I Just Wanted to Play Football
“That's not it, God Damn It!! How the hell does a maggot-brained idiot like you even manage to screw something like that up?!!”
“….”
It had been one week since voluntary training began. Working out at Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall at dawn, then coming here afterward—I'd grown completely used to the routine. And in that time, I'd learned something about Todd Monken, the team's Offensive Coordinator and Quarterbacks Coach.
This man.
“Do that garbage one more time and I'll make you suck a bull's balls for the rest of your life!! You gut-spilled bastard. Get back right now!!”
He had a filthy mouth.
No—filthy didn't even begin to cover it. If someone compiled every curse word in existence into a single book, this man would be working his way through ninety percent of it. Over my week in the House of Payne, I had learned that eloquence—the ability to paint with rich, varied language—applies just as fully to profanity.
Wow.
So this is what I learned first in college.
Kind of fun, actually.
“Carson! You pull that gut-spilled crap and I'll kick your ass into next week!”
“Why does he always have to put it like that?”
“You get used to it, Carson. You get used to it.”
“Tsk.”
But setting aside the potty mouth, he was genuinely a good man. He only got like that during practice—outside, he treated us with respect.
“Not bad out there! Next!”
And one more thing: Coach Monken was a man who created atmosphere. Part of it was his sheer intensity of speech, but the moment his voice started echoing across the practice field, a disorganized mood would transform in an instant, and heat would bloom from every corner.
He was a hell of a coach.
Made me jealous, honestly. In my past life, I only managed to lift my offense and bring a Lombardi Trophy to the Jets after bringing in an offensive coordinator with a similar temperament. A capable offensive coordinator replaces an old spear with a crossbow. For a football head coach, personnel judgment is everything—who you put on your staff is your ability, plain and simple.
When practice wrapped up for the day, I came to Coach Monken's office. He was standing at the entrance wearing a mask. I was fiddling with the computer.
“I still can't get the hang of that damn Zoom.”
“Haha. It's still a little unfamiliar to me too.”
A six-foot distancing mandate had been handed down across the entire country. Field training was allowed, but meetings were not. So once preseason truly began, we'd have to hold meetings over this thing called Zoom—and Coach Monken simply could not adapt to the newfangled contraption. Just yesterday, he'd been poking around the computer and managed to delete the program entirely.
“That's why I told you to ask the IT department for help.”
“No. I'd rather die than do something that embarrassing.”
“I wouldn't mind.”
“You? I could kill you for talking like that.”
“At least give me time to pick what goes on my tombstone.”
“Does that mouth of yours ever shut?”
“Takes one to know one, Coach.”
“Ha-!”
The other quarterbacks hated Coach Monken's rough edges, but I'd never been bothered by them. This much was nothing.
“Alright, take a look at this for me.”
“….”
Coach Monken, who spewed profanity without mercy on the field, had turned into a docile, obedient student. I found that entertaining too.
“Give it a shot sometime.”
“Yes, Sir. I'll head out.”
“…Moi!”
“?”
“…Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The mask probably hid it, but I beamed anyway.
Afterward, I walked the corridor a bit and noticed the head coach's office door standing open.
Knock knock.
“?”
“May I come in for a moment?”
COVID-19 was hurting Coach Kirby just as much as anyone. The start of training still hadn't been set, and there was no word on scholarships either. But the same went for every other team in the country. Everyone was trembling with anxiety.
“Yesterday, I took some notes while going through the Play Book….”
“Notes?”
“I'd like you to take a look.”
“….”
I carefully placed my notebook on the coach's desk, gave a respectful nod, and turned to leave. But—
“Care for a cup of tea?”
Coach Kirby stopped me.
“Uh… is that even allowed?”
“Of course.”
He poured warm water into a paper cup, dropped in a tea bag, set it on the coffee table by the couch, and told me to sit. I did as I was told, and he took his own seat.
What even is this.
Can't even hold a normal conversation. Well—adapt and carry on, I suppose.
“How's life at Georgia treating you? Of course, thanks to that damned COVID, it can't be what you imagined.”
“Haha. Definitely not.”
“Disappointed?”
“Mm—well.”
June through August would have been nothing but training anyway. Though I suppose I'd have gotten a taste of college life. I'd probably have been invited to a few parties. Might have even checked out the caliber of Georgia girls. Maybe done something… good.
You know. Sleeping-with-women type of good.
Even now, somewhere on or around campus, parties and gatherings that violated public health rules were no doubt happening—but I absolutely could not get mixed up in any of it. I'd have my scholarship revoked and get kicked out of school. That's exactly how serious a COVID violation is.
“You know, back in high school there was a girl named Stephanie.”
“?”
When I mentioned that Stephanie—the one who'd locked fifteen-year-old me in a storage shed—had launched a full-on siege, Coach Kirby's eyes shifted slightly. It looked like the gaze of a man asking whether I'd succumbed to temptation.
So I told him no.
“The most important thing to me is football.”
“…I see.”
“Yes sir. And honestly, I like playing it safe. Do you know how many of the Hawaii kids do drugs? Even Snoop Dogg would vouch for that, if nothing else. But I've never touched the stuff. I don't want to disappoint my family.”
Again, the mask hid it—but Coach Kirby was definitely smiling.
“Is that so. Good to hear.”
“Yes Sir. You will look at that notebook, right?”
“Of course. I'll show the other coaches too.”
“Coach Monken's definitely going to call me an arrogant little bastard, so make sure you tell me when he does. I'm not arrogant—I'm smart.”
“Haha. I'll pass that along too.”
Standing up and looking back at the coach's desk, I could see the traces of his anguish and effort laid bare. These were memories I'd only read about in books from my past life, but they came surging back vividly all the same.
A football head coach has to review whether the schemes his offensive coordinator creates match the individual traits of the players as assessed by the receivers coaches—and whether it all aligns with the direction he himself wants to take. It doesn't stop there. There's something called Line Design, where the offensive line coaches weigh in too. The basic shape of the pocket is determined by each individual player's strengths and weaknesses, and every one of those factors gets folded in before the Play Book is finalized.
I put it as simply as I could, but in reality it's several times more complicated. And then there's the defense to consider on top of it.
Anyway. Once months of agonizing produce a finished Play Book, the next stage is already waiting: analyze the opponent, set matching offensive and defensive tactics, spend a week practicing them, then throw it all away when the game ends and start over from scratch. The castle you built to win this week gets demolished after the game, and you lay a new foundation all over again.
No wonder people say of the football season:
“A place where a small season unfolds every single week.”
But that's precisely why it's fun. Memorize dozens of schemes. Wipe them completely clean. Load in dozens of new ones. Get addicted to that cycle, and every other sport starts feeling dull.
June through August is the period that prepares you to run this machine smoothly once the season arrives—and this year, thanks to COVID, it was going to be anything but easy.
The Play Book would be stripped to the bone. Five offensive plays, maybe? At that point we'd have to keep running the ball forever.
I really, really hated that.
But you know what? Who am I?
The proud son and grandson of the Stone family, that's who.
To fill an absurdly insufficient well of time and opportunity, I was going to do what other quarterbacks couldn't. That notebook I'd just handed the coach was part of it. You're supposed to leverage your advantages—that's what they're for. Failing to do so would make you an idiot.
And there was more. I was making other efforts too.
Knock knock.
“Hey. Come eat?”
“Did you make it again?”
“Why? You don't want it?”
“No, I do. I feel bad, freeloading off you every single time.”
“You're my bodyguard. I've gotta take care of my own.”
“You're killing me. See you later, then.”
How do you become a good team on the field? Simple—you just have to become a team.
Toward that end, I was running my own kind of personnel management: becoming the quarterback my teammates genuinely liked.
Between the reality the pandemic forced on us and the goal I was chasing, a gap had opened. I was doing my absolute best to close it.
I refused to lose to some damn disease.
But.
.
.
“Everybody stop!!”
“?”
“We have a positive case!! Everyone back to the dorms, right now!!”
The world wasn't about to make things easy. A sudden positive case. Even voluntary training was shut down.
Damn it.
First, from July 13, student-athletes may be required to attend up to eight hours per week of strength and conditioning, and film review with their school's coaches over a ten-day period.
Second, from July 24 through August 6, players may participate in up to twenty hours of training per week, with a maximum of four hours per day. This period consists of up to eight hours of strength and conditioning, six hours of walk-throughs including football usage, and six hours of film meetings for team and individual position review.
Third, the following month operates under standard preseason rules, with at least two mandatory days off per week.
#. June 11, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607
“Be honest with me.”
“About what?”
“How are you planning to tell us apart?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“No, seriously. Z and G. How do I tell you two apart?”
“Fuck. Is your life really that boring?”
“Yeah.”
Zamir nodded without a shred of hesitation. What a bizarre thing to be curious about.
Currently, I called Zamir "Z" and George "G."
“When you're breaking the huddle, won't it get confusing?”
“You do realize you two play different positions, right?”
“Still, we could mix up the play calls.”
“Just how much of an idiot do you want me to think you are?”
“No, seriously!”
For a friend so bored he'd shaken off his restlessness and short-circuited entirely, I recited a few of the wide receiver play calls.
“X-Fly, Jimmy Chip, Left Swing.”
“…No idea.”
“Wiggles-Bomb, Short Pants, Fishing Trip.”
“…Don't know that one either.”
“Fuck! Then what exactly is it you're afraid of confusing?”
“Dunno. It's just… ah—! I'm bored to DEATH.”
Yesterday, the NCAA announced its season plan nearly two months later than usual. After weeks when nobody knew whether the season would even start, it was news that felt like a message of hope—we might actually get to play football this fall and winter.
But unfortunately, this guy couldn't be happy about it.
Why?
Because he'd caught COVID.
Apparently a brief outing three days ago was the problem. He was already the team's third confirmed case. Normally, everything would halt immediately, the facilities would be disinfected, and they'd watch for additional cases for three or four days—but such procedures were being brushed aside.
Not that I'm bragging.
“How are your symptoms?”
“The day before yesterday and yesterday, I thought I was dying.”
“You seriously can't taste anything?”
“Nope.”
Zamir took a spoonful of ice cream, shook his head, and called it flavorless.
“Damn it. At this rate it's hopeless.”
“Study your Play Book, then.”
“Shit. I really do hate studying.”
“How did you even get into Georgia?”
“With my dazzling football skills?”
Before Zamir's nonsense could run any longer, I decided it was time to end the Zoom call.
He told me he was bored. I told him to go watch porn and go to sleep.
“Oh! Great idea! Lately I've been into—”
“You maniac.”
Click.
I killed the video chat quickly and went online.
These days I checked daily for any fresh news. The NCAA had announced the season's normalization—but that was, quite literally, just an announcement of a plan. They'd scattered seeds across the COVID-ravaged football world, but making them sprout was still the job of each individual conference. Things might finally start moving once official training began on July 13. The problem was that far too much time remained until then.
“Whew—”
I stood at the window and looked down. It was barely five in the afternoon, yet it felt like five in the morning. East Campus Village, where the four dormitories gathered, should have been bustling with people around the clock. But with the summer semester canceled too, it looked like the apocalypse had come and gone.
We ARE going to play football… right?
Right?
Choking down the urge to scream from the frustration, I shut the window. There was exactly one thing I could do right now.
Shut Up and Football.
Endure. Grind. That was all.
#. July 6, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607
A lot had happened over the past three weeks.
First, around June 27, the football players who had been absent from campus all this time started arriving, aiming to be ready for the official reporting date on July 13. They were currently in a two-week quarantine in their respective dorms; if they tested negative on the twelfth, they could join training on the thirteenth.
Otherwise, things were more of the same. Training. Positive cases. Recovered players. Training.
COVID, which had terrified me at first, had somewhere along the way started to feel like a slowly circulating flu. Thankfully, I hadn't caught it. My hand-washing technique had improved, I suppose?
But the real crisis erupted outside campus. With the Patriot League of the FCS abandoning the season outright, the entire college football world was in an uproar. The dread that the football season might be canceled—that was what ruled over everyone now.
And the bigger problem was that it wasn't just the season on the line. The scholarships themselves had fallen into question. As of yet, neither the NCAA nor the conferences had announced what would happen to scholarship athletes if the season was canceled. All the news trickling in was negative.
The politicians said the season had to be canceled. The public felt the opposite—times were already hard enough with COVID; what would people do without football too? The season was a necessity, they insisted. Some called that irresponsible. Others rallied behind it with fervent support.
And then—
#WeWantToPlayFB
I had just uploaded it to Twitter.
#. July 13, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall
Despite the world still buzzing around the clock, the official reporting day had arrived. The evening before, Coach Kirby had sent a message telling everyone to be at the Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall weight room by 8 a.m. I got ready on schedule, left the dorm, and arrived ten minutes early.
But—
Why is it SO quiet in here?
Forget people. There wasn't an ant in sight. I knew this was the COVID era, but it had never been this quiet before.
What's going on? The date was definitely the thirteenth, and it was definitely 7:48 in the morning. Walking down the corridor, I glanced over my shoulder again and again—but no matter where I looked, there wasn't a trace of another human being.
Slowly.
Was this getting… scary?
Seriously, what is this?
Telling myself I'd find the guys in the locker room, I picked up the pace. And when I opened the locker room door and stepped inside—
“Huh?”
Clap clap clap clap clap—
Clap clap clap clap clap—
I found them. All of them, gathered in one place.
People were applauding. And so, dazed, I joined in.
Clap clap clap—
Then everyone started laughing. Coach Kirby came over to my bewildered self, stood beside me, and turned to face the crowd. Then he said:
“WE WANT TO PLAY FOOTBALL!!”
“YEAH-!!!”
“LET'S GO-!!”
Two things I hadn't known. One: last night, the SEC had locked in the season schedule. The real schedule. Two: everyone except me had known in advance.
“Man—Coach said not to tell you.”
“You knew? You too?”
“Yeah. You should've seen how happy I was yesterday.”
So Coach Kirby had done it on purpose. He'd circulated the message to everyone but me. What he'd sent me wasn't the team announcement at all—the real one was what the guys had received.
“For a freshman.”
“?”
“You cocky little brat. Well done.”
“…Haha. Thank you, sir.”
Coach Monken came over and clapped me on the shoulder. There was only one thing I could say right now—a sentence made of 100 percent pure sincerity. So I said it out loud.
“I just wanted to play football.”