Someday, This Debt Will Be Collected in Full

#. March 20, 2022

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. Kirby Smart's House

Two days before the first spring training session, I received a dinner invitation from Coach.

By now I'd been coming here for three years, so the visit felt routine — I knew everyone well enough to know exactly what each of them liked.

A luxury muffler for Mrs. Mary Beth.

A Nintendo for Weston, the boy of the twins.

A pair of fashionable heels for Julia.

And for the youngest, Andrew—

"WaaaAAAAH—!!"

"That happy, huh?"

"YES!!! WaaaAAAAH—!!"

Andrew was only nine, but he was remarkably grown for his age and had a serious gift for baseball. Coaches from middle schools across the state of Georgia were already showing up to scout him, and the family liked to joke that he might be the No. 01 pick of the 2030 class.

Which was why I'd called in a favor from Aaron Judge.

I told him I wanted to give Coach's youngest son a present, and asked whether he'd be willing to send a signed bat and cap if I covered the cost. When I promised I'd repay him someday, one way or another, Aaron just waved it off — "Friends don't need any of that." — and then went ahead and signed the cap, the bat, a jersey, and even the cleats before shipping the full package over.

That's why the gift ended up being so expensive.

"If the NCAA comes sniffing around, you might get caught."

"On charges of a player bribing his head coach?"

"That's the one."

"Now that sounds entertaining. I can't wait to see how people react. Dwayne Moi Stone — as it turns out, he bought his way into the starting job from Kirby Smart."

"Ha ha."

The real reason Coach had invited me to dinner tonight was that he wanted me to start cracking the whip once the official schedule began the day after tomorrow.

Too much of the team's backbone had left.

I'd believed all along that this was supposed to be my job anyway, so I accepted the role without hesitation.

"I think Brock and Ladd are the right call."

"Not Jordan?"

"No, sir. As you know better than anyone, Jordan is a killer on the field — but he's not exactly the type freshmen should be watching and learning from off of it."

"Fair point."

Heading into the full preparation period, coaches typically invite the players who'll anchor the team to dinners like this before settling on the captaincy. I never had that dinner last year because Jordan Davis held the role then — and now that he'd declared for the NFL, someone had to take it over.

Naturally, I figured that someone would be me.

"For the O-line, I'm thinking Sedrick."

"Good. I agree."

"Here."

"Hmm?"

"Have some of this while you talk."

"Oh — thank you."

Dinner with the Smart family was over by then, and the two of us were picking out the captain group in Coach's study. I thanked Mrs. Smart for the warm tea and took a slow sip of it.

Sluuurp—

Anyway.

Through last year, the leader of the O-line had been Jamaree, so handing that mantle to Sedrick this season felt like the right move. With his gentle New Orleans drawl and his calm, steady backbone, Sedrick was exactly the kind of man who belonged in a leadership group.

And for receivers I'd recommended Brock and Ladd — both hardworking, both natural leaders. Jordan Addison was exceptional as a pure wide receiver, but taken together with the crowd he ran with and his general reputation around campus, he sat a long way from exemplary.

He was far more diligent at practice than JB, but he was a little like George — the kind of personality that goes off the rails if you load him with responsibility.

Beyond that, Kendall Milton was decided as the running back leader, and on defense the captain group came together as Jalen Carter (D-line), Nolan Smith (linebacker), Kelee Ringo (cornerback), and Christopher Smith (safety).

Special teams went to Podlesny.

"That about settles it."

"It does."

"How are you feeling, Coach?"

"Same as every year. This is when I get nervous — especially after a good season. You don't feel it?"

"Mmm... I just miss football."

"Ha! For a man who misses football, you've been living the single life a long time."

"You cut right to the bone, sir."

There'd probably be more busy stretches like this ahead. During the season proper, of course, I intended to focus on nothing but football.

"Have you met the freshmen yet?"

"No. Last year was the only time I've seen them."

"Good group. A lot of fine young men."

"...You'll need a quarterback, though."

"Whew— that's the hardest part, and the most important. I wouldn't even dream of a quarterback like you. You're the kind of talent that shows up once every twenty years. Whatever coach lands you is lucky. By that measure, I must be one fortunate man."

"I'd say so myself."

Georgia hadn't been my first choice during recruiting, but in all my time here I had never once regretted my decision. The people here were the most honest and warmest in the world, and the longer I stayed — on the field and off it — the more I learned, the more mature I became.

I believe a person can always leave room to grow, even at sixty, and that's why I consider every moment I've spent at Georgia precious.

This place will remain a happy one in my heart.

I'll keep coming back even after I go pro.

Just like so many NFL players do — come bye week, maybe I'd fly in on a private jet, watch a Georgia football game from the sideline, and head home.

Almost certainly, that's exactly how it would go.

"Coach."

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember what I said at the championship game?"

"...Do I ever. I was planning to play it for the freshmen at our meeting tomorrow, as a matter of fact."

I had made Coach one promise.

The legacy I'd spoken of that day — the one I swore I'd leave behind.

"There's still so much I have to leave at Georgia. So I'm going to leave all of it — every last piece — before I go."

Three straight championships.

An undefeated season.

Personally, I had my eye on becoming the first three-time Heisman winner in history as well, but if those first two goals slipped away, I knew the regret would haunt me for the rest of my days.

Which is why I made the promise right here, right now.

For Coach.

And for every single person at Georgia.

"Let's go undefeated again this year."

"Ha ha. Yes. Let's just try."

"Yes, sir. That's the answer I was looking for."

When Coach asked if I wanted to stay the night, I politely declined, saying I ought to be getting back to the dorm.

Fifteen minutes by car. More than close enough.

"Bye, hyung!"

Andrew, the one of Coach's kids who liked me best, threw himself into a hug farewell like he was seeing off family, then scampered back to his spot.

Five people standing kindly at the front door.

I waved to them all.

"See you again soon!"

"Drive safe!"

Maybe someday I'd build a family like that of my own?

But for now, football came first.

#. March 21, 2022

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607

After finishing my dawn solo training, I'd come back to the dorm, crashed hard, and woken up to a world turned upside down once again.

The world, of course, meaning football.

For me, football was the world.

Anyway.

Deshaun Watson — the man whose infamous "Massage Man scandal" had set the sporting public on fire last year — had smoothly completed his settlements with his accusers and been traded to Cleveland. The news plastered every corner of the internet.

The price: three first-round picks beginning in 2022, a third-rounder in 2023, and a fourth-rounder in 2024.

And that wasn't all. Cleveland followed the trade by handing Watson a monster five-year, $230 million contract — fully guaranteed, every last dollar. A gamble of staggering risk.

The truly remarkable part was that Cleveland already had a perfectly serviceable quarterback named Baker Mayfield.

People immediately started speculating about Mayfield's next destination, and the clueless reporters began calling him up to ask how he was feeling about it all.

Who says that out loud to someone?

How would that feel?

The Browns' front office had always been incompetent, and their fans — wearing their embarrassment over the "Factory of Sadness" label like a badge of pride — carried on as if they were fans of a storied dynasty, insisting "We invented football."

Not all of them, of course, but the proportion of fans with eyes far too big for their team's reality was high enough that Mayfield took an enormous amount of heat.

Truthfully, Browns fans had shown hostility from day one, grumbling "Why not Sam Darnold or Josh Allen?" ever since Mayfield went first overall in 2018.

At any rate, Watson going to Cleveland meant Mayfield had to go somewhere — and that part carried its own little irony.

The article I was reading right now put it like this:

That's right.

This NFL offseason was a very peculiar one.

The Texans, having flushed out Deshaun Watson, were now preparing to cut loose Davis Mills — the third-round quarterback who'd started for them last year — and not a single team had come sniffing around.

The man had earned All-Pac-12 honors back at Stanford, but nobody wanted anything to do with a quarterback whose talent might actually burst forth and win games.

Right now, a horde of NFL teams were hunting for a QB of the "below average, but losing without embarrassing himself" variety. Any other year that would've been an easy find — but right now, the market was nearly empty.

No — they were tying their own hands.

They were flat-out ignoring the quarterbacks who might genuinely win — Davis Mills among them, and Marcus Mariota, the 2014 Heisman winner, in the same boat.

Thanks to that, Mariota — with his résumé — should have been able to command at least $8 million, but at the moment even $5 million looked like a stretch.

Meanwhile the scratch-off-ticket quarterbacks, typified by Teddy Bridgewater — men with nothing left to ruin — were fielding offers in the $10 million range for one year, and up to $12 million at the top end.

Could you believe it?

A whole parade of NFL teams were down on their knees, begging terrible quarterbacks — "Please, come lose for us!" — while pressing ten million dollars into their hands.

This was the phenomenon the Deshaun Watson trade had birthed.

— It's all because of you, you know that?

"Oh, so that's your story now?"

— Heh heh heh. For real, I've never seen anything like it.

With the day's schedule wrapped and bedtime approaching, I took a video call from Patrick Mahomes.

He seemed to have recovered completely from the AFC Championship loss — his face was far brighter than the last time I'd seen it.

— You know Chad, right?

"Chad Henne? Of course."

Chad Henne.

He'd drawn plenty of promise coming out of Michigan, but the team that drafted him — Miami — was a franchise so inept at managing its line that the offensive coordinator practically changed every single year.

From his rookie season onward, Chad Henne never so much as dreamed of a protected pocket. He took sacks by the dozens, and in the final year of his rookie deal, the bill came due — he got hurt.

And that was that.

The game never came back to him.

But he was such a good man, and such a model leader, that he'd stayed in the league ever since purely as the guy who held the locker room together.

"So why do you ask?"

— Coach said something today. He asked what team wouldn't trade for Chad Henne. Asking price: a fifth-round pick.

"Whoa—ho. That's steep."

For reference, even before joining Kansas City in 2015, Chad Henne had appeared in just eleven games across seven whole seasons.

And lately, with Kansas City winning so much, he was mostly brought in to spell Mahomes and protect his legs — seven of those eleven appearances had come in just the last two years.

Frankly, for a quarterback like that you could just ring up any retiree off the street — and yet they wanted a fifth-round pick for him.

They were looking further down the road, then.

At least two years out.

— Told you. All of this is your fault.

"Yes, yes. I'm the menace of the league."

— Heh heh heh. Good, you know it.

There was one more piece of news, too.

Matt Ryan had actually been traded.

His destination: the Indianapolis Colts — who, having already shipped Carson Wentz off to Washington, were now set on their fifth starting quarterback in five consecutive years.

Atlanta, for its part, drove in the nails: no further quarterback additions, they declared. They'd give their chance to Felipe Franks, the undrafted free agent who'd served as their third-stringer last year, and scout for a QB in the 2022 draft, the undrafted pool, and whatever free agents remained.

They said the words — but make no mistake, this was a full-throated declaration of tanking.

The funniest part came afterward, in the Falcons fans' reactions. In any normal year the same people would have been foaming at the mouth — "Why aren't you getting a quarterback, you idiots!" — but now they were saying things like "First competent decision this franchise has ever made."

Houston and Seattle were in similar straits, and their fans, too, were singing the praises of front offices refusing to add a quarterback.

"Hated before his career even starts, huh?"

— My guys ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠talk about you all the time.

"Twenty bucks says it's not compliments."

— Congratulations, my friend! You just made twenty dollars!

"Woo-HOO!! I'm so hype!"

Was I really that excited about twenty dollars?

Not exactly. I just couldn't help picturing the future.

The truth about tanking is that only the franchise looks ahead and plans for it — players and fans never want it. Fans, at least, will do a complete 180 and embrace it if they're given a reason to believe. But players good enough to reach the pros, without exception, hate watching their team tank.

I could already see it: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the day I got drafted, all the men who'd look at me — or worse, glance at me sideways — and murmur, "So, you're the one, huh?"

"You, of all people, have zero room to talk."

— Haha! Excuse me?!

"Your talent bloomed late and you slipped to tenth overall. And Kansas City wasn't even some hopeless franchise to begin with."

When Mahomes was drafted, Kansas City was a roster bursting at the seams — one built with loving care by GM John Dorsey and Head Coach Andy Reid. The season before, 2016, they'd won the division for the first time in six years. Add one good quarterback, and they were a team capable of vaulting straight into the upper echelon.

In NBA terms, it was David Robinson getting injured, and Tim Duncan landing in San Antonio the very next year.

Of course, the Chiefs had paid a steep price to buy Buffalo's tenth overall pick in order to take Mahomes — but in the end, they'd been proven right.

In this business, results are everything.

That's pro sports ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for you.

— I can't wait for you to get here.

"After I finish everything I need to finish here."

— Best possible answer. Your coach would love hearing that, no question. You know how it is — some guys get asked that and start babbling about how they can't wait to jump to the pros.

"Of course. I know the type."

I was not one of those guys.

When the cleanup is sloppy, I lose sleep.

Back when I was a head coach, if a game we led 30–7 ended 37–35, I'd ride the players like we'd lost. Some of them hated me for it — a few of them eventually left the team — but like I said, this business is all about results, and in the end, I was the only one getting the praise.

— First practice tomorrow, right?

"Yes. Makes me think of college."

— Ha. Now that you mention it, I miss college too. Obviously my life's way better now, but there are things you only get to feel when you're in school.

We kept yakking and yakking after that, and somehow didn't hang up until it was nearly ten at night.

Good grief.

One hour and thirty-two minutes?

I'd never even talked to my girlfriend for ninety-two minutes.

If Matthew hears about this, he's going to be jealous.

For the record, Matthew had finally reached enlightenment, winning the Super Bowl by taking down Cincinnati.

Back in his Detroit Lions days, the haters had dragged him through every mud puddle imaginable — "two percent short of a real franchise QB" and all the rest of it. But the moment he landed on a team with a proper O-line and actual weapons, he won the whole thing on the spot.

That's the lesson.

No matter how brilliant a quarterback is, if the environment won't let him fly, he's "half a QB" or "two percent short" or whatever the chorus wants to sing.

Which is exactly why I was prepared for at least my first year or two in the pros to bring cries of "fraud!" and "bust!" from every direction.

"Hahh—"

I stood up from my desk, stretched until my spine popped, and headed for the bathroom to wash up before bed.

Forty minutes behind on sleep, huh.

Damn it, Mahomes.

Someday, I was going to collect this debt in full.

One way or another.