Even Too Much Fame Gets Tiring

October 16, 2022 — Athens, Georgia / University of Georgia / Vandiver Hall Parking Lot

Yesterday was a very strange day.

We had crushed Vanderbilt from the opening whistle, piling points on the board until we'd built a 60-point lead by the third quarter, and I was getting ready to head back onto the field alongside the backup weapons.

But then one of the school's officials walked up to Coach, and moments later I heard the words:

I can't swear to it, but if I'd played the fourth, the margin would've blown past 80 points, no question about it. My shoulder was in peak form, and the 4-2-5 defense Vanderbilt DC Nick Howell had cooked up felt like Swiss cheese to me.

Truth be told, I'd been quietly eyeing the 600+ yard record too, so being ordered to rest on the bench was a regret I'd carry with me for a long while.

But my stubbornness gave out fast.

Because I knew it was the right call. There was no reason to raise the injury risk in a game already decided, just to feed my hunger for a stat line.

And a little later, Coach told me the truth.

It happens every once in a great while. When the score gap ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gets ugly and there's still a mountain of clock left, a coach or a school official will swallow his pride and raise the white flag, just to avoid leaving lasting scars. And when a request like that comes in, the side receiving it tends to get a little puffed up and magnanimously accepts the surrender.

That's how 69-0 came to be.

Originally it would have been worse.

Anyway. Right after the game, the locker room was full of every 69 joke in existence — I won't go into specifics.

"YO!!"

After loading my gear into the car, I raised my voice toward Malaki Starks, who was strolling toward me from way down the lot with his unhurried little shuffle.

"Get your ass over here right now, or you're getting a boot up it!"

"I'm not even late!!"

"Damn- motherfucker! Hop to it!"

It was Sunday, and today Laki and I were heading to Atlanta to use a recovery facility.

I gave the back of the freshman's head a light palm-slap — the kid who was riding along for free and had still made me wait.

Smack!

"Ah-ow!"

"That didn't even hurt. Get in."

"Then why are you rushing me?!"

Why? Because I've got things to do, obviously.

On the way, we pulled into a drive-thru to pick up lattes with a heavy hand of caramel syrup.

"Do I get one too?"

"You owe me big time."

"Heheh. I'll pay you back someday."

"When we meet again in the NFL, you owe me one free touchdown. Got it?"

"Pwomise."

"You're hilarious."

Thud.

The moment Malaki climbed in, he fell asleep. Annoying, sure — but it made me feel a little sorry for him too, so I just let him be.

At a four-way intersection on campus, I stopped for a red light and sunlight came streaming in straight ahead. Blinded, I flipped down the sunglasses hanging on my visor.

Now life's starting to feel good.

I reached over and turned on the radio. A channel covering Georgia news was talking about yesterday's game.

Honestly, I think we're performing even better than we'd expected this season.

And that goes for me personally, too.

The O-line, which I'd thought couldn't possibly improve on last year, is straight-up swallowing defensive units whole, and the quality of the receivers is insane.

Brock is on pace to log 1,500+ receiving yards this season, and it looks like he'll sail right past the 1,352 yards Jace Amaro put up for Texas Tech back in 2013.

At this rate, Ladd is nearly guaranteed to crack 1,000+ receiving yards, and while Jordan's yardage total is smaller, three straight years of 700+ receiving yards, 50+ catches, and 10+ touchdowns is well within sight.

They're my boys, and damn, they're good.

Granted, that's all thanks to me.

"Hm? You're awake?"

"Damn- there's no sleeping through your own praise, sir."

"Screw off. Want a blanket?"

"Yup."

Malaki cocooned into the blanket and drifted off again, and I quietly picked up our drinks and kept the wheel pointed toward Atlanta, the radio filling the empty stretches of road.

That afternoon — Seattle, Washington / Lumen Field / VVIP Lounge

The Seattle Seahawks were expected to take a fairly painless loss this week, but a development no one had imagined was unfolding instead.

"…"

"…"

Not a single touchdown between the two teams combined — a game so wretched it went past pitiful and made the NFL title itself an embarrassment.

And here was the critical part: the Arizona Cardinals, with quarterback Kyler Murray under center, were putting up the lower score of the two.

Seattle GM John Schneider frantically grabbed his phone, checked the situation at the other stadiums, and frowned.

Today was the bye week for the Texans and the Titans, the two teams competing with Seattle for the TFM crown.

So he combed through the standings of the rival clubs — Pittsburgh, Atlanta, and the rest — and clicked his tongue, rueing the fact that every team that had been 1-4 was now trailing in their games.

Granted, Arizona could still mount a comeback in the fourth quarter. Even so, the situation was dire.

And a little later, Seattle added one more touchdown, stretching the gap to 18-6.

John Schneider slammed his palm on the table.

BANG!

This win brought him no joy whatsoever.

October 17, 2022 — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania / Pittsburgh Steelers Front Office / Owner's Office

Art Rooney II — the team's owner and president, a man who rarely visited the front office in person — had summoned head coach Mike Tomlin.

Ordinarily, a summons like this meant one of two things: either a coach was about to be praised, or he was about to receive a warning — or a formal notice — of his dismissal.

Today, it was neither. Art Rooney II intended to persuade Mike Tomlin to abandon the season and commit to the TFM, deciding the franchise's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠future right there in that room.

Which, of course, would not be easy.

Because of who Mike Tomlin was.

"Absolutely not! Out of the question!"

"Mike. I've always respected your judgment. It's because I believed you were doing right by this franchise. But this time, it seems we see things a little differently."

"Whew— This is Omar's doing, isn't it? Well, it was the obvious move."

"This has nothing to do with Omar."

Mike Tomlin didn't believe the owner's attempt to shield his GM for a second.

Since taking the helm of Pittsburgh at the young age of 35 back in 2007, Mike Tomlin had become the mastermind who ushered in a new golden age — seven division titles, a Super Bowl championship, the works.

At the same time, he was still maintaining his record of never once finishing with a losing season. And along the way, a quiet question had begun to circulate: whether squeezing out those wins actually helped the team at all.

Finish with a losing record, and the front office gains leverage in contract negotiations while securing a premium draft pick. A scraped-out victory, by contrast, was pure loss — the contract talks get harder anyway, and the draft slot drops, making it difficult to restock talent.

That was one of the criticisms Pittsburgh had absorbed over the past three years — the reason people kept saying that 7-9 or 6-8 would be better than 9-7 or 8-8.

Art Rooney and Pittsburgh's top brass knew all of this. Until now, they had trusted Mike Tomlin completely.

But not this time.

"As you know, our salary cap liquidity is jammed up through next year. Realistically, the draft is the only way to improve next year's roster. And fortunately, the year after that, we'll have plenty of cap room. This doesn't need to be a long project. A few months. Endure a few months, and this team can spend another fifteen years with you at the helm."

"…My players won't stand for that."

"If you persuade them, that changes things."

"You're asking me to lose on purpose?"

"No, Mike. That's not what this is."

The disagreement between Art Rooney and Mike Tomlin, locked in sharp opposition, refused to narrow — and in the end, the two men concluded nothing and let the meeting fizzle out.

Pittsburgh, floundering at 1-5, would surely stack up a few more wins once T.J. Watt returned. That was precisely why Tomlin's cooperation was so desperate — and there was a real chance the whole thing would end with nothing but this endless bickering.

Art Rooney promptly called for Omar Khan next.

Gazing out the window, the owner thought of Georgia's quarterback — the man whose very existence had bent his family's iron pride, the pride that had sworn never to tank.

"In every possible way… what a headache of a kid."

October 22, 2022 — Athens, Georgia / University of Georgia / Lake Herrick

Lake Herrick, spanning roughly 60 acres, is one of UGA's proudest gems.

You might ask what a lake is doing on a college campus — but then, it's a university in the American South; what doesn't it have?

The university's Warnell School of Forestry and Natural Resources manages the lake, and shaping and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠maintaining its ecosystem is part of the work the students do for course credit.

We come out here to take out non-motorized boats — canoes, paddleboards — for recreation and fishing.

And today, I'd come purely to get on the water.

"Is that true?"

"What?"

"The women you've slept with. They said 120 of them?"

"What? Who's saying that?"

"No idea. It just blew up all over."

"Rumors are never quite the truth, you know that."

"So you're saying it's not?"

"Yup. Now hand me a boat already."

"Oh, right. Sure thing."

Truthfully, I knew the real number was a little higher than that.

But I had no intention of broadcasting it. Seriously, who started this rumor.

"This is the bye week, right?"

"Yeah. When do you need it back?"

"Whenever. And don't worry about the fee."

"Oh? Really?"

"You're our hero. A guy like you gets treated on the house."

"Now that's how you run a business. Thanks!"

"Haha! Be careful out there!"

"I'm from Hawaii, remember!! Thanks!!"

Today, for the first time all season, was a day spent meeting absolutely no one, entirely on my own.

It had been that way since dawn. My morning run after waking was a different route than usual; instead of commuting to Butts-Mehre, I did a light workout at home, showered, and came straight here.

On the calm lake, sunlight glinting off the surface, I rowed slowly.

Ahh—

This. This is the one.

A rare chance to step away from football and think about other things, alone with my own head.

Family. Friends. And the future.

First, family — there would be some changes next year. It sounded like my parents would be coming to the mainland once the season got rolling.

The restaurant would be Aunt Mel's responsibility.

Her contract with Kahuku High School was set to expire this year, and after agonizing between coming to the mainland in place of my parents and staying on at the school, she'd chosen a third path. Her plan, she said, was to inherit the restaurant long-term and eventually open chains on the mainland and Oahu.

Kahuku High had reportedly been heartbroken to hear it — Aunt Mel hated saying goodbye to her students too, but she'd made the hard call for her own future.

My parents wouldn't be living with me; they planned to buy their own place and settle there.

Next: friends.

First, AD. He'd concluded that he needed to be close to his daughter, and after a sit-down with Coach, he'd decided to enter the Portal and transfer to Texas next year. Coach said he'd write the Longhorns a recommendation, and I understand he and Steve Sarkisian have already traded phone calls.

I'm planning to give him a call myself sometime next week.

And finally.

My future.

It's the noisiest topic around these days, and honestly, the better my college games go, the more I catch myself wondering — why put myself through all the suffering that's waiting in the pros?

If anything, I'd love to land in Tennessee.

It's a team with a traditionally strong defense and excellent O-line coaching, and above all, I want to play alongside Derrick Henry.

On the Titans' fan Reddit, people had already photoshopped me and Derrick Henry together in a dozen different combinations, letting their imaginations run wild. The two of us are both built big and fast.

Wouldn't that be something, if it happened?

Well. More than two-thirds of the season remains, and the NFL has absurdly fewer games than any other major sport, so the standings swing wildly week to week. It wouldn't surprise anyone if, a month from now, some team nobody expected was wallowing at the bottom.

And my agency?

They want a big market, naturally. Deep down they seemed to hope for Las Vegas nearly as much as my father did — though realistically that chance was slim, so they leaned toward the two New York teams, or Houston and Pittsburgh.

Carolina and Arizona were the least favored destinations — markets far too small — with Chicago and Atlanta somewhere in the middle.

Unbelievable. Everybody's praying at their own private shrine.

"A-YO!!"

"?"

Ah, dammit.

How did they even know to find me here?

Way out in the distance, Broderick was waving both arms. Beside him, Peter and Brock were visible too.

Fishing rods?

"I said I'm spending today ALONE!!"

"You're hilarious!! Come fish with us!!"

"Screw off!!"

I dug the paddle in fast and moved out of the boys' sight, then drifted back into my own thoughts on the lake.

But.

"Agh, damn it. Flow's dead now."

Once the current of thought breaks, focus doesn't come back easy.

In the end, I rowed back to the dock.

"Hm? Done already?"

"Damn kids interrupted me."

"Haha. Your friends?"

"Yup. Anyway — thanks."

After returning the canoe, I headed toward the fishing spot where the guys had set up, and a while later I was squishing earthworms onto hooks, playing the leisurely angler.

Seriously, what would these guys ever do without me to keep them entertained?

Even too much fame gets tiring, I suppose.