If You Fall, I'll Catch You
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#. February 20, 2022
#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA
#-2. Honolulu
#-3. Bar Maze
Situated right next to Salt at Our Kakaʻako, Bar Maze was one of Honolulu's premier fine-dining establishments.
The owner was a famous bartender named Justin Park, and the head chef was Ki Chung, who had cut his teeth at world-renowned restaurants like The Fat Duck and The French Laundry.
The menu sat somewhere between Korean and Japanese cuisine — though personally, I'd have said calling it Japanese was the more accurate description.
And a friend of mine worked here now.
"You made this?"
"Yeah. Try it."
"Wow. This is genuinely impressive?"
"…."
With the chef's blessing, Loto served the dish he'd dreamed up himself — chicken breast braised in a sauce built on miso and soy, plated alongside white asparagus, fried lotus root, and kimchi charred over an open flame.
The presentation was a feast for the eyes, and the aroma rising off the plate whetted the appetite instantly.
"How is it?"
"Incredible. I'm not joking — I had no idea chicken breast could be this tender and juicy."
"Thanks for saying that."
"Damn- this is really good."
As you might recall, Loto had been cast out of the Fuamatu family when he gave up football and chose the path of a chef.
Right after that, he came to Oahu, where Kahuku High is located, and set out in search of his own dream — sleeping and eating at the restaurant where he worked until just a few months ago, nurturing his ambition to become a chef.
Then one day, the people here held a company dinner at his restaurant, and word has it his old boss told them this:
He's got talent. Invest in him.
And so he got hired here.
Having heard the whole story, Justin Park even found Loto a place to live near the restaurant, and Loto started working here, paying only his own rent.
"Loto?"
"Yes, Chef."
"You can head home early today."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Have a good time with your friend."
"Th-thank you."
With Loto let off a full three hours early, we found a quiet pub nearby and settled into the most secluded corner we could find.
"I'll grab the drinks."
"Hold on."
"?"
"Pay with this."
"I can afford a couple of beers, you know."
"That's not what this is about. Come on. Just use it."
"…Fine. Alright."
Loto went off to place the order, and a little while later he came back and handed me the card and the receipt, which I tucked into my pocket. Soon a female bartender arrived with our beers.
"Why are you off so early today?"
"The chef let me out early."
"Ah- phew! Here I was thinking you'd gotten fired. Why would you, though? I was about to offer you a job here if it came to that. Anyway. Enjoy your evening."
Wait. Hold on.
What did I just see?
Right? That was that, right?
"What? It's nothing like that."
"Oh, please. You can't ignore my instincts when it comes to this stuff. Be honest. You two are an item, aren't you?"
"No, seriously! Jane and I are just…"
"Just?"
"…."
I would stake my life on it.
That was the look of a man in love.
Damn it!
Loto Fuamatu had fallen in love.
Jane, was it?
"She's out of my league."
"You're hilarious."
"I mean it. And I'm in no position to be dating anyone anyway. I can barely cover my rent and buy the occasional beer. Even if I got together with Jane, I couldn't make her happy."
"Listen here, my friend."
I'll admit, it was a little hypocritical of me to say this.
"If it's love, none of that matters."
"…."
"And from what I can tell, Jane likes you too."
"Really?"
"Yeah!"
"…No way- you're messing with me."
Being away from the family that had smothered and looked down on him had changed him a great deal, but Loto was still Loto at heart.
Since butting into other people's love lives tends to end badly, I stopped there and said something to shore up my friend's confidence instead.
"You've changed a lot, Loto."
"…."
"But that doesn't mean you're not a Fuamatu anymore. You know that. I got called a Fake Samoan too."
"I… I'm sorry about that."
"Nah- don't even mention it. It's fine. What matters is the present."
The past was just the past.
Unless it involved actual crimes, anyway.
"Ever since I was little, my grandfather and father taught me this: you're a Fuamatu, but you live as Dwayne Moi Stone. At first I thought that meant living for the family. But it didn't. What they meant was this — whatever you do, it's your own name on the line, not the family's. So live in a way that never shames your name. Which was also their way of saying: live as yourself."
"…."
"If you believe in your heart you're walking the right path, then all you have to do is keep walking. Just like your name says. Loto — he who walks toward truth. You know that, right? And from now on, I'll be at your side. We're brothers. Real brothers. So if things ever get too hard, call me anytime. I've got your back. Got it?"
Part of why I'd come to Oahu was to see my grandparents, but I'd also heard from my father that Sioele had recently come around to give Loto grief.
That guy was still living faithfully as the family's guard dog to this day.
Just how far does that halo of his reach, anyway?
Still a fool buried in chicken-coop politics.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
We wrapped up with a quick beer each, and as we got up to leave, I said I'd walk to my grandmother's house.
Loto bowed his head in farewell and turned the opposite way.
Truthfully, I'd been planning to offer him a job.
Once I was drafted next year and went pro, I intended to ask Loto to be my road manager slash personal chef.
But he was doing even better than I'd expected on his own.
So I decided to just cheer him on instead.
I didn't know how it would turn out — but I hoped he'd fly far and free.
And if he ever stumbled and fell, I'd be there to catch him.
"Damn- that thought was kind of arrogant of me."
The streets of Honolulu were overflowing with tourists.
Thank God nobody noticed me here.
#. February 27, 2022
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Vandiver Hall
Returning to campus after roughly two months, I found it quiet and nearly deserted — being a Sunday morning probably had something to do with it.
"Thank you."
Vroom—
I was still waving to the friendly cab driver when James, the security guard, came outside wearing a look of mild shock.
A face I hadn't seen in a long while.
"Well, I'll be damned. Moi!"
"Haha. How have you been?"
"Same old, same old. Goodness! You have no idea how startled I was when you weren't here at the start of term. Skipping a whole spring semester."
"That's what keeping my credits in order was for."
"So? Are you staying put now or what?"
"Mm- I've got something in April."
This coming April, EA Sports' College Football 2022 was slated to release on PS4, Xbox, and Steam.
A formal launch party was being held in New York, and as the cover athlete, my attendance was mandatory.
Other than that, my schedule was empty.
"Busy man."
"This counts as free time, believe me."
"Haha. Want help with the bags?"
"No, I'm good."
Dragging my own suitcase, I headed inside alongside James.
Ah, this air I'd missed so much.
Somewhere along the way, I'd grown attached to this place too.
"Oh, I'll bring your letters and packages by later."
"That many?"
"About two truckloads' worth."
"Whoa-ow. Anyway, thank you."
Fan letters had been coming to the university for a while now.
Occasionally there were gifts mixed in — some of them rather troubling ones.
Once, a woman named Lindsay Flowers mailed her own used underwear along with photos of herself nearly naked, pubic hair included.
After that incident, the university began screening all fan mail and packages before delivering them to the dorm, sparing me from ever going through anything like that again.
Since I planned to spend the whole day resting in my room anyway, reading through the fan letters would be a fine way to pass the time.
The moments that warmed me most were the letters from soldiers returning from deployment, and the ones where people who'd been through hard times recently wrote that watching me play had given them strength.
Reading those made me push even harder.
Click.
Since I'd told the school I'd be arriving today, the room was warm despite having been empty for so long.
After shoving my suitcase roughly into the closet, I stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge to find it fully stocked, the groceries greeting me like old friends.
These were the moments I loved.
"Let's see now…."
Planning to make a simple mac and cheese, I pulled out the ingredients, set a pot of water on the stove, and started slicing butter.
Then, like a ghost, the phone rang.
—Maaan, you're here!
"Damn. How'd you know I was back?"
—Coach told me. Where are you?
"My room. Making mac and cheese — want in?"
—On my way. Hold tight.
Click.
The quick caller was Jordan Addison, and moments later Sedrick called too, saying he'd round up the O-linemen and drag them over.
Sensing things were about to balloon out of control, I swapped in the largest pot I owned and filled it with water, then called the pizza place I ordered from regularly and bought two of every kind — twenty pies in total.
A few minutes later, friends started trickling in one by one. I'd left the door open since Jordan's arrival, and soon I was staring at a room packed wall to wall.
Are you kidding me?
What is this, a brothel?
Watching the place roil with at least thirty guys, I called a few more restaurants to order additional delivery food.
Before I knew it, someone's singing blasted through the living room speakers, and I shouted, "This is NOT a party!!" — which was, of course, about as effective as yelling at a brick wall.
Well, look at that. A proper welcome-back greeting.
Still, I liked it. A lot.
"YO!! PIZZA'S HERE!!!"
"YEAH!!!"
Oh, good heavens. A pack of cavemen.
Not that I'd deny being the chieftain of this tribe.
#. February 28, 2022
#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA
#-2. Jenkins Elite, Atlanta Branch
"Independence Day, you said?"
"Technically it's the day the independence movement began."
"That's awesome."
The man warming up with me indoors was Jacob Mezera, a coach here at the facility.
Born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, he'd served as captain and starting quarterback at Fort Hays State University — FHSU, for short.
For the record, FHSU competed in Division II, under the Mid-American Intercollegiate Athletics Association — the MIAA — rather than the NCAA.
He declared for the 2019 Draft after graduating, and unsurprisingly went undrafted, though he did get a workout with his hometown Jacksonville Jaguars.
Then, unexpectedly, Jacksonville offered Jacob Mezera a contract — not as a player, but as a coach.
Jacob agonized over it. And turned it down.
"Why?"
"Well, for one, I didn't want to go back to Jacksonville."
"But it's your hometown."
Since our conversation that morning about the March 1st Movement post I'd put up, we'd been in the middle of getting to know each other.
"Probably pride, if I'm honest."
"Pride?"
"Yeah. All my hometown friends are in Jacksonville. I didn't want them seeing me working there as a coach instead of a quarterback. So I decided to just get out, and somehow I ended up here."
"Do you like it here?"
"I do. It's a great place."
I'd heard the same thing.
That the quality of the coaching here was exceptional.
It was a testament to the passion of co-CEO Tim Jenkins, and after thorough research into every option, I'd concluded this was the optimal place for me.
"So, just three weeks?"
"For now."
"Haha. Now I'm nervous."
"As you should be."
The plan was to train here for three weeks, and if I liked it, to consider stopping by on weekends during summer camp.
Once the season started, Sundays were non-negotiable rest days, so I'd have no luxury of extra sessions.
"Oh, and I read what you sent over."
"You did? What'd you think?"
"Impressive. I've trained a number of college QBs one-on-one, but I've never seen anyone with a system as buttoned-up as yours. You really planned all of that yourself?"
"Of course. Absolutely."
Normally, private training with an academy like this doesn't proceed on the coach's whims alone.
Especially when the client is a quarterback playing D1 or in the NFL — before the real sessions begin, preliminary conversations set the direction of the training.
What I wanted to get out of this place was faster releases from the pocket, and improvement after scrambles.
Both tied into Georgia's situation this year — namely, the absence of Zamir and Justin.
I trusted Broderick, but the O-line would carry less weight than last year regardless, so I needed to forge my own escape routes.
"Alright. Let's go."
"Yes, Sir."
The long winter of my travels was over.
It was time to lock back in on football.
I was thrilled to be back on the field.
#. March 1, 2022
#-1. Metairie, Louisiana, USA
#-2. New Orleans Saints Front Office
No team explained the dangers of the "hard cap" and "Win Now" thinking better than this year's — and last year's — New Orleans Saints.
To be fair, this was tangled up with the sudden death of Tom Benson, the owner who had long steered the team well, and the inexperience of his wife Gayle Benson, who inherited it.
But the true breaking point was the catastrophic missed call in the 2018/19 playoffs — the one played for Tom Benson.
The Saints players, desperate to win it all for an owner who loved the team dearly, faced the L.A. Rams, then the #2 seed. With the score knotted at 20:20 and one minute forty-five seconds left on the clock…
Red zone, 13 yards out.
Third & 10.
Shotgun.
The snap arrived cleanly to quarterback Drew Brees, and the pass sailed toward Tommylee Lewis, running his route to the right as designed.
At that moment, the Rams' nickelback Nickell Robey-Coleman committed a foul so blatant anyone could see it. No flag came.
Stripped of a first down by the blown call, the Rams were held to a field goal — but with time still remaining, they got the ball back, kicked another field goal of their own, and dragged the game to overtime.
The result: defeat.
Without that missed call, the Saints could have drained the clock entirely and attempted a game-winning field goal of their own.
The scandal ultimately forced the league to expand the scope of replay challenges — a step in the right direction for the game as a whole, but for the Saints and their fans, it remained a lasting tragedy.
That was where it began.
The Saints' descent into madness.
Robbed of their Super Bowl berth by sheer injustice, the New Orleans Saints — hell-bent on winning a title in the twilight of the quarterback they loved most, Drew Brees — chained together one massive contract after another without a single thought for the future.
But no championship came, and by the winter of 2021, the salary cap had detonated.
As of last February, the Saints' cap figure exceeded the limit by a staggering $98 million — which meant shipping out every important player on the roster.
The players did restructure their deals to help the team trim the number, but the Saints still had to part with ten key contributors.
Then came Drew Brees's retirement.
The collapse was, in a sense, written in the stars.
And now.
"No! There will be no rebuilding on my watch!"
The New Orleans Saints were enduring worse internal turmoil than at any point since the dawn of the Drew Brees era.
"We're going to the playoffs!"
"Whew- this is maddening."
"Does he even understand football?"
This year, too, the New Orleans Saints were swallowing the brutal reality they'd dodged last season.
Thanks to the cap deferrals — essentially putting their contracts on revolving credit — their roster came into this year exceeding the cap by a whopping $74 million.
They'd missed the playoffs entirely last year, so there wasn't even a pretense left to dangle in front of the players this time.
And so the Saints' staff, the GM included, intended to seize this as their chance to reset the team.
The timing was right, too.
If you cut key players because of cap overruns, no one could complain; and the quarterback position could be handed temporarily to Jameis Winston, now at NFL backup level.
And if they somehow landed a Top 3 pick in next year's Draft? Then one of Dwayne Moi Stone, C.J. Stroud, or Bryce Young would be theirs.
Ideally Dwayne Moi Stone, of course.
Except—
"Damn it. Dennis is going to destroy this team."
"Gayle adores that man."
"Phew- we have to hit the reset button."
Dennis Lauscha.
President of the Saints, and Gayle Benson's right hand.
Unlike her husband, Gayle Benson knew next to nothing about football, and she had fallen for the smooth flattery of the cunning, silver-tongued Dennis Lauscha, entrusting him with every aspect of the club's operations.
To be fair, Dennis Lauscha genuinely loved the Saints. The problem was that his love had grown somewhat blind.
Dennis Lauscha was obsessed with the idea that, for the sake of the late Tom Benson if nothing else, the Saints must remain a playoff team every year and lay the Lombardi Trophy at his grave.
Hence his seizures at the mere mention of a reset button.
Reality didn't concern him in the slightest.
"Seriously. Realistically, we can't compete for a playoff spot anymore. Fourteen players have left this team since last year. All of them starters, mind you. Goddamn it. The head coach is patching holes week to week and the roster keeps getting thinner, but that man alone refuses to come to his senses."
"What are you going to do?"
"…I need to meet with Gayle."
"Right now?"
"Yes. Immediately!"
Mickey Loomis, general manager of the New Orleans Saints, steeled his resolve and called Gayle Benson.
Dennis Lauscha postured as if he were the one who loved this team most of all, but in truth, Mickey Loomis had served the franchise far longer — and he was the one who truly worried for it. Who truly loved it.
This was a moment that could decide the next ten years of the team. Convinced of that, Mickey Loomis quietly arranged a secret meeting with Gayle Benson.
"Keep this from Dennis, please."
—Of course.
Click.
Hanging up, Mickey Loomis swept out of the front office with his secretary in tow, got into a car, and pulled away.
Between rebuilding and resetting—
Here, too, were people wrestling with the same crossroads.