The Tank Wars

Maybe he'd just keep this up forever?

#. September 25, 2022

#-1. Chicago, Illinois, USA

#-2. Soldier Field

The first half of the Week 3 game drawing attention for very different reasons had just come to a close.

Contrary to predictions that it would be an eyesore of a game, it was actually pretty decent, and it had even produced a few moments worth an involuntary gasp.

And that was thanks to Justin Fields, who had suddenly woken up and started playing out of his mind — leaving Chicago's head coach and front office staring at the field in utter bewilderment.

In the VVIP lounge of Soldier Field, George McCaskey picked up the phone.

The recipient: Ryan Poles.

"Do whatever it takes. Now."

Click.

A win in today's game was worth two wins in its own way — because the cutoff line for TFM was two losses on the season. Every media outlet and insider had been saying the same thing: any team that recorded three or more wins this year could not finish last, and would instead be looking at fourth- through sixth-round picks in next year's draft. Nobody could know how things would ultimately shake out, but calibrating your season against that benchmark was simply common sense.

As George McCaskey peered down at the field, anxious, something caught his eye — the fans who had been chanting "WE WANT MOI" not so long ago had gone quiet.

At that same moment, Ryan Poles — who fully expected a call from George McCaskey — quietly passed a memo to Matt Eberflus through a staff member.

"…"

Eberflus read the memo, crumpled it into his pocket, and walked out in front of his players, spurring them on to fight for the win with all they had — motivation he didn't feel a shred of.

Most of the Chicago Bears roster loved their head coach for it. Justin Fields did not.

Hypocrite.

Unless he was a fool, there was no missing what was going on. And Justin Fields was plenty sharp. He already knew the Bears were staring down the barrel of last place, and he'd heard the whispers that once they drafted Dwayne Moi Stone, they'd ship him off.

What he didn't know was that the front office calling the shots on his future wanted nine draft picks — and then some — in exchange for the first overall selection. A team's long-term plans are almost never shared with the players, and the newly assembled front office was barely keeping its head above water managing TFM as it was.

So Justin Fields had taken the field today gritting his teeth, determined to prove he was worthy of being an NFL starter and to shove a colossal middle finger at his own team's tanking operation.

And as luck would have it, the man being treated as his replacement — Dwayne Moi Stone — was playing for the Georgia Bulldogs.

Fields had been born in Kennesaw, just outside Athens, and dreamed of becoming the University of Georgia's quarterback from childhood. Instead, he lost the freshman quarterback competition, rode the bench as Jake Fromm's backup, and then — to top it all off — watched with his own two eyes as Kirby Smart recruited Dwayne Moi Stone.

Concluding there was no place for him, Fields transferred to Ohio State. In hindsight it was the right call, but the resentment toward the University of Georgia never went away.

Which was exactly why he couldn't lose today.

"There's still a whole half left!! Let's get out there and bury those sons of bitches!! LET'S GO-!!"

Justin Fields' roar was pure fury and bile.

And for Chicago, that was a very bad omen indeed.

#. September 26, 2022

#-1. Seattle, Washington, USA

#-2. Lumen Field

Today, here, was yet another case study proving that losing on purpose in football is next to impossible.

The Chicago–Houston game the day before had cast a long shadow over the front offices of the two teams facing off today, and unlike yesterday, the tide was flowing toward a visiting sideline in despair.

Terry Fontenot, who had been watching from beside the visitors' tunnel, made no effort to hide his anguish as he stepped back into the darkness.

"…"

On paper, the two rosters were roughly even.

No — if anything, Seattle was better. The quarterback play was equally wretched on both sides, but when it came to the quality of the linemen and receivers, Seattle clearly had the edge.

So how had it come to this?

Fontenet arrived at his conclusion quickly.

The head coach.

That sly old fox…

Pete Carroll of Seattle was cooperating with TFM to the letter, while Arthur Smith in Atlanta — even having grudgingly given up the tug-of-war — still nursed a grudge against it.

Which meant that just as Fontenot himself had been quietly trying to engineer defeats, Arthur Smith was perfectly capable of turning on his front office's wishes at any moment.

How had he overlooked this?

Variables are always born of carelessness.

Terry Fontenot walked into the visitors' locker room, dragged a chair in front of the TV, and sat down.

Try as he might, today's loss was catastrophic. Worse, this one win could become momentum — a winning streak. If you considered that Atlanta's next opponent was the Cleveland Browns, whose sieve of a defense might as well greet the worst offenses in the league with a cheerful "Welcome in!", it was entirely plausible.

If they somehow picked up a second win in Week 4, the only path left to winning TFM would be thirteen straight losses to close the season.

A grotesque competition in which you won by losing.

But Fontenot had already been swallowed by the grotesquerie.

"…"

On the screen, a pass out of Drew Lock's hand landed somewhere absurd, and moments later the broadcast cut to the crowd, signs and banners reading WE WANT MOI held high.

Strangely enough, rather than despairing or raging at their home team's performance, the fans were cheering it on with delight.

And Atlanta's general manager, still finding none of it strange, remained submerged in a single thought: the score should have flipped by now.

#. September 28, 2022

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall

#-4. Recovery Pool

With the media showing up on my doorstep every single day to be a nuisance, Coach had stepped in personally to shield me. He announced ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that no surprise interviews would be permitted anywhere on campus, and that anyone genuinely wanting coverage had better contact the school in advance and book an official slot. Naturally, the school rebuffed the overwhelming majority of media requests with every excuse under the sun, and thanks to that, I'd been living comfortably these days.

"Kiyaaaa-hooo-!"

SPLASH!

As Malaki Starks hurled himself into the pool with his usual bellow, Jordan Addison snapped at him to quit splashing water everywhere.

Not that the little punk was going to listen. He just lounged around and pretended to.

"You know he doesn't listen to a word you say, right?"

"Goddamn motherfucker."

"Heh heh. Hand me a gun?"

"Make it a large caliber."

"Pfft, hahaha."

A fair number of the guys had been worried heading into this season, but by now every one of them had found his confidence. The shortcomings from the Kent State game were being fed back into practice and fixed, and the offense had settled into a rhythm where the moment we scored, you could feel the whole unit believing we'd won — reassuring in every way.

And while the world's attention was fixed entirely on me, it looked like our Georgia squad was poised to produce a serious crop of first-rounders again this year.

Start with Jordan.

The scouting consensus knocks him for still being a little raw on his path to the end zone, but when it comes to scoring plays, there's no receiver you trust more. He's rated a Top 2 wide receiver in the country alongside Ohio State's Jaxon Smith-Njigba, and barring something extraordinary, the first round is all but locked.

Then there's Jalen Carter, anchoring the middle of a defense line that had been leaking like a sieve — another first-round candidate — and I keep hearing Peter is a Top 3 offensive tackle in this class as well.

Broderick, who made Zamir's absence completely vanish from the run game, and linebacker Nolan Smith are both drawing first-round projections too.

Six potential first-round picks. That's before you even count anyone past their junior year.

Personally, I find Brock's trajectory next year the most fascinating to watch. Word is the 2024 draft class has a strong quarterback crop as well, and among all of it, Brock is tracking as the number one tight end, with a high selection all but predicted.

Privately, I think it'd be great if we played together.

Because that's the position that matters most to me.

The O-line matters, sure — but I'm confident I can survive any crisis with a Scramble or my legs. If anything, what I need isn't a shield. It's a weapon.

If the quality of my receivers can be reasonably guaranteed, I believe I could put up numbers in the pros right away — though that's a problem for later.

"Where are you headed?"

"The Center. Homework to do."

"Shiit. See you this afternoon, then."

"You?"

"Class, what else."

"Good luck with that."

After parting ways with Kenny McIntosh, I walked to the parking lot and got into my car.

Tap.

Just then, one of the guys sprinted over and gestured for me to unlock the passenger door.

Letting out a small sigh, I moved my left hand.

"Give me a ride. We're going the same way."

"You know you owe me for gas, right?"

"The car doesn't even run on gas."

"Electricity isn't free either, you know."

Oh, and since it came up — the day after Elon Musk gifted me the Model S, the university president had an EV charging station installed right in front of the dormitory.

It's for my exclusive use.

Anyway.

The guy climbing into my passenger seat was Ladd, who'd recently gotten a girlfriend. His dorm sat directly next to Vandiver Hall, so he tried this little carpooling scheme at every opportunity.

It wasn't exactly a burden — but for some reason, griping about it anyway just seemed to be my nature.

"How are things with Marcus?"

"We're finding our rhythm."

In the Kent State game, when the field goal unit came on, our third-down Bunch play had broken down. Ladd's and Marcus's routes tangled, and I'd been forced to throw the ball out toward the sideline — a play that was supposed to be run with AD. It needed more time to click.

And AD had left campus a few days ago, bound for Texas to see his child.

His two-year-old's type 1 diabetes had worsened to the point where the child's life was in danger. The school approved the leave on the spot, and Coach and I pooled what we could — chips in from everyone — and handed it to him. For an ordinary kid on a D1 scholarship, the cost of treating a two-year-old's diabetes would have been crushing, so that was the least we could do.

Which was why Marcus had lined up as the fourth receiver last game, and why Coach had promised equal opportunities for the rest of the wideouts, Dominic included.

He'd done it trusting me, so I felt that much more of a duty to carry it, and I'd been communicating with the receivers constantly.

"Thanks for the ride."

"You buying me a coffee?"

"No way."

Tap.

Tch. Shameless little brat.

I'd never expected coffee in the first place, so there wasn't a sliver of disappointment in me. He was just cute, that was all.

Bzzt—

"Hm?"

Just as I was dropping Ladd off and heading back toward the dorm, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the number on the screen and hit decline without a second's hesitation.

I remembered it well — I'd seen it plenty lately. A male reporter from the local paper.

I told you to go through the school, man.

I understood the frustration of being turned away at every turn, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why he kept this up when he knew full well I'd be sitting for an official interview with Coach this evening anyway.

With October just around the corner, the wind carried a faint chill.

#. October 1, 2022

#-1. Columbia, Missouri, USA

#-2. Faurot Field at Memorial Stadium

Missouri was earning a reputation this year as a scrappy, hard-nosed team, and people were saying that in his third season, head coach Eliah Drinkwitz's fingerprints were finally showing on the roster. They certainly hadn't gone down easily in any game so far, and today they were fighting tooth and nail too.

And yet, for all that, the game was flowing toward the most natural of outcomes: a Georgia win.

Moments ago, Missouri's pass had fallen incomplete.

Third and 19 — a punt was all but inevitable now, which meant it was time for me to take the field.

But that, and this, were two separate matters.

"I'm telling you, I'm serious."

"Fuck. Why do you keep bugging me?"

"Because I want to know what Coach thinks of me."

"If I don't put points on the board this drive, I'll do two hundred push-ups."

"Oh? Now that's interesting."

"Now get lost!"

He hadn't seen much of the field today, but Missouri's No. 3 was something else.

A wide receiver — not especially tall, but blazingly fast, and the way he ran his routes out of the Slot caught the eye. Creative, you could call it.

It was like watching Cut Sam.

"Cut Sam" is what we call Curtis Samuel — a 40th overall pick by the Panthers back in 2017, now playing for the Washington Commanders. The resemblance was uncanny: a small-statured receiver with real explosiveness, good enough to contribute as a return specialist too.

Tempting, honestly.

I'd heard he was a 5-Star wideout. How had Coach let a guy like that slip through?

Well.

Traditionally, our program drafts 3-Star or 4-Star receivers and develops them ourselves.

KJ. George. Ladd. Jordan. AD.

People usually point to defense as Coach's calling card, but in my book, his eye for receivers isn't far behind.

KJ fielded Missouri's punt and was brought down at the 41-yard line. The moment I confirmed it, I turned to the offensive guys who had already gathered behind me and barked out a short call.

"LET'S ROLL!!"

Time to roll.

I was about to drive a dagger into Missouri's heart.

I huddled the offense, doled out the call, and we quickly set our positions. I stepped under center and barked the play.

"RED 22!! RED 22!!"

…

"TURBO SET!!"

The snap arrived. I turned my back in a perfect play-action fake.

Then I dropped, scanning my targets.

Jordan streaking in from the left was the decoy. Ladd carved a post route from the right, dragging Missouri's backfield with him — and in that window, Marcus slipped past the defenders' eyes and advanced all the way into the deep zone.

The instant I confirmed the play had come together, my right arm was already in motion, and the ball left my hand and rocketed toward its mark like an arrow.

Marcus turned and hauled it in.

All that remained was running.

"What the…."

A safety wrapped him up at a point far short of where I'd hoped, and he tumbled onto the turf. It was a 26-yard gain and a fresh ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠set of downs, so Marcus made a show of a flashy celebration, but privately I couldn't stop missing AD.

If it had been him, that's 40 yards at least. Red zone in one play, maybe.

The single biggest determinant of a wide receiver's quality is the ability to catch the football — but beyond that, YAC matters more than raw speed or route variety. The reason Ladd vaulted into the ranks of the D1 elite in one leap is that he turns 10-to-14-yard passes into 20-to-25-yard gains.

He rarely goes down when the defense gets a hand on him, and even in the moment he falls, there's a mind in him scrapping for every last yard. Play beside a receiver like that long enough, and a quarterback can't help but gravitate toward him — which is exactly why Ladd owns the second-most receptions on this team.

Who's first, you ask?

Well.

"YEAH-!!!"

Brock.

That lunatic.

At this point Brock was simply overwhelming every other receiver on raw talent — hauling in an absurd number of receptions and receiving yards, and he was a tight end.

And knowing him, he'd probably keep it up.

"I NEED FOUR!!"

"You want more?! Huh?!"

"I said one more!!"

"We'll see later!! LET'S GO!!"

Brock, brimming with adrenaline, swept both arms through the air and sent the visiting section into a frenzy, and I followed right behind him, pumping my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠arms the same way until this whole place felt like Sanford Stadium.

47-16.

Time to start wrapping things up.