I Suppose You'll Have to Be Used for My Sake

Notre Dame was exactly what I had expected. Nothing more, nothing less.

A beautiful campus steeped in history. Strict discipline and a religious atmosphere. A conservative academic culture. And then—

A football program that was almost impossibly charming.

Back in the days before football and rugby had split into separate sports, Notre Dame was the first team to deploy the forward pass. You could say they effectively founded modern American football.

The storied history of the game. The legends who had played here before me—

Curly Lambeau. Joe Montana. Rocket Ismail.

Walking the corridors of the training facility and the stadium, past the portraits of all those great players, I found myself thinking that I'd love to play well enough to hang my own picture on that wall before I graduated.

Right up until that exact moment, anyway.

Honestly, I nearly changed my mind. Maybe I should just play here? So what if the head coach was an old-school fossil. He'd be killing the romance of it all!

Besides—the helmets were made of actual gold.

I was somewhere in the borderland between imagination and reality, dancing as a member of the Fighting Irish, when Brian Kelly appeared and dragged me back down to earth.

Spread offense. Shotgun formation. Nowhere in his philosophy was there any mention of a quarterback lining up under center, and Brian Kelly made his intentions unmistakably clear: he intended to use me as his "NCAA-ready" quarterback.

Naturally, he never said it to my face. But the conclusion was always going to be the same.

Doesn't matter how good you were in high school. Doesn't matter what style you prefer. This is my university. My team. So you'll do as I say.

By the time our thirty-minute conversation ended, whatever faint ember of affection I still held for Notre Dame had been snuffed out entirely, and I vowed I would never think about this place again.

When I told this story to Amon-Ra, he was thrilled. Notre Dame and USC (CA) are historic rivals, after all. If we ended up playing at different schools, even good feelings would eventually curdle.

Amon-Ra was the only one who knew I was slowly pushing USC (CA) away too, and lately, wherever we went, he kept telling everyone the same thing: that no matter what, we were staying friends.

Really. Good kid.

【"Our flight will be…."】

"Buckle up, son."

"Yes, sir."

At my father's words, I fastened my seatbelt, then turned my head and gazed out the window.

It had already been a month. After visiting Auburn in October, this was my second trip to Alabama. I'd only met the man once before, and yet he was waving me over like an old friend delighted to see me again.

"Moi!"

As we cleared the arrival gate, one of them waved cheerfully. A man I'd met several times now.

Jacob Hallman. Alabama's recruiter.

Through my sophomore season he'd shown up at nearly every single game, but this year I hadn't seen him once. There was nothing left to observe—he'd simply moved on to the next stage.

"Indiana, huh. Notre Dame, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wow. Seriously. In the entire history of college football, I don't think there's ever been a kid as busy jetting around as you."

Well. I was well aware of that. And it happened to be true.

Most recruits trim their list to three or four schools at most. More than half choose the university closest to where they were born or currently live, and even the ones who travel far don't visit a dozen campuses the way I do.

I'd said this before, and I'd say it again: I had a purpose. That was the reason I was doing all this.

"You said you're off until tomorrow?"

"Yep. My school's being accommodating about it."

"Nice. That's because you keep your grades up, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠isn't it?"

"I'm on track for my first 4.0."

"Wow-ow. Now that's impressive?"

Granted, it was contingent on doing well on my remaining exams—but on essays and assignments, I'd already earned perfect marks across the board. And being on an athletic team came with a few perks of its own. Whenever I flew to the mainland for recruiting, like now, my teachers would grant extensions on deadlines.

Once I became a senior, I fully intended to chase a 4.0/4.0, but my real target was an average GPA of 3.8 to 3.9. At that point, the SAT and ACT score requirements for admission would drop dramatically lower than for kids who scraped by with a flat 2.3.

Not that I planned to slack on those tests either. All things considered, I was a Columbia scholarship student, after all.

"So I hear you liked Georgia?"

"Where on earth did you hear that?"

"Well? Is it true?"

"Yep."

"Aw. Now that's just sad."

On the drive from the airport toward Alabama, Jacob Hallman pitched the school hard. Honestly, it felt unnecessary. Any American high schooler who played football dreamed of playing for Nick Saban's team. Alabama was simply that dominant these days.

"While you're here, how about signing something on your way out, huh?"

"And where would you like that? Paper? A jersey?"

"Haha. Oh, you! You are not an easy one, are you?"

"That's me."

This too was a pitch disguised as a joke—you're here anyway, so let's make it official.

Just last April, the NCAA D1 council had passed legislation that dramatically reshaped the FBS recruiting environment. Students could now sign binding agreements with schools in December, before National Signing Day—specifically, the three days immediately preceding the week-long NJCAA signing window held at the end of each month.

Which meant, of course, that I couldn't sign anything today. The fact that he tossed the offer out anyway carried a message: we're still thinking about you competing with Georgia.

Incidentally, the new rules also introduced an official visit period running from April 1st of a recruit's junior year through the last Wednesday of June, freeing universities to evaluate students far more openly. On top of that, a long-criticized loophole was closed with a new provision: hiring a player's family members or associates was now prohibited for four years.

Meaning that under the new recruiting conditions—

["Got your family hired, bro. ^^"]

—was no longer on the table.

The reason this year's materials had suddenly and completely scrubbed anything about my Aunt Mel was precisely because it had become illegal.

"We're almost there."

Just as Jacob Hallman said, the campus began to rise into view in the distance.

That searing crimson red. The same red as Kahuku's.

"Looking at it from here, it's even more welcoming."

Nick Saban extended his hand across his office desk. The greatest living head coach in NCAA D1 football.

Saturday evening. I was sitting up in bed with my laptop open.

"…."

As expected, Notre Dame and Alabama carried serious weight. And everything had flowed exactly as I'd anticipated. Some fool was bound to take the bait, and ESPN's Tommy Tuberville turned out to be the winner.

He should have shown proper respect?

Sir. That's hilarious.

For decades, the NCAA hadn't shown students a shred of respect.

I closed the browser window and clicked the paper-plane icon.

Click.

Through this anonymity-guaranteed messenger, the two of us had traded an enormous amount of conversation over the past year.

The man typing away in that browser window was Todd Archer, a football journalist.

We'd met in January of last year, in Colleyville.

Or, to put it another way—at my grandmother's house.

Yes. That's right. The reporter who wandered into Grandma's truffle grove, took a load of buckshot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over his head, and nearly crossed over to the great beyond—had been talking with me at length ever since.

The important thing was that he had no idea who I was.

On this messenger, I was Brett Boscoe. A drama character who'd been famous in my past life.

"…."

Back in my college days, there was a football player rated among the very best in the nation. Position: linebacker. But in his junior year, he suffered a concussion. The diagnosis said he should stay off the field for the time being. The school hid the diagnosis and kept sending him out anyway.

Why? Because he made them money.

That linebacker started in the Cotton Bowl that season. And there, he took a second concussion.

In the end, he never walked again. And the university paid him nothing. Nothing beyond covering his hospital bills and letting the scholarship run its course to the end. That was the entirety of it.

The player's name was Sony Clay.

In my past life, he had been my only true friend. More than a friend—a companion of the soul.

Even though they had ruined the future of a young man who would have earned tens of millions in the NFL, the university discarded him like broken equipment and washed their hands of it. The NCAA, for its part, worked the media to bury the whole affair with surgical smoothness. The team doctor took ten million dollars from the NCAA.

And a few years later, Sony was struck and killed by a drunk driver.

Josh Lewis. University of Florida, class of 2006.

A writer? Please. He probably looked into my background, found out what my grandmother did for a living, and picked the same cover story. Or maybe it really was coincidence.

After typing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out those three words, I wiped the entire conversation. Not that it mattered—the messages self-deleted thirty seconds later anyway.

I shut the laptop and stepped out onto the second-floor terrace adjoining my room.

There was a long hammock strung up here too.

Creeeak— creeeak—

The posts holding the hammock groaned uneasily, but I ignored them and settled comfortably into it.

The internet was wall-to-wall amateurism talk right now. And the NCAA found it profoundly uncomfortable—because the Supreme Court had had them in its crosshairs for years. On top of the recent scandals, statements were already coming out distancing themselves from the NCAA, while stories spread of universities committing every manner of illegal act in their desperation to recruit me.

If the allegations were false, the NCAA could have stood tall. But they weren't, so all the organization could do was deny.

Hence the discomfort. Hence the fear.

And by now, they'd surely have realized something else too: a handful of universities had already grown bigger than the NCAA itself.

In fact, the wheels were already turning. Texas. Alabama. Florida. These three states, worn down by pressure from their universities under the pretext of recruiting me, were in talks with federal courts to change the relevant regulations.

How could a university move a governor? Money, of course. The taxes paid by schools with storied football programs were what kept Texas, Alabama, and Florida running—and most other regions were no different. Florida's federal budget fell just short of $100 billion, and the state posted a surplus of roughly $4 billion last year—while the taxes paid by the universities hosting Florida's major D1 football programs alone came to around $12 billion.

Take away that tax revenue, and Florida becomes a deficit state overnight.

This was a matter of survival for the politicians. They had no choice but to fall in line.

"…."

If it were the university I'd eventually play for, fine. But I had zero desire to fatten the NCAA's belly. Then again, a mere high schooler couldn't exactly change the world on his own—so I leveraged my one and only advantage: I dripped honey, and I let the ants come swarming.

As it happened, Todd Archer was a man with a deep interest in football players receiving financial compensation. Pure luck, really. The reporter I'd stumbled into, completely by chance, turned out to be exactly the man I needed.

Even just the tidbits Todd Archer occasionally let slip on Twitter were enough to set the rusted-through, rotting machine called the NCAA squeaking back into motion.

Which proved, more than anything, that a counterforce existed. The major universities must have felt it most of all.

The era had already changed. The universities wanted NIL guarantees for their athletic recruits—and it wouldn't meaningfully cut into their own revenue either. If players could raise their own income through NIL, then universities could skip the convoluted recruiting rituals and simply handle the fundamentals: scholarships, housing, amenities.

Scholarships. Dorms. Support services.

Honestly—wouldn't this new arrangement actually be cheaper for them? No more dirty work required. And no more getting caught and having an entire season vacated, a championship stripped away, either.

Notre Dame itself had just gone through this—its 2012 and 2013 records vacated, thanks to a benefits scandal. Their president was so furious he'd said, famously:

And in response, the other universities and the NCAA stood in rigid, unanimous silence.

I found that absolutely hilarious.

Anyway. This change was coming regardless. All I'd done was nudge the clock forward a little.

Which left—

One more problem to solve.

Bzzzt— bzzzt—

"?"

The phone I'd set down on the floor began to buzz. I tilted my head sideways to look at the screen.

Damn it. What timing.

Jerry Floyd. Or rather—Josh Lewis.

When I turned my head the other way and peered down from the terrace, Josh Lewis, having spotted me sprawled in the hammock, was walking up to the front of the house.

"Moi!! Come take a walk with me!!" he called up, playing the buddy. As if we were close.

For the first time, the puzzle pieces were starting to fit. Everything that man had ever said to me, included.

If I'd truly been a teenager, his silver tongue might actually have worked on me.

Florida's one and only fatal miscalculation was this:

"I'll come down now!!"

They had no idea that I was a man on his second life—the one who had led an NFL team to the Super Bowl four times, who knew the football world down to its bones.

Of course, nobody could ever know that.

"Jerry. About that thing from before."

"Hmm? What thing?"

"Going to Florida."

"Oh?"

On a stroll around the neighborhood, I told Jerry Floyd the point at which I'd be choosing Florida.

Well, since things had turned out this way—I suppose you'll have to let yourself be used for my sake.

Getting blindsided later would just be a bonus. For now, I simply smiled and played along, pretending I knew nothing.

I did wonder how much this man was being paid for all this.

Come on, then. Let's see how far you can take it.

If Florida truly wanted to bring me in, they were going to have to work harder than anyone. Many times harder than every other school.