College Football Is Almost Over

October 30, 2022

Charlotte, North Carolina, USA — Carolina Panthers Front Office

It surprises people who don't know football well, but this is actually a sport with a considerable proportion of white players. There was a time when the assumption held that a quarterback had to be white, and even today the NFL's black-to-white ratio among players sits at a fairly even 52:48.

But there is exactly one position—

a place that is overwhelmingly, almost exclusively, the product of Black athletes.

Running back.

The position known as the "Work Horse" is dominated by Black players at a crushing ratio.

And thriving as the only white starting running back at that position is a man named Christian McCaffrey of the Carolina Panthers.

Since being drafted by Carolina in 2017, he had risen to become the player the fans loved most. The second son of Ed McCaffrey—himself a three-time Pro Bowler and AP All-Pro Second Team honoree—he was widely spoken of as the closest thing to a complete running back the league had ever seen.

A player who could justifiably be called the face of the Panthers.

And yet today, Christian McCaffrey said:

"Yep. That's correct. Thank you. Alright then."

Click.

His departure from the Panthers was now confirmed.

The man himself still had no idea.

Turning his head to check the time, Panthers general manager Scott Fitterer picked his phone back up and dialed head coach Matt Rhule, who was far away in Georgia.

Matt Rhule, quite possibly the most incompetent head coach in the NFL at this very moment, was clinging to the Panthers' playbook for one reason and one reason only.

And just now, Scott Fitterer had given him the leverage(?) to keep coaching through the end of the season.

"You on the line?"

"Yes. What's this about?"

"Send CMC to the airport. Now."

"...I'm sorry, what?"

"He's going to the Niners."

"..."

At 2-5, the Carolina Panthers were in an unfavorable position to claim the crown of TFM. It was true that every previously winless team had pulled off a victory last week, which had brightened their prospects considerably, but the uncomfortable fact remained that they had almost no margin left.

Worse, this week the Panthers were facing the Falcons, who sat at an identical 2-5. Even if it was for nothing more than the number one overall pick, they absolutely had to lose.

So they traded Christian McCaffrey.

And so Fitterer had made this call at precisely this moment.

The trade itself had actually been finalized three days earlier; today, game day, had been deliberately chosen to inflict maximum damage on the team.

As predicted, Matt Rhule exploded.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"You think I wanted to do this?"

In truth, Scott Fitterer hated being the man for this. He had agreed with moving CMC off the books—a high-priced veteran whose presence kept yanking the team's trajectory back toward winning—but a sizable portion of the remaining roster was made up of guys he'd have to keep working with for years.

However, the worst owner in football, David Tepper, was not the sort of man who concerned himself with the feelings and emotions of his players.

"There'll be a man waiting in the parking lot."

"...So that's who that weird guy boarding the plane was."

"My apologies. Goodbye."

Click.

Atlanta's roster was genuinely weak, that much was true. But with CMC—the engine of their offense and a real voice in the locker room—traded away on game day itself, the players' morale was about to crater into the earth.

All that remained now was to settle in and happily watch the team lose on television, and at the thought of it Scott Fitterer felt a wave of self-loathing. He propped his elbows on the armrests and slouched into a crooked, defeated posture, his face a portrait of pitiful helplessness.

The Panthers.

More precisely: working under the orders of a man named David Tepper was, absolutely, not an easy job.

(Kenny Albert) — Fox Sports play-by-play

"Falcons fans don't look happy in the slightest. We've seen scenes like this at stadiums all season long. And I suspect the Falcons' front office is feeling much the same way."

Five hours later

Atlanta, Georgia, USA — Mercedes-Benz Stadium

▷ 4Q — 03:51

03 00 00 06 — 09 Carolina

07 03 07 00 — 17 Atlanta

Just as Fox's Kenny Albert had said, the Atlanta Falcons' front office had the atmosphere of a funeral home. They had started the season with the backup's backup at quarterback, and the rest of the roster had been weak from the outset—but the victory they had prayed for, the one that never came when they desperately wanted it, kept showing its face now that they were trying to shove it away.

To be fair, there was still time on the clock, and an eight-point deficit could be erased with a single successful drive. But Carolina's offense, gutted of CMC right before kickoff, was almost unbearable to watch.

Then again, with a starting running back who'd spent the entire week preparing for this game suddenly gone, it wasn't hard to understand.

Three wins.

Terry Fontenot's mind had gone completely white. Nothing registered in his eyes and no sound reached his ears.

Failure.

Not winning the Super Bowl was a failure. Missing the playoffs was a failure. But now he felt like even failing to finish last was a failure, and the realization drove him into a serious crisis of doubt. There had been numerous opportunities to strengthen the roster, and because he had turned his back on every single one of them, the size of his despair was that much greater.

This year in particular had offered plenty of chances to acquire a franchise-caliber quarterback on the cheap, and on a few trades he could have scooped up the loose change and thickened the roster almost effortlessly.

But the Falcons, eyes locked solely on Dwayne Moi Stone, had been desperate to lose.

And now they had arrived at the point where they needed to start thinking about and moving on PLAN B, and C, and beyond.

It was hard to even force his voice out. Terry Fontenot finally managed to open his mouth and ask about the situation at the other stadiums.

This week, aside from the Chiefs and the Chargers, every team was in action, so the TFM standings were updating in real time. The game between Houston and Tennessee—both sitting at 1-5—was drawing as much breathless attention here as this very game.

"Houston looks like they're going to win."

"...I see."

Under the original plan, Atlanta should have been watching the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Houston–Tennessee winner and drawing fresh strength to sprint toward last place.

But now, merely hearing the result left nothing behind but bitterness.

Damn it all.

Dwayne Moi Stone. Currently enrolled at the University of Georgia.

Atlanta might have just lost, forever, the chance to draft the rookie who could have received the greatest support and adoration in their franchise's history.

Then again—the season was still only about half over.

November 1, 2022

Detroit, Michigan, USA — Detroit Lions Front Office

Press Conference Room

At the official press conference held just before the season opener, Detroit Lions head coach Dan Campbell had driven in the nail: "We will never tank."

Declaring his deep conviction in the talent the team had accumulated over the past few years, he boldly announced the Lions would compete for the playoffs. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Dan Campbell had drawn plenty of favorable reviews, inside and outside the organization, since taking the job last year, and so his words won the passionate support of the fans.

Then the season actually started, and Detroit found itself losing far more often than winning, limping along at a miserable 2-5.

Hence the bold proclamations now coming back around as scathing criticism.

Two days ago, after the loss to the Dolphins, calls to fire Dan Campbell were growing louder across the Detroit fanbase. The owner and front office appeared to be backing their coach one hundred percent, but this was a business, and public opinion could not simply be ignored—if they took no action, the team would be backed into a corner.

When Detroit's leadership summoned Dan Campbell the day before to search for a way out, they heard something entirely unexpected.

Break through head-on.

Dan Campbell honestly admitted that the poor record had let the fans down—and declared that he would face the media himself and win them back. The moment laid bare the raw charisma with which he commanded the locker room, and the people of the Lions organization watched today's proceedings with anxious hearts, praying that charm would work its magic once more.

Dan Campbell exchanged greetings, took his seat—and was hit with the first question immediately.

"Dan. Lately there have been loud calls for you to be fired. Do you have anything to say about that?"

"..."

Yes, Detroit was putting up a bad record. But the mood inside the building—the front office, the locker room ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as a whole—was unmistakably different from other years with similar records. People showed a deep trust in the culture and the process Dan Campbell was building, and a quiet faith that once the stalled current loosened even a little, the wins would start stacking up.

But none of that was visible from the outside.

He had to calm the fans down somehow. Dan Campbell absorbed that crucial first question, sat in silence for a beat, and then laid out his thoughts in a steady, even voice.

"Detroit is a big city. A big city with a long tradition. So the love and pride people have for their football team runs deep—same way the fans love this city itself. That means the expectations are high every single year, and I know a lot of you believed what I told you. And the record is 2-5. A month ago, we lost 29-0. I know. That's a very, very bad result. So I understand the disappointment. I do."

Eloquence—the art of speech—is a vital skill for persuading people whose feelings differ from yours, or flatly contradict them. The same words land differently depending on how they're delivered, and the way Dan Campbell acknowledged reality sounded remarkably, almost disarmingly, respectful.

Everyone watching on TV, radio, or YouTube had gone silent, waiting for him to continue—and Dan Campbell's voice came again.

"Football is special. Nowhere more than in this city. What we do is give people relief from lives that are hard and exhausting. And by that measure, I haven't done my job yet. That's on me. I was bad at it. And this is what I truly came here to say."

"..."

"..."

"I am truly sorry. But there is still season left, and the playoff race is still within reach. I promise you—I will spend every remaining day doing everything in my power to fix this."

Having declared his resolve through that roundabout approach, Dan Campbell then moved to shield his players—the men battered by the string of losses and the scandals that had trailed them.

"And—I know this is shameless of me—but one favor. Stop blaming the players. Everything that's happened is because I failed to communicate properly with my coaches. The players execute the plays, but the head coach runs them too. So the coach's ability matters just as much. If you're going to point fingers, point them at me. I'll carry all of it. And let me say it one more time: from today on, we're going to be different. Thank you."

Even after Dan Campbell answered a single question and walked off the stage, not one reporter tried to hold him back.

America has plenty of rude journalists, but today wasn't a game day—the room was filled mostly with Detroit's local media—and above all, Dan Campbell's words had been genuinely moving.

Brad Holmes, the Lions' general manager, had just watched an interview that deserved a 200 out of 100. He turned away with a smile on his face.

He landed the punch clean.

Today's interview wouldn't just win back the fans—it would set the players on fire too.

In the locker room, the ranks of players who would leap into a furnace if Dan Campbell asked were steadily growing, and every day the training facility unfolded scenes you'd expect to find only on a winning team.

In football, victory and defeat are dispensed by heaven.

But it is man who must seek them out.

Seek, and it shall be given to you.

Matthew 7:7-8.

Reciting to himself the scripture passage he'd been turning over so often lately, Brad Holmes looked forward to the sight of a team transformed.

November 2, 2022

Athens, Georgia, USA — University of Georgia

Vandiver Hall, Room 607

The plan for tonight had originally been to play Elden Ring with Amon-Ra, but yesterday he unilaterally canceled on me. Apparently he wasn't going to waste any more time on games for a while.

That interview from Dan Campbell must have lit a fire under him.

Still, no denying it.

"That was a hell of an interview."

"Beats me."

"C'mon—dude. You know you're going to the NFL next year too, right?"

And so I was currently enjoying some multiplayer with a white kid named Jack Campbell, who used to post about Elden Ring on his own social media.

"Here it comes. Dodge."

"I'm right behind you."

"Got it."

After a short silent stretch, we brought the boss down, cleared the area, and picked the conversation back up.

Oh, and by the way.

Today was the first time I'd ever spoken to this guy.

Like, two hours ago.

Jack Campbell is a linebacker who plays at Iowa. I'd been looking forward to an Elden Ring co-op session all morning, so I fired off a DM on the spot: wanna game??

His reaction was wait, for real? is this a hack??—and he only believed me after we got on a video call.

And that's how we became friends.

What even makes a friend, anyway? If you've fought back to back with someone, that's a comrade. That's a friend.

Anyway.

This guy is projected to hear his name called on day one of the draft (rounds one and two), yet he has zero interest in NFL news. Me, I don't stress about tanking—I only skim the news and rumors as light entertainment.

"Dude, I gotta head out."

"Yeah. Let's run it again sometime."

"For sure. What time is it there?"

"Eleven."

"Wheeew—you must be a night owl, huh?"

"You wanna know the truth? I'm dead tired."

"Hehehe. Figured. Anyway, this was fun. Hit me up next time."

"Yeah. You sleep well."

The call ended, and I stretched my arms to the ceiling, shut the game down on the tablet, and got up from my chair. Then I walked to the bathroom and picked up my toothbrush.

"..."

Scrub, scrub—

A few days ago I'd gotten a message from Terry Fontenot in Atlanta, and his despair and disappointment had practically radiated off the screen. It didn't feel great, being treated like some guy who was dying to play for the Falcons—but with a hometown producing a generational quarterback, I couldn't really blame him for acting like that either.

If anything, what it really did was make me think, all over again, about just how many teams had deliberately wrecked their own rosters this year.

What if I were the head coach? Just imagining it made me dizzy—but honestly, if they guaranteed me my job through 2023 and 2024, I'd gladly cooperate with the front office for a season.

This business doesn't remember names attached to middling records anyway. Limp along as a head coach and what awaits you isn't a Super Bowl—it's a paycheck stub and a cushy seat in a broadcast booth after you retire.

Granted, that's a perfectly comfortable way to live, and a perfectly good choice. But I don't want to live that way.

If you can't be the best, why play football at all?

That's just how my brain works.

"Aaah—that's the stuff."

I flopped onto the bed, wriggled my way up under the covers, pillowed my head, and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

Yesterday's trade deadline had brought a handful of deals and free agent signings, and a few of them had caught my eye.

First, Detroit—stirred up by Dan Campbell's interview—sent tight end T.J. Hockenson and two picks to Minnesota, netting back a 2023 second-round pick and a 2024 fourth-rounder. By shipping out a player who'd been pushing back against Dan Campbell's leadership, the message was clear: they intended to bind the team even tighter into one unit.

The only reason I knew their internal situation this well was because Amon-Ra is a chatterbox—truth be told, I'd been gently prodding him today too, fishing for tidbits. Purely for fun.

Anyway.

Beyond that, Chicago and Pittsburgh had both opted to ship out a starting linebacker and a wide receiver respectively, hauling in multiple draft picks including next year's second-rounder.

Both of those teams were about to get worse.

And speaking of which.

"Pittsburgh really is the surprise, though."

It shocked me enough that the sentence escaped my mouth as actual speech rather than thought—I never expected the Steelers to be competing at the top of the tanking board.

Truthfully, I hadn't given them much thought at all.

"Ah, damn."

Come to think of it, the weather there is garbage. Same goes for everything from the Midwest east.

But the team itself—I like it.

They're a winning organization. You only have to look at what's happened to last year's champion Rams to understand how difficult sustained success in football truly is—it's like reaching for the stars. It's impossible without the wisdom to see correctly and choose correctly, and that kind of wisdom is forged only in a properly built history.

Kansas City is doing it right now, as a matter of fact.

Ugh.

There I go thinking again.

Sleep. Now.

Tomorrow, Thursday, was the day we'd officially begin locking in our offensive packages for the Week 10 game.

The NCAA season had slipped almost imperceptibly into its back half.

College football was now, at long last, almost over.