It Means I've Been Recognized as the Team's Leader

July 10, 2022

#-1. United States — Pepper Pike, Ohio

#-2. The Allison Estate

Isaac L. Allison, now the NFL owner he had dreamed of becoming, had been living with the vigor of a man whose youth had suddenly returned.

Beyond the Deshaun Watson acquisition, he had traded for Dallas wide receiver Amari Cooper and re-signed Denzel Ward, the anchor of his secondary. There remained, however, one unresolved problem — and the more stubborn of them was Baker Mayfield.

Mayfield himself clearly showed that whatever affection he once held for the team had completely died, yet the Browns were in no particular rush to trade him. And behind that lay the league office's ongoing review of Deshaun Watson's discipline.

Watson had avoided criminal charges through settlements with his accusers, but the fact remained that he had brought serious discredit upon the league, and the office was weighing a suspension of anywhere from half a season to an entire year.

Allison was working every channel he could to soften the punishment, but buttering up the league office was no easy task. There was only one card he could play.

The substantial fee the league had quietly pocketed during his purchase of Cleveland from the Haslam family. Isaac L. Allison had spent $3.1 billion to buy the Browns and donated an additional $150 million straight to the league office.

A popular Cleveland franchise thriving would lift the entire league, and it was on exactly that point that Allison built his persuasion strategy. And if the persuasion failed and a suspension came down? He would simply start Baker Mayfield at quarterback.

The player harbored deep resentment toward the organization, but his relationship with head coach Kevin Stefanski remained perfectly sound.

"You're up early."

"Good morning, Dad."

"Oatmeal will do."

Finished dressing for the front office, Isaac L. Allison walked into the kitchen and gave the housekeeper his breakfast order. A short distance from the table where he sat, his beloved daughter was already seated.

"One year to go, then."

"It can't come fast enough."

"Ha ha. It's been our long-held dream, you and I. I buy the Browns, and you go to work for them."

"All thanks to a wonderful father."

"Thank you for saying so."

From grandfather to father, once upon a time. And from father to her, in turn.

James L. Allison, who had been present at the Cleveland Browns' founding in 1946, was known to have contributed four thousand dollars to the team's creation. That love of football passed naturally to his eight-year-old son, Donald J. Allison, and Isaac L. Allison, who had visited the Browns' stadium from an early age himself, dreamed from the moment his daughter was born of the two of them working for a football team together.

A father-daughter bond rarely seen anywhere.

"You said you were changing the uniforms?"

"I am. Honestly, the old ones were beyond embarrassing."

"Brown and orange really was a lot."

"Ha ha. We're going back to the originals."

"White and orange, then."

"That's the one. Want a look?"

The Allisons spending an entire meal at the table talking nothing but football was an utterly ordinary sight. The housekeeper of seventeen years had long since accepted it as daily life, and she set down oatmeal made from Isaac L. Allison's favorite recipe.

"Thank you, Monica."

"My pleasure."

Grace Allison nodded in approval as she examined the new uniform on her father's phone. Then she asked, "How are things going with the league office?"

"Whew. Not easily."

"Do you think he could be out the whole season?"

"For now, the goal is to bring it down to about half a season. They don't want to treat a franchise that just settled into the NFL too harshly. They know how much we'll be bringing them in the years ahead, so they're holding out hope."

"...I still don't like it."

"Grace. I don't want to start this again."

"The contract is enormous."

The Cleveland Browns currently owed Deshaun Watson a staggering $46 million a year. That was more than a quarter of the $208.2 million total salary cap the NFL had announced for the 2022/23 season back in March.

With what remained, they had to field a 52-man roster. In other words, landing any other major free agent would be all but impossible until 2026 — and with so many draft picks sacrificed as well, this year's roster had to be considered their ceiling. Unless, of course, a late-round pick blossomed into the best player in the NFL, or the coaching staff spontaneously transformed into a cadre of geniuses.

Which was exactly why Grace Allison had argued, again and again, that the Browns should be joining the TFM as well. Whatever her soft spot for the man herself — hopelessly hooked on Dwayne Moi Stone as she was — no one on earth looked more capable of resurrecting a franchise than that Georgia quarterback.

But she had known. She'd known it wouldn't go her way. For all that he was a good father who always heard her out, when it came to football her father had a stubborn streak all his own. And she was a woman barely into her twenties.

Watching Isaac L. Allison, who had no appetite for rehashing a settled argument, Grace showed a flash of cleverness and changed the subject.

"I only say it because I can see all the suffering ahead of me."

"...On that point, I apologize."

"Thank you for saying so."

"As if I could ever get one over on you. Now — I should be off. What's on today?"

"Joann is coming over to visit."

"The girl from the Bears?"

"Yes, Dad."

"You two really are close. Well, rivals or not, there's no law against friendship. Have fun."

"Safe travels."

Isaac L. Allison leaned in, kissed the top of her head, and left, and Grace saw him off with a warm voice. Now only two people remained in this place.

A mansion far too large for the two of them.

But Grace had grown up in empty houses, and long ago the hollow spaces that others would have found lonely had become a source of comfort to her instead.

Quietly climbing to her room, Grace Allison opened her laptop and began scrolling through football articles. Soon, a familiar face filled the screen.

Of all people...

The memory surfaced — a man on a Hawaiian shoreline, catching her as she wobbled on the rocks. The face she'd looked up at that day. The faint sweetness of his scent. Above all, that warm voice.

Why on earth had she pretended not to know who he was, that day?

Grace regretted it still.

July 23, 2022

#-1. United States — Athens, Georgia

#-2. Sandy Creek Park

As July began, the guys who'd gone home for the summer started trickling back, and by last Thursday we were at full strength again. So I brought Brock, Ladd, Malaki, and Kenny out to Sandy Creek to fish.

It reminded me of fishing with Travis Hunter last year. That kid was a true angler.

"There it is!"

Suddenly Kenny's rod, having found its rhythm, bucked violently, and bites followed in quick succession on Brock's and Ladd's lines.

Malaki, meanwhile—

"You're from Jefferson, aren't you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"How does a man your age never have fished once?"

"I have, actually. Because I'm a real man, and this kind of—"

"Spoiled."

"..."

"And hey, did you know fishing is a form of hunting?"

I couldn't hold a candle to Hunter, but I was still a respectable fisherman by team standards. Saltwater was my home turf, so I was a bit weaker at this freshwater business, but every time we came here, I was the first to fill my basket with the daily limit.

Today, though, I had a handicap. A very large one.

"Ugh—!"

"Quit the drama already!"

"It's disgusting, I'm gonna die!"

Ugh. What a circus. I wanted to rip the rod out of this kid's hands right now.

But the problem was that when the bet started, I'd been the one to stick this so-called first-time fisherman on my team. Worse, I'd grandly declared that I'd fill my basket with twelve fish before anyone else landed ten, giving instructions only — and the kid couldn't even properly hold a worm. Raised like little royalty despite being a Jefferson boy.

This is what's wrong with kids these days. Someone with my background would know how to act like it, but the internet and social media have ruined them all.

Too much of a grumpy old man?

So what. It looks like I'm about to lose right now.

We'd agreed the losers would go back to campus and cover the food and drinks for the party they'd be throwing with their friends. Now that you mention it — was this rigged from the start?

My bad feelings tend to be right. And my prediction had hit the mark.

"I hate you, y'all."

"Heh. How could we not fool you?"

"Bullshit. Four of you working together — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what was I supposed to do?"

It's hard enough to make a fool out of one man with two conspirators, but with four of them pulling it off like this, there was nothing I could do.

"What about all my clothes?"

"Air-dry them or something. And there are spare clothes in the car."

"Be thankful your phone didn't go in too."

"Shut up! Just go change first!"

Behind me, wallowing in a defeat now officially sealed, Malaki — that bastard — suddenly threaded a worm onto a hook with practiced ease and cast his line forward. Somewhere between disbelief and my blood running cold, I stared at him in sheer incredulity, and when I could stand it no longer, I kicked him square in the rear and sent him tumbling into the water.

Feeling better now, you ask?

Yeah. A lot.

Brock came over, draped an arm around my shoulder, told me not to take it too hard, and brought up the commercials I'd been shooting lately.

"You made a ton of money, didn't you?"

"That's beside the point."

I'd filmed three or four ads across June and July and made a good chunk of change, which was why eating out for the guys these days was basically on my tab. Whenever I heard the freshmen were heading somewhere, I'd pull a few bills out of my pocket and hand them over, and on birthdays I made sure nobody got left out of cake and a small gift.

I considered it simply something I ought to do.

"Whoa. This is nicer than mine."

"Keep it. If anything else fits, take that too."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. What about the wet stuff?"

"Bagged it up."

"Good kid. But you're riding in the back."

"Yes, sir. Hehehe."

On the drive back to campus, a message went out on the group Snapchat: everyone gather at my dorm by six p.m. Thumbs-up reactions came flooding in, and the final headcount was set.

Twenty-six people.

Once, far too many guys had shown up and it turned into a mess, so these days I post a notice and only those who respond within two minutes get an invite. It's not compulsory — a few stragglers do drop by later anyway — but since we hold these gatherings in the dorm building nearly every week, only the truly free show up.

Some guys see this and ask about it.

Are you, like, the "Party Man"?

In all my life I'd heard of party animals, but Party Man was a first, so rather than deny it I answered that, as captain, I was simply having the right kind of influence on the team. Room 507 was empty because of me, so there'd be no noise complaints from the floor below, and the room that should have been right next door — 606 — doesn't exist, deemed unlucky. In other words, no real nuisance to anyone around us, and the guys stick faithfully to the rule of three cans of beer or five cups of punch a night.

As for seeing girls — as long as that sort of thing stays out of my house, I couldn't care less.

Above all, letting them burn off energy in just the right dose like this means that when the weekday comes, the guys focus on football even harder. They've played and blown off steam.

And Athens is a quiet town.

"Whoa! This one's awesome too?"

"Damn it, Malaki. Exactly how many are you planning to take?"

"Hmm... eight so far?"

"Eight... Fuck, Malaki. Three. You get three."

"Why?"

"Why? Because they're mine."

"You know taking back what you gave is the cheapest move there is, right?"

"Yeah, it's cheap. What are you gonna do about it?"

The other guys snickered at my childish squabbling with Malaki, and I aimed a firm warning at the rearview mirror and held the line at three shirts.

Of course, I knew full well the kid would sneak extras in. Five would vanish, if I had to guess.

"You totally know, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"That's what makes you our Cap."

These days the guys call me Cap (Captain).

Which means I've been recognized as the leader of this team.

It feels pretty good.

No.

Truthfully, it feels fantastic.

July 25, 2022

#-1. United States — Athens, Georgia

#-2. Kirby Smart's Home

That evening, a rather unexpected figure arrived, boasting an old friendship with Georgia's head coach.

"It's been a long time."

After greeting Kirby Smart's wife, Mary Beth, the man stepped inside and embraced the old friend who'd been waiting for him.

The two had lived within a very short distance of each other.

And yet it had been two years since they'd last laid eyes on each other.

"How have you been?"

"You know. Busy."

"Ha ha. Come in. Mary?! Charles and I will be in the study!"

"Okay!!"

The man, who'd just complimented the Smarts on a marriage as solid as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ever, was Charles London, quarterbacks coach of the Atlanta Falcons.

A Dunwoody, Georgia native, Charles London had known Kirby Smart since middle school. He'd been known around town as a football player himself, and his running back often clashed with the linebacker Kirby Smart on the field.

He went on to play college football at Duke — not at the D1 level — and after graduating served as a graduate assistant there, building his coaching résumé. From there he bounced between the NFL and NCAA D1 programs, and before coming to Atlanta he'd spent three years as the Chicago Bears' running backs coach.

"So? What's the real reason for the visit?"

"What? You're going to open with that? I'm hurt."

"There's nothing to hide between us. Beer?"

"Now you're talking."

Tssk.

The two men cracked their cans side by side, clinked them, and tipped the amber liquid down their throats.

"Ahh. Good stuff."

"Let's talk business first. I'd rather not do it over dinner. Business first, friendship later. Fair?"

"Classy. Straight to it, then."

The Atlanta Falcons had already begun tilting their roster toward the TFM, but as Ian Rapoport had said, they were by no means in an advantageous position. Why, then, had they committed to tanking? Because of Will Levis — a man who fell just short of the Big 3 of C.J. Stroud, Bryce Young, and Anthony Richardson, yet could be shoehorned in as a Big 4. They'd judged that even at his current level, planning the future around him beat the alternative, and no matter how unconditional the pursuit, more information was always better.

So Terry Fontenot had sent Charles London — a man with ties to Kirby Smart — here.

And Kirby Smart said this:

"That boy is a quarterback you build fifteen years around."

"..."

"If I were coaching an NFL team this year, I'd be telling the owner and the front office to press the rebuild button right now. Unless we're talking about a team like the Rams or the Chiefs. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I do. Loud and clear."

He was saying that even a team built to challenge for the Super Bowl this very instant ought to hit reset for the chance to land Dwayne Moi Stone. There was no doubt some affection for his own player and a measure of exaggeration mixed in — but Charles London knew Kirby Smart did not deal in bluster.

And Kirby Smart kept talking.

"Let me tell you about the field stuff. His grades have been all over the news, so there's nothing to say there. Exemplary. He hasn't caused so much as a whisper of trouble on campus. He drives as much as he does, and he hasn't collected a single speeding ticket."

"That's remarkable."

"Ah — the police did pull him over once. On his way to a recovery facility here in Atlanta. Moi decided he'd done nothing wrong, but he pulled over anyway. And do you know what the officer said from behind the window?"

"What?"

We know who you are. We just want an autograph.

Moi had burst out laughing, stopped the car, graciously signed, and even taken photos with the officers.

And it went up on social media.

"I believe I saw that one."

Beyond that, Kirby Smart talked about what went on in the kid's dorm every single weekend.

Dwayne Moi Stone was, admittedly, earning a sum of money no college athlete of the past could have dreamed of — but instead of spending it on luxury, he was spending it on feeding his teammates.

That was the culture of Hawaii and of Korea both, and it kept the players perpetually under a radar of accountability, unable to act out. From 2016 through 2019, Kirby Smart ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had made regular trips to the local precinct, bailing out players who had done something foolish at least twice a year.

Since last year? Not once.

He believed it came down to those weekend parties.

"He's a young man who knows how to give freely for others. That's probably his family's influence. And his family needs no words at all. Good people who truly cherish one another — flawless, really. The one thing that stands out is the women."

"I heard about that too. Wasn't it a hundred and twenty?"

"Likely more by now."

"Damn. I'm a little jealous, honestly."

"Most men would be."

Charles London had come prepared with a long list of questions, but he decided there was no need to ask a single one of them.

There was nothing left to gather.

Dwayne Moi Stone was unconditional.

"Tell me some old stories instead."

"Already?"

"I've heard everything I came to hear."

"Ha ha. Gladly. Where shall I start?"

"How about the year right before you came here?"

"2015, then. Not a bad place to begin."

The two men settled into conversation, faces soft with nostalgia.

Athens's evening was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turning to night.