Humiliation Lasts Only a Year

#. November 26, 2022

#-1. United States, Sanford Stadium, Georgia

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Sanford Stadium

My second experience of Clean, Old-Fashioned Hate since coming to college was already miles better than the first.

Because this time, it was being played at Sanford.

The fans were baring their fangs at the visitors, hatred blazing in full view.

“Man— that's actually kind of badass.”

“What is?”

“Look over there.”

Where Warren was pointing stood an old woman holding up a picket sign that read, NERDS AND DORKS DO NOT LEAVE THIS PLACE ALIVE TODAY.

The wording itself was the same old run-of-the-mill rivalry fare, but the fact that the woman wielding it had to be at least seventy was what made it interesting.

“Attaboy!”

The old man who'd come up beside her added his own flourish.

On his t-shirt: Gnat Busters.

Which is to say—

“Gnat exterminators. I kind of want one of those.”

“Old contempt never dies.”

“You said it.”

Nerd, Dorks, and Gnats—every one of them a slur UGA people used to look down on GTU.

Just as we'd gotten steamrolled at Georgia Tech's stadium last year, this time it was our campus folk doing everything they could to get under the visitors' skin.

I love emotions like this.

They build the narrative of sport.

Anyway.

“Let's roll. Rivalry, baby.”

“Time to stomp 'em flat.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking.”

As today's money line made clear (UGA –34.5), the raw talent gap was overwhelmingly in our favor.

Which was precisely why we'd spent all week trying to control the one true variable in a game like this—the rivalry itself—and I felt we'd prepared for it patiently and thoroughly.

Georgia Tech, having overhauled its coaching staff during the last offseason, had done a respectable papering over of its thin roster and was certainly playing better football than last year.

But they'd cracked thirty points in exactly one game all season—a telling stat about a team built to make things happen on defense rather than offense.

And at the center of it all stood No. 6 over there.

Keion White.

A 3-Star DE coming out of his senior year of high school, he went to Old Dominion in the CUSA, showed a dramatic leap in his sophomore year, and transferred to GTU in 2020.

Right up until last season he was just “Ah— the basketball kid who broke his ankle, right?”—but this year he's flashing genuine NFL-level talent.

Six-foot-five (about 196 cm), 290 pounds (about 130 kg).

Size.

Athleticism.

The flexibility to play in a 3-4 or a 4-3 without missing a beat.

When he comes off the edge in a straight line, even an elite O-tackle has a hard time controlling him—so on that front, too, we'd kept preparing.

Week 13, and we opened the game on offense.

I lifted my helmet, turned back toward the huddle, and roared.

“We're gonna kick these boys' teeth in!!”

“LET'S GO!!!”

Everything we'd stockpiled over the past week.

The destructiveness.

The cruelty.

And everything else besides.

Now we were going to pour all of it onto the field.

.

.

#. Field Suite

Sanford Stadium, home of the Georgia Bulldogs, houses fifty premium suites in the south upper deck, along with a SkySuite section of twenty-seven new boxes built into the north upper deck in 2004.

Each suite is configured anywhere from eighteen-seat to thirty-six-seat boxes, and comes equipped with private restrooms, two flat-screen TVs, a refrigerator, premium cabinetry, and closets.

The suites operate on a membership basis: anyone interested contacts the office, chooses a donation amount and method, and signs up.

Depending on tier, members can select anywhere from a $1,250 annual minimum per seat up to $3,000—and even after donating, membership isn't guaranteed until you've accrued points over a set period.

Every current Georgia SkySuite member has donated at least $200,000.

Dwayne Moi Stone, having used Kenny McIntosh as bait, stared down the field—and then took off running himself.

At that very moment, one of the Field Suites newly built along the east side of the stadium in 2018 erupted.

“GO MOI!!”

The voice belonged to a woman with bright brown hair, wearing a Georgia cap pulled low over her eyes and a hoodie from the HTC Edition line Nike had launched just a month earlier.

Joanne McCaskey.

She had burned through every last connection she had to rent that Field Suite, and it hadn't been easy.

She'd arrived in Athens with her college friends the day before, wandered the campus, brushed off the smooth advances of UGA's boys, and spent a happy stretch of girl-time with her crew.

The moment Dwayne Moi Stone came off the sideline after a twenty-six-yard gain, Joanne McCaskey clasped her hands together in delight and spun toward her friends.

“Did you SEE that?!”

Among the college friends Joanne had brought with her today, not a single one was unaware that she was head over heels for Dwayne Moi Stone.

Her social media—once packed exclusively with travel shots, luxury goods, and photos and videos of herself—had become a shrine to one man.

At first her friends couldn't understand it: pining after a quarterback who wasn't even from her school, let alone in the NFL. But as Dwayne Moi Stone's fame grew, their attitudes shifted.

Now they were her most fervent supporters.

“He's hot.”

“Right? His smile is even better.”

“You are seriously, hopelessly gone, aren't you?”

“Yep. It would've been perfect if Grace had come.”

Joanne McCaskey allowed herself one brief pang over the empty seat where her best friend Grace Allison should have been—then turned her eyes back to the TV.

Once the play started, she intended to watch the field.

“Soon he's going to be a Bear.”

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Joanne McCaskey knew perfectly well that the current within the Bears organization had shifted dramatically in recent weeks.

The Bears had begun planning a future in which they'd trade Justin Fields and absorb the salary-cap hit, and those discussions were getting serious.

Joanne, who had never once forgotten to keep the pressure on her uncle, now considered Dwayne Moi Stone's arrival in Chicago all but certain.

Of course, there was still some time left before anyone could be declared the winner of the TFM sweepstakes—but even if it was a bit of wishful thinking, that was simply how she wanted to see it. Honest feelings, after all.

Georgia had managed all of four yards across two possessions.

They were still pinned in their own territory, short of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠midfield.

“Come on. You can do it.”

Anyone who didn't know any better would have assumed Joanne McCaskey was Dwayne Moi Stone's girlfriend.

That was how hard Joanne was going.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

And then—third-and-six.

At the 40-plus passing touchdown—another one of the marks Dwayne Moi Stone had hit in practically every game this season—Joanne McCaskey leapt up and down in place, beside herself all over again.

Then she threw both arms up in the air, just like him.

“YESSSSS—!!!”

Joanne McCaskey was, without a doubt, head over heels in love.

#. United States, Lake Forest, Illinois

#-1. Chicago Bears Front Office

#-2. Chairman's Office

Every year, the NFL Draft market floods with talent, and every two or three years or so, a so-called generational QB pops up among them.

Just two years ago, it had been Trevor Lawrence.

But if you looked back at the history of Trevor Lawrence and the No. 1 or top-5 quarterbacks drafted before him, landing a great QB was closer to winning the lottery than anything else.

Pure luck.

Chicago knew this well, which was why the organization had tried to build around the talent they'd drafted three years earlier—and yet Dwayne Moi Stone's performance this season transcended even the word different dimension.

He was shattering nearly every quarterback record in existence, and the metrics tied to pure production were already confirmed to be rewritten outright.

College football's first-ever 7,000-yard single season in passing was, for all practical purposes, 99.9 percent locked in.

“He's just too good.”

“Too good by half.”

“Yes. With performance and numbers like those, you have to take him. No question.”

“···.”

“I'll stake my reputation on it—if he struggles early, people will blame every last bit of it on the head coach and his staff. They'll point fingers and call you incompetent. For the coaching staff too, he's a poisoned chalice.”

In truth, this was already a shared—and shared-in—sentiment among NFL insiders.

Football is the sport where the most physically superior men on earth gather, so what ultimately decides the difference is the brain that crafts the tactics and the system.

That's why the quarterback is crowned the most important position—but the head coach and his coordinators matter every bit as much.

The Kansas City Chiefs, and this year's Los Angeles Rams, stand as the textbook proof.

“The Detroit coaching staff has caught my eye.”

“Dan Campbell, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But Matt's a good coach too, you know.”

“That's what I thought.”

“···.”

The man delivering these blistering evaluations in front of George McCaskey was Ethan Lowell, the team's special advisor.

Ethan had been appointed a few weeks earlier, on the recommendation of president Ted Phillips, at the exact moment the Bears were agonizing over whether to keep Dwayne Moi Stone or trade out of the pick.

He was known as the man who had flawlessly completed rebuilds for several franchises, and he was also an unusually blunt operator—one who moved for one reason only: money.

Through Ethan Lowell's eyes, Matt Eberflus carried far too many disqualifications to ever succeed as an NFL head coach.

One might grant him a sliver of aptitude for big-picture planning over a week of preparation, but his ability to make the fine in-game adjustments was, charitably, close to nonexistent.

And the staff he'd brought in was much the same.

“I don't expect Andy Reid-level brilliance from our sideline. But a man should have some hope to offer. Sean McVay of the Rams hid his own incompetence behind his coordinators—Kevin O'Connell, Ejiro Evero. You do know what happened to the Rams' offense after O'Connell left for the Vikings, don't you? Last year's Super Bowl champs are staring down a playoff miss this season.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“Fire Matt.”

“After barely one year? I can't do that. We sat through countless meetings and decided Matt was the right man to rebuild this franchise. I can't simply reverse that on a whim.”

“Then we'll fail even with Moi.”

“···.”

George McCaskey disliked every word out of Ethan Lowell's mouth—but there was one reason he couldn't bring himself to warn the man against overstepping.

Somewhere deep inside him coiled a primal fear, wrapped tightly in denial.

Matt Eberflus—seasoned in Cleveland and Dallas, defensive coordinator for the Indianapolis Colts—looked unnervingly natural in the act of losing.

It wasn't merely that the team was tanking; nothing on the field suggested a single decision made with winning in mind.

How many football coaches in history could execute a tank that perfect?

The knowledge that he'd pressed the reset button did little to bury the unease George felt every time he looked at Eberflus. Much more likely, as Ethan Lowell pointed out, the man simply wasn't competent.

But as he'd said, George McCaskey could not easily fire Matt Eberflus.

During contract talks he had personally promised the man ample time, and breaking that promise after a single year would be indefensible in anyone's eyes.

Everyone would point at the Bears' front office and laugh.

They picked a sacrificial lamb with no head-coaching experience just to tank—the accusations of irresponsibility and incompetence would come packaged in a dozen different rhetorical bows.

Of course, such criticism fades with time.

Only among the public, that is.

“This is a textbook case of being caught between a rock and a hard place. Interest versus reputation. And 99.9 percent of men in your seat choose reputation. I understand it. In this business, reputation is sometimes everything.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You hired me because you were torn. Keep Dwayne Moi Stone—or proceed with the trade, starting with nine draft picks, exactly as originally planned. I believe I've just handed you your answer.”

“···.”

If the coach stays, the original plan stands.

But that road, too, would end in a very large regret.

Because what Dwayne Moi Stone was doing on the college stage right now was sending his odds of NFL success soaring toward infinity.

If the day ever came when Dwayne Moi Stone was spoken of as a far-future Tom Brady—or something even greater—the Chicago Bears and George McCaskey might spend the rest of their lives regretting 2023.

And yet the exact opposite could just as easily come to pass.

“Whew—”

Ethan Lowell, having told him there was still plenty of time to think it over, left the chairman's office. Just as George McCaskey sank into his deliberations, a call came in from Joanne.

The Chicago Bears—sitting in the top tier of the TFM race, and still unable to decide their own future.

Tomorrow, they face the Jets.

#. November 28, 2022

#-1. United States, Lucas Oil Stadium, Indianapolis

#-2. Lucas Oil Stadium

When the third quarter closed with his team down by a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠single point, Mike Tomlin quietly nodded to himself.

He was enduring the worst season of his head-coaching career—but ever since he'd swallowed his pride, he'd felt no particular bitterness about steering his team toward defeat.

The humiliation would last one year. No more.

From next season on, everything would turn one hundred and eighty degrees.

The judgment was sound.

In the second quarter today, Pittsburgh had unleashed an offense gorgeous enough to startle its own head coach.

The Indianapolis Colts were a bottom-third team, sure, but they carried a respectable defense—and suddenly Pittsburgh was carving it up at will, punching in two touchdowns.

So when the scoreboard read 16–3, Mike Tomlin skipped the extra point and went for a two-point conversion.

He'd deliberately set his target against the defense's stronger side. The play ran exactly as designed—but it didn't turn into points.

That play, run just before halftime, flipped the momentum and morale between Pittsburgh and Indianapolis, and after Matt Ryan went wild in the third quarter, the Steelers found themselves trailing with fifteen minutes left on the clock.

“Squeeze the left side a little tighter.”

“The left side, sir?”

“That's right.”

Mike Tomlin is an excellent coach.

He knows how to move toward victory.

Which is another way of saying he knows exactly what to do to move away from it—and right now, he was acting in perfect opposition to every thought in his own head, working deliberately to close the distance with defeat.

The losing streak was slowly dragging the locker room's spirit downward—but T.J. Watt, the leader of the defense, had his back.

T.J. Watt, originally slated to return in Week 10, had heard the team's future plans and promised to help the tank, surrendering roughly $800,000 in incentives to do it.

Publicly, the story was that his injury rehab had stalled and he was out for the season.

In truth, nothing could be further from it.

Whew— this is killing me.

Pittsburgh's head coach was not a man accustomed to losing.

But he just kept doing his job—and doing it well.