To Grab His Ankle and Bring Him Down Someday

The alarm bells were ringing in the Detroit Lions' front office too, as the TFM race entered its final stretch.

The plan had been to offer a package deal centered on a haul of draft picks plus Jared Goff (QB) and D'Andre Swift (WR), with the inclusion of offensive linemen also under consideration. But with Pittsburgh showing no intention whatsoever of surrendering its grip on the top of the TFM standings, the Lions now found themselves forced to draw up a Plan B.

Detroit had never even contemplated a Plan B in the first place, and so opinions were splintering across every corner of the organization — from the front office to the coaching staff.

"I don't want to break this team apart."

"…."

Ever since Dan Campbell's widely praised interview that day, Detroit had rebounded in spectacular fashion. A record that once stood at 1-6 had quietly become 7-7, and if they won all three of their remaining games, a playoff berth — their first in roughly six years since 2016 — was within reach.

There was the stunning turnaround engineered by Jared Goff, who had leapt from journeyman quarterback to elite tier, and the awakening of a magnificent weapon set in Jamaal Williams, Amon-Ra St. Brown, and D'Andre Swift. On top of that, the defense led by this year's rookie Aidan Hutchinson had taken yet another step forward, and the team was showcasing the caliber of a true contender week after week.

As the results came, the team chemistry naturally improved, and these days the Lions' practice facility was packed with men practically desperate to show up for work.

Any head coach would want to protect that atmosphere. It was only natural.

"Of all the teams — it had to be the Steelers."

"They're the one team that doesn't need our package."

"Hoo…"

The greatest significance of holding three years' worth of draft picks was, of course, securing a steady supply of young talent. Finishing dead last in the standings was itself a signal that a team needed to build for the future — and rather than drafting the single best player available, acquiring more talent in bulk raised the odds of a successful rebuild.

In that sense, the cards Detroit held were undeniably attractive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— to Chicago and Houston, and to the many other teams that had already fallen out of the TFM race.

What's more, Detroit held two first-round picks in the 2023 draft, and if a partner so desired, they were even willing to surrender everything the Lions owned this year in exchange for 2025 compensation.

Seattle was a slightly murkier case, but with Jared Goff thrown in, a pitch seemed doable.

But Pittsburgh?

No.

The Steelers were the NFL's equivalent of the New York Yankees, the L.A. Dodgers, the San Antonio Spurs.

Looked at coldly, this year's slump had begun with the snowball Mitchell Trubisky rolled downhill, and once the legendary Mike Tomlin began tanking in broad daylight, losing had started to look almost easy. Beyond that, Pittsburgh possessed a magnificent defensive leader in T.J. Watt — swap in a single new quarterback, and they became a legitimate Super Bowl contender overnight.

Some pointed to their comparatively thin offensive line, but that too could be shored up through next year's offseason and the draft. There were even whispers that Pittsburgh, in pursuit of an additional first-rounder, was shopping this year's second-round pick along with next year's first.

And all of it — every scrap of it — converged on a single conclusion.

The Pittsburgh Steelers, unmoved by any offer under any terms, were taking Dwayne Moi Stone. Period.

Please.

Even if Seattle won the TFM race — anything but Pittsburgh. That was the sole, desperate wish of the Detroit front office.

We'd thrown a party at the dormitory yesterday, and this morning — Christmas Day — I attended church early with Coach's family. Afterward, we went grocery shopping together.

"I'll carry that."

"Careful, now. You're a precious commodity."

"Haha. This much is nothing."

Turkey and chicken, pork, beef, duck. I hoisted the box holding every cut of meat clear off the ground.

By evening, nearly every guy on the team would be arriving at this house. Anyone without prior commitments to a sweetheart or family was spending Christmas at Coach's place — that was the plan.

"Let me help with that."

"But…"

"You know I'm good with a knife."

"Then would you take care of the potatoes first?"

"Yes, sir—"

While Mrs. Smart prepared our lunch, I got started on the ingredients for dinner. Potatoes, carrots, celery, and so on. Then the meat. The turkey and duck, destined for whole roasting, got a thorough washing and were left to drain, while the chicken — for the boys who practically wept at the words "fried chicken" — I broke down neatly, piece by piece.

Before long, the lunch table was complete. I made Mrs. Smart one suggestion.

"How about we go Korean-style?"

"Korean-style?"

"Yes. The guys prefer it more these days, honestly."

"Hmm. Do we have the ingredients?"

"I picked some up when we were out earlier."

"Really? It won't be too much trouble?"

"Not at all. Leave it to me."

As it happened, Athens had a location of the Korean franchise BBQ, and I'd been dragging my teammates there at least once a month. The boys, no longer satisfied with KFC's cold, soggy chicken, had become loyalists — and when it came to chicken and chicken alone, BBQ was always their first choice.

BBQ had already reached out asking to use me as an advertising model, frankly, and I wanted to ask what had taken them so long.

Would I do it?

Of course.

Right after the National Championship, that is.

Football comes first for now.

"Ugh — this feels weird."

"A real man should be able to handle raw chicken, Andrew."

"It's like touching a slime."

"Do it thoroughly and the seasoning soaks in right."

While Weston and Julia helped Mrs. Smart, Andrew kept me company at my station. And before long, Darnell arrived.

I'd figured he'd be the first one here.

After exchanging warm greetings with Coach's family, Darnell drifted over to my side and asked if there was anything he could do.

"Then take over this for me."

"Damn — that's a mountain of meat."

"You think it takes less than this to feed thirty, forty football-playing college students?"

"Fair point."

Darnell pulled on the gloves resting on the table and took over the seasoning while I started on the batter at my elbow.

Thirty or forty, I'd said. In reality it would be more like fifty.

"How's the family doing these days?"

"Bright as anything. They seem to love Hawaii."

"But you'll all be together next year, right?"

"Yeah — Mom wants that too. She misses the girls."

As everyone knew, Darnell was a father of two daughters. Two little princesses you could put in your eyes without hurting them.

Darnell was currently rated a top-ten tight end in the draft class, and with NFL teams hungry at the position, being selected within the first three rounds was all but certain. A contract inside round three meant at least $5 million over four years — enough to provide for his family.

And I was waiting, heart full, for that day to come.

Maybe someday we'd spend the holidays together, all of us.

We were, after all, close enough for that.

Ding-dong.

"Hm?"

Three in the afternoon. Far too early for guests.

And yet.

"Damn — what are you doing here this early?"

"It's called social grace."

"You kiss ass like nobody's business."

"Move. That's Coach's gift."

"What?! That's MINE!"

"You're a rich man, Coach."

I gave the shameless Laki a light kick in the rear and returned to my station. The batter could rest and proof for a while, and I planned to let the seasoned chicken marinate for about an hour.

"Don't tell me you two made all this."

"We're frying it later. Why?"

"It's safe to eat, right? I mean…"

"You're asking if it's edible."

"Yes."

"You won't even get broth out of me later, you know that?"

"Why not?!"

With just one more body in the house, the calm, quiet interior turned loud in an instant. Andrew, who found Laki's boundless energy a bit much, retreated to his room, muttering something about his Nintendo.

"Oh, and by the way."

"?"

"Merry Christmas."

"There we go — greetings first. Good lad."

"So? Aren't you going to say it back?"

Before answering, I glanced around the room.

Good. Nobody here.

Having confirmed that Coach's kids were nowhere in sight, I raised my middle finger and delivered my message to Laki with the utmost sincerity.

"Happy Christmas, Mother Fucker."

"HEY!"

"FUCK. YOU. You didn't get me a present."

"Did you prepare one for me?"

"Told you already — you won't even get broth."

Thrown off by my utter shamelessness, Laki scrambled to change his tune and launched into an impassioned oration about how much I meant to him. I leveled a withering look at him on the spot, and Darnell let out a long sigh, shaking his head side to side.

Just one thing I wanted to say to Laki right now.

"You know what?"

"What? You are getting me a present, right?"

"Nobody likes a bat."

"…."

"Kukukukuku."

I bumped fists with a cackling Darnell, then shot a wink at Laki's hollowed-out expression.

All in all, a pretty decent Christmas afternoon.

Our playoff opponent this year was Ohio ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠State.

They sat fourth in the AP poll.

Their newly hired defensive coordinator, Jim Knowles, was drawing praise for elevating the unit to another level — and thanks to that, an already consistent offense was shining even brighter. A strong defense means shorter defensive stands, which means more possessions for the offense.

In fact, the Ohio State Buckeyes had scored more points this season than any team in the FBS except us.

And OSU had lost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exactly once in the regular season — to Michigan, in the rivalry game just before this one.

The matchups between these two schools — the ones that gave us keywords like the Snow Bowl and the Ten Year War — were also famous for producing some of the nastiest, most violent scenes in NCAA Division 1 football. Both were respectable powerhouses in the American Northeast, which meant they fought over regional supremacy, and the region's character played its part too.

Anyway.

This year's rivalry game had been vicious as well — Michigan saw three players ejected, and the two schools combined for fourteen injuries.

Michigan didn't concern me, and neither did OSU's offense.

"So you're saying No. 35 won't be out there?"

"That's right."

"Cool."

No. 35 was Tommy Eichenberg — one of the central cogs of OSU's nickel defense, which operated out of a 4-2-5. He'd been the Rose Bowl MVP last year, and as one of the linebackers representing the Big Ten, he was regarded as an NFL-caliber talent.

Considering that nickel defense as a scheme leans heavily on linebacker play, losing No. 35 was critical — and it made our own game planning considerably easier.

Of course, we had our own losses. Nolan had been out injured since Week 10.

What kind of player would step in for him?

I kept my eyes glued to the screen.

"Rewind it a bit, please."

"Sure."

"…"

Say it again: linebackers matter in nickel defense. The decision to blitz or drop back has to be made correctly on every single snap, and if mistakes start repeating, forty-plus points against is a locked-in outcome for the day. Teams like this often leaned on corner and safety blitzes to lighten the linebackers' load, of course.

That was why I focused my viewing on OSU's defense in the situations where No. 35 was absent from the field.

"Is it certain he's not playing?"

"That's the official line."

"So it might not be true."

It went without saying: everyone lies to everyone. Especially once the playoffs arrive, it's practically passive by default. Since the Michigan game had no bearing on the playoff bracket, OSU could just as easily be hiding a serious injury from No. 35 as not.

"Does Michigan have an open practice this week?"

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

"…Check on that."

"On it. Thanks."

My first instinct had been to analyze Michigan's defense heavily filtered for No. 35's absence — but the oddities I'd noticed in a handful of clips convinced me that watching everything, just as usual, was the smarter play.

Fortunately, I'd already catalogued several distinctive tells, and if I could find a pattern in the time remaining, Ohio State's defense could be cracked.

Sure, they'd make adjustments, prepare something special — but no football team on earth overhauls its tactical foundation at the playoff stage. The broad strokes stay the same. The finer variables I hadn't had time to break down? Those I'd meet and overcome on the field.

Why do I say that so easily?

Because that's how you build confidence.

The so-called positive thinking people preach doesn't accomplish much through self-hypnosis alone. Genuinely believing you can accomplish whatever is in front of you — that's one of the real secrets to producing good results.

Bowl Weekend was officially underway.

OSU would kneel before us.

Just as Dwayne Moi Stone had suspected, Ohio State was leaking false information to the outside world.

It was true that Tommy Eichenberg couldn't return for the Michigan game — but he was available for the Peach Bowl. OSU, however, had planted fake reports as a next-stage play, publicly staying silent about his condition and letting the rumors swell on their own.

Which meant the secret had to be guarded at all costs. That was why media access had been barred entirely, with the exception of tomorrow's regularly scheduled interviews. Even reporters with friendly ties to OSU had been shut out of the practice facility, and murmurs of complaint were rising from some quarters.

That was how desperate Ohio State was.

They had to break a championship drought stretching eight years since 2014 — and this year's roster was, by luck, exceptionally strong.

Quarterback C.J. Stroud. Running back TreVeyon Henderson. And above all, a receiving corps anchored by Marvin Harrison Jr. and Jaxon Smith-Njigba that was the finest of the past thirty years. Even the defense, the lone weak point, had been rebuilt under a new coordinator — so head coach Ryan Day had judged this season the moment to strike and thrown everything he had at it.

"Ryan."

"?"

"It's Derek."

"…Tell him I'm busy."

"I've told him that every time. But you're going to have to take this one. Derek has been working for us this whole while."

"…."

Hoping to placate the reporter known in the trade as an insider, Ryan Day reluctantly picked up the phone.

As the OSU head coach stepped away for a moment, C.J. Stroud was putting on a show of effortless form in front of offensive coordinator Kevin Wilson — almost like a silent protest.

Alongside Alabama's Bryce Young, he'd been rated a premier quarterback prospect all along, yet at the same time he'd always been the second name on the marquee, standing in Moi's shadow. The bowl game's outcome wouldn't change his draft decision, but Stroud wanted his pride back all the same.

"Niiice. That's the stuff."

"How'd it look?"

"What's the word? Flawless."

"Hoo — I want it even better."

"It will be, C.J."

Stroud — whose full name, Coleridge Bernard, got shortened to C.J. — had always drawn glowing evaluations. Through his sophomore year of high school he'd been dismissed as an ordinary 3-Star quarterback, but a standout performance at the 2019 Elite Camp vaulted him into the Big 3 overnight.

The ones rated alongside him back then as elite high school quarterback prospects were Bryce Young and Clemson's D.J. Uiagalelei.

And here lay an interesting footnote: even in that class, it was Dwayne Moi Stone who cast his shadow and pushed their college enrollment later than anyone expected. In other words, the quarterbacks of the 2020 recruiting class — C.J. Stroud included — had spent their entire careers fighting that enormous shadow from beyond the ropes.

Which meant the fire in C.J. Stroud could only burn hotter, and Kevin Wilson was working steadily to keep it in check.

"Trust me. There's no quarterback better than you."

"Better isn't enough, Coach."

"Then greater."

"Haha. Thank you."

Widely known even outside football circles, C.J. Stroud's childhood had been hardship itself. The father of the six-person family, a man respected in the neighborhood, turned out to be a vile criminal deeply involved in serial sexual assault, carjacking, drug trafficking, kidnapping, and robbery. In 2015, when C.J. was thirteen, Stroud Sr. was sentenced to 38 years, and the family collapsed under the weight of it.

During his high school years, C.J. Stroud's home was a run-down makeshift shelter built on top of a storage unit.

But because he had a wonderful mother, he never strayed and threw himself into the game. Taking poverty and turning it into fuel, C.J. Stroud learned that money was never the obstacle to becoming great.

And in truth, C.J. Stroud now commanded the wholehearted support of his entire team through his outstanding leadership.

"Moi's incredible, Coach."

"Well. He is that."

"I can't leap past him tomorrow. But I want them to take stock of exactly where I stand right now. And more than anything — I owe the guys for everything they poured in to get us here."

"I'll guarantee you this, C.J.?"

"?"

"They already know that better than anyone. So worry about one thing only: your performance. This weekend, the only ones on that field will be guys ready to devote themselves to you and sacrifice for you."

"…Yes, sir. I'll give everything I have."

C.J. Stroud, a man with no intention of spending his life as a supporting actor, was at this moment looking past the present toward the future — reaching out his hand toward Dwayne Moi Stone.

To grab his ankle someday, and bring him down.

This weekend, he would step onto the first proving ground of that long campaign.