, the nine draft picks allowed under the NFL's newly amended rules.

And the crucial part—that's not the ceiling. That's the starting bid.

Whichever team wins the lottery and lands the #1 overall pick in 2023 could simply draft Dwayne Moi Stone—or it could walk away with the nine picks plus whatever else it could squeeze out on top.

How, exactly, could that be stopped?

No—was stopping it even the right thing to do?

Privately, Goodell had wanted Dwayne Moi Stone to stumble and Alabama to win. But the result flowed exactly as everyone had predicted.

Worse, Dwayne Moi Stone had completed one of the greatest seasons in NCAA history—and starting tomorrow, his value was all but guaranteed to punch through the ceiling yet again.

Looking at it purely as the NFL industry, a superstar of monstrous proportions had just been minted, and there was every reason to celebrate. But at the same time, he had to fight tooth and nail to keep the ecosystem from toppling.

The university.

The city.

The state.

And next, Dwayne Moi Stone was exerting enormous influence across the NFL itself—the largest industry in America.

And yet.

Lucky bastard.

For all his headaches, Goodell couldn't help but envy Dwayne Moi Stone—a young man walking a road that every man in America dreamed of walking.