Is It Just My Imagination?

#. January 6, 2023

#-1. United States, Athens, Georgia

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall

#-4. Head Coach's Office

After the Peach Bowl, we had been preparing in a calm, steady rhythm for the National Championship game coming up the following Monday.

Our opponent, surprisingly, was TCU out of the Big 12. Michigan's Wolverines had gone undefeated this season and were considered the stronger team on paper, so the result was widely regarded as an upset.

But none of that mattered.

Whoever was across the line of scrimmage.

First, you show them respect.

Then you tear them apart.

Simple enough, isn't it?

Knock knock-

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Come on in."

After Friday's schedule wrapped up, before heading back to the dorms, Coach had called me to his office.

As I took the chair across his desk, he slid a document toward me.

"What's this?"

"Read it and see."

"...."

The paper looked to be some kind of official correspondence, bearing the seal of the State of Georgia, with the following written beneath it.

To summarize the gist of it—

"A certificate of appreciation?"

"That's right. Apparently ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the state feels compelled to formally thank you for everything you've done to make Georgia great these past three years."

"Wow. And it's not even from Athens?"

According to Coach, the mayor of Athens had originally planned such an event, but once the Governor of Georgia caught wind of it, he decided to blow the whole thing up to state scale.

On the assumption that we win the National Championship, the presentation would come the day right after the championship parade.

It wouldn't happen, of course, but in the unlikely event we settled for runner-up, they'd hand over the certificate at the Sanford Stadium event just before spring break instead.

"The 10th is going to be busy, then."

"Ha! I certainly hope so."

"You'll get to see it, guaranteed. Was there anything else?"

"No. Go back and get some rest. Sleep well."

"You too, Coach. Oh, and—"

"?"

"Mom was asking whether you enjoyed the kimchi?"

"Oh—it was outstanding. I'll give her a call tomorrow."

"Nice. Alright, I'll get going."

"Go on."

Just like me, my whole family absolutely adores Coach Kirby Smart.

They always tell him to come visit Oahu so they can host him properly, but he's such a busy man that unless it's for recruiting, he spends most of the year on campus.

Still, one thing is certain: over the past three years, the Smart family and our Stone family have become something like cousins.

You can tell from the way Mom sends enormous quantities of homemade food—kimchi and the like—straight to the coach's house.

"Heading out?"

"Oh? Coach."

"Haha. Let's walk together."

Todd Monken was the same way.

This man visits Mom's restaurant every single year.

He always brought his entire family along, and the Monken household was a football family through and through.

Coach's father, Bob Monken, spent thirty years as a high school head coach in Lake Park, Illinois—home of the Chicago Bears' front office.

He wasn't exactly a brilliant tactician, but he was such a genuinely good man that the entire community revered him.

So when he passed away last August after a long battle with Parkinson's, both the governor and the mayor sent their own messages of condolence.

The football-playing Monken family, once thirteen strong, was now twelve—and Todd Monken, shaped by that loss, was already preparing his next challenge.

"I hear you turned down a contract?"

"...Yeah."

"Where are you headed?"

"Torn between two teams."

"Which ones?"

"Can't say yet."

"You'll tell me eventually, though, right?"

"We'll see."

"We'll see? Now I'm hurt."

"You're hilarious. Your face doesn't look hurt one bit."

"Kukukukuku."

We kept the line between coach and player, sure—but after three years together, something like friendship had taken root.

When you think about it, our ages aren't so far apart, after all.

Though in my case, that count includes my past life.

"Drive safe."

"Yes, sir. You too, Coach."

"Right. See you tomorrow."

Thud.

Coach Monken pulled out of the parking lot first, and after walking a few more steps, I climbed into my Toyota.

Toyota had recently hinted at wanting to renew my endorsement deal, but a better offer had come in and the agency turned it down.

So I planned to leave this trusty old girl behind in Athens when I go—and once the dust settled after the National Championship, I intended to give ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her to Laki.

The kid was currently driving an ancient, beat-up Honda Civic that broke down constantly, leaving him in a constant state of distress.

Deliberately driving slow, I turned the wheel as if to loop through the entire campus instead of heading straight to the dorms.

Places steeped in memories came into view one by one.

Some of them were spots I'd taken my ex-girlfriend on dates, and for a moment I had to furrow my brow—but soon enough I was smiling, remembering everything that had happened there with fondness.

The restaurants my friends and I frequented the most.

The cafeterias.

My gaze drifted to the buildings where I'd attended classes, and to the venues of all the big and little parties we'd thrown.

Mmm—

For some reason, my chest feels tight.

"...Mom always said it."

Mama Always Said.

Son?

"There aren't all that many things in this world more important than tying off the final knot properly."

Whatever the emotion.

Whatever the circumstance.

If the thing called the end was fated to meet you face to face, she said, then you had to think more seriously and judge more wisely than at any other moment in your life—so that not a single regret remained behind.

That was the education I'd received since I was little.

And that, exactly, is what I am.

"Being Stone."

It is the way I have lived this entire life as a member of the Stone family—and the way I will live whatever remains of it, as a Stone, going forward.

#. January 8, 2023

#-1. United States, Chicago, Illinois

#-2. Soldier Field

From the Chicago Bears' front office perspective, this was a game that could be watched in perfect comfort.

Minnesota, having clinched a playoff berth, wanted to keep their momentum rolling into the postseason, while the Bears—who wanted dead last—could legally sit their key players on the bench.

A good portion of the starters who did play had incentive clauses riding on the game, and when none of those got hit, Chicago enjoyed the bonus benefit of saving money. Two birds, one stone.

One win. Sixteen losses.

A tanking season, graded at 99 out of 100.

And yet, they were still only second place.

"...."

"...."

In one of the VIP lounges at Soldier Field, the crowd was slowly trickling out. Here, the key figures of the Chicago front office sat glued to the television with anxious eyes.

They were watching the game between the Cleveland Browns and the Pittsburgh Steelers, which had kicked off thirty minutes after their own.

Through the speakers came the voice of CBS's play-by-play man, Greg Gunbel.

"Come on—"

"Please, please, please, please."

"Whew— this is killing me."

The Chicago Bears' front office had truly, painstakingly planned out this tanking season.

Hoping to reclaim the future they'd frittered away over the past five years, they had set their sights on one man and one man only: the Georgia quarterback named Dwayne Moi Stone, and the golden treasure chest he would bring them.

That was why they wanted it so badly. That was why they prayed for the Cleveland Browns' offense to fail.

7–10.

A three-point Pittsburgh Steelers lead.

Time remaining: 1 minute, 41 seconds.

If the Browns couldn't score on this drive, Pittsburgh would close out the final week of the season with a win.

"YEAH!!"

"That's it, that's exactly it!!"

"Wait, wait. Are they kicking?"

"Come on— you're not seriously playing for overtime!!"

"Just go for it!!"

The moment Pittsburgh's defense held, the euphoric men of the Bears' front office saw the special teams unit take the field and immediately started booing at the screen.

It was an utterly reasonable decision—but to the Bears' people, that couldn't have mattered less.

If the game went to overtime, Pittsburgh's odds of losing would only grow, and so they were simply heckling for all they were worth.

The Browns lining up a 3-point field goal attempt.

The VIP lounge fell quiet again.

For a placekicker starting at the NFL level, a kick inside thirty yards almost never misses—that's the correct way to read it.

It stung that the game was headed to overtime, but the Bears' men took solace in the fact that hope still flickered.

Even if it came bundled with an agony they'd have to endure—an anxiety that felt like a fist squeezing their hearts dry.

Slowly, the formations set.

Everyone's focus on the TV sharpened to a razor's edge.

The snap from Cleveland's long snapper, Charlie Hewitt.

Delivered cleanly into the hands of the holder.

And then—

"Huh?"

"What the...."

Instead of calmly laying the ball down as he always did, the Browns' holder sprang up from his spot and fired a lateral pass to the side.

Waiting in the ball's path was Denzel Ward.

The local cornerback beloved by the Cleveland faithful.

A trick play no one had imagined.

As a scoring play destined to go down as one of the most shocking and spectacular of the entire NFL season took shape, the Bears' men reacted in two distinct ways.

One group tore at their hair in agony, as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing. The other simply sat there, mouths hanging open in silence.

Greg Gunbel's voice kept pouring out of the speakers.

#. 11:13 PM

#-1. United States, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

#-2. Pittsburgh Steelers Front Office

If the Chicago Bears' front office had spent the day falling from heaven into hell, the Pittsburgh Steelers' front office had lived through precisely the opposite.

When Cleveland's late trick play connected with Denzel Ward for the go-ahead score, screams of something close to anguish erupted from every corner of the building.

And once the game ended 14–10, a stream of people came looking for Omar Khan, tossed their congratulations his way, and vanished.

"We can't let this become a habit, you know."

"Haha. I don't think it will."

Despite having just received the most dismal season record in franchise history, the Steelers were currently conjuring an atmosphere much like the one after a Super Bowl berth.

Mike Tomlin, who had devoted himself night and day to keeping his players' spirits intact, likewise felt the lightness of a man who had just completed one enormous assignment.

Omar Khan, worn down to a pulp by the fatigue accumulated over the entire season, loosened his tie and gestured for Mike Tomlin to wait a moment.

He then opened the door of a display case on the side of his office and pulled out a premium bourbon that would lightly clear the $2,000 mark.

"This calls for a drink on a day like today."

"What is that?"

"George T. Stagg. A little number that goes for $100 a pour, easy."

Omar Khan offered the thick crystal glass, raising a toast and offering words celebrating the team's bright future.

"We're So Lucky."

"Hahahaha."

Pittsburgh's current state—expressible by nothing other than the word luck—had handed a mega-lottery jackpot to a franchise that had always been one of the NFL's model franchises of consistency.

Naturally, countless teams would despise this outcome. But as they always had, Pittsburgh would fight back.

"I suppose we'll have to leave number 14 vacant next year as well."

"I suppose we will."

"Heh heh heh. Cheers."

The aroma rising from the liquid sloshing in the two crystal glasses filled Omar Khan's office to its farthest corner.

#. January 9, 2023

#-1. United States, Los Angeles, California

#-2. SoFi Stadium

People can be so impatient, sometimes.

Which is what makes it all so entertaining.

For the National Championship, we had flown into L.A. yesterday, spent a day on schedule, and arrived at the stadium an hour before kickoff.

And there, I met this man.

Matthew Stafford.

A friend of mine.

This was the quarterback who had delivered the Rams their first Super Bowl in 22 years just last season—then injured his neck this year and appeared in only nine games.

The Rams, having burned through every reserve of capital they had, sprang leaks all over the field this season and stumbled to a miserable 6–11. Truth be told, next year's outlook wasn't looking particularly rosy either.

Building a dynasty in the NFL is at least ten times harder than it is in the NBA or MLB.

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

"You think the Steelers uniform would suit me?"

"I told you—I don't know yet."

"Kukuku. Those mighty Steelers actually tanked. They don't do that for a few draft picks, kid. I'm telling you—you're playing in Pittsburgh."

Yeah—

Honestly, my own read was the same.

But Pittsburgh held the leverage right now, and I would hear offers from every team right up until the eve of the draft.

There was no reason not to.

They were holding the winning flower ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠card.

"Yo, wassup."

"Heyyy. Been a while—you good?"

"Ah, my bad—I should give you two the room. See you later."

"Yep. See you later."

When Quavo showed up, Matthew graciously cleared out.

Last year, this guy had gone through a rough stretch of his own too.

It stemmed from the shooting that broke out on November 1st in Houston, Texas—when Takeoff was caught up in it and died of a gunshot wound.

At the time, Quavo had been playing dice gambling, something Black men commonly do for fun, and after losing a large sum of money, he'd gotten heated and picked a fight with the other party—and things escalated into the shooting.

What made it even more devastating was that the man who shot Takeoff wasn't from the other side at all, but one of the bodyguards who had been standing with the Migos.

Takeoff hadn't even been gambling. He'd just walked over when the argument broke out while he was looking at his phone—and that single step sealed his fate.

Perhaps because of the shock of losing his cousin, Quavo kept a quiet, low profile for a while. I'd sent him a private message, and posted a tribute on social media to express my grief over Takeoff's passing.

"Never leave this world like that, man. Never."

"I won't. You know me."

"Yeah—"

"Stay strong, aight."

Less boisterous than before, we pulled each other into a one-armed hug and had ourselves a moment that solidified a friendship.

Thankfully, Quavo looked better than I'd expected.

He told me there was someone he wanted to introduce me to.

"Who?"

"A, yo."

"Yeah?"

Oh, good grief.

It's Snoop.

"From today on, you're one of my nephews. 'Cause you're headed to the Steelers, nephew."

"Whoa. That was a fast promotion."

"This one's funny. I like you."

Snoop Dogg is the most widely recognized Pittsburgh Steelers fan on the planet.

He was also, beyond that, a man dead serious about football—using the wealth and fame he'd built for himself, he founded his own football league in Los Angeles back in 2005, for the Black kids living there.

The idea: rather than drifting onto the streets, getting tangled up with drugs and gangs, and vanishing before anyone even noticed—live a better life through football.

Anyway.

With the game being held in L.A. of all places, maybe I should have anticipated that Snoop would show up.

"I called Mike the moment it happened yesterday."

"Who?"

"Mike Tomlin."

Snoop repeated to me, word for word, what he'd said to Mike Tomlin on the phone the day before.

"I told him: draft that boy, no questions asked—or I'll come out there and whoop you West Coast style."

"Haha. You do know there are still three months until the draft, right?"

"Ain't gonna change, nephew. Or—wait. Don't tell me?"

"Nope. I've got nothing against the Steelers."

"There we go—then we're good. Anyway? From today you're my nephew. My Greatest Quarterback Nephew."

And with that, Snoop held out a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey—number 14, my name stitched across the shoulders.

Surrounded, mind you, by cameras absolutely packed in from every direction.

But what could I do?

It was a gift.

I accepted it gratefully.

"God. This is absolutely bonkers."

"Haha. And that's just the beginning of the draft."

"True. But from here on out, I need to focus on the game."

"You do that. I'll handle the rest."

"Yes, sir."

Also present here today was Leigh Steinberg, the head of my agency.

He took Snoop's gift from my hands, promising to keep it safely stored, and I gave him a nod—then stopped working the crowd and jogged off toward my teammates to get loose.

Is it just my imagination?

There sure seem to be a lot of Pittsburgh uniforms in the stands.

And they're waving at me.

A mere twenty-four hours.

In the span of just a single day, so much around me had changed.

Roughly three months remained until the draft.

Wouldn't a great many more things happen between now and then?

Without a doubt, they would.