Finally, It Feels Like College

The rules of football are complicated in all sorts of ways.

Game time is no exception.

Except for eight specific stoppages, the game clock is always running — and because of that, countless legendary moments are born. What's more, this one trait can shape scoring, and even the outcome of the game itself, which makes one particular ability extraordinarily important.

Clock management.

The ability to control both the game clock and the play clock. It's one of the clearest measures of a quarterback's competence.

["The O-line is getting mauled out there. You hearing this, Kirby?"]

"…."

["We're better off just running out the quarter right now."]

"…."

Listening to the voice crackling in from the coaching tower, Kirby Smart looked up at the scoreboard.

"Ready-! Hut!!"

Beep—!

Midfield. Second-and-16.

The moment Moi took the snap from the shotgun and gathered the ball into his hands, he dropped to one knee.

It cost Georgia a down — but to the coaching staff, it was the right call.

Arkansas, having surrendered two touchdowns in a row early in the first quarter, had ratcheted up its defensive intensity. After that, in a stretch of dead-even football, they drilled a field goal and clawed back to within three.

And somewhere in that grind, Georgia's offense began to wobble.

Holes kept opening up along the offensive line.

Which meant the quarterback wasn't being protected.

The pocket had turned unstable. Incompletions piled up. He took a sack as well. They'd stopped the bleeding with a timeout, but the unease remained. The defense, thankfully, had held its ground and prevented any further damage — yet even on the possession earned with 1:59 left in the first quarter, Georgia's O-line looked like it hadn't collected itself at all.

Both tackles handled the edges fine.

It was the middle that simply caved in.

You could hardly credit Arkansas's blitz-heavy pass rush with a masterclass — the O-line's fraying focus was plain for anyone to see.

And that was when things changed.

That was when Moi's other show began.

Judging that lingering in the pocket was asking for trouble, he started taking off — scramble after scramble, showing an uncanny knack for squeezing out yardage any way he could. On the very next attempt, even the left tackle who'd been holding firm gave way, and Moi took his second sack of the day. That was when the coaching tower suggested letting the quarter expire.

Two minutes between quarters. That's what you'd be banking.

But Kirby Smart hesitated.

And while he hesitated, Moi made the decision himself.

He traded away a possession to buy the team a reset. For a freshman quarterback, it was a shockingly cold-blooded read of the situation.

Moi strode off toward the sideline, passing right by Kirby Smart.

"The O-line's falling apart. The guards are getting blown clean open."

"…I see that."

His team's quarterback, visibly frustrated, headed for the bench and sat down. Todd Monken sidled up beside him to offer a few words of comfort — and then running back James Cook stepped in front of them both.

Moi kept talking.

"The guards aren't finishing their blocks on the tackles. Both of them got flagged for offside earlier, and now they're pressing about it. Tell them to play bigger. Yeah, penalties happen — you can live with those. Not finishing blocks is the real problem."

When the plays themselves aren't the issue, a quarterback's complaint quickly becomes the team's complaint. That's exactly how the players feel it too. Moi's gripe jolted everyone awake, and a chorus of voices rose from the O-line itself.

But you can't just stand by and watch.

Kirby Smart went straight to Matt Luke — assistant head coach and offensive line coach — and told him to fix it, now. Matt Luke nodded, planted himself in front of the players, and let loose.

"The middle's collapsing, and you're gonna just stand there?!!"

"…."

"…."

The line of scrimmage is the hardest place to fix mid-game, because raw individual skill carries so much of the load. So you either fire the players up — or chew them out — or you go looking for a turnaround through substitutions.

Justin Shaffer's face fell even further under the scolding. So Matt Luke turned to Kirby Smart and proposed the switch.

"Let's go with Clay."

"Make sure the kid does the job properly."

"Of course. We'll correct it right now."

"Damn right you will!"

Football's one unique mercy is that the line gets to surge forward at the snap — but if the O-line can't hold, no quarterback can buy the time he needs. Even the most brilliant passer, denied a pocket, delivers half of nothing. It was a serious enough problem that Georgia's coaches scrambled into motion.

And separately from all that, Kirby Smart wanted to praise Moi.

His decision at the end of the first quarter had been genuinely good.

"Moi!"

"Yes, sir."

"Letting that clock run down — that was an excellent call."

"Yes, sir."

Arkansas's defense was surging with momentum. Georgia, meanwhile, was deflated. Given how the flow of the game sat, pushing for yards might have cost more than it gained. Better to sacrifice one precious down and take the time to regroup.

And if they burned the third attempt too? Then you just punt it away.

Unlike the wobbling O-line, the defense was doing its job. Kirby Smart was confident they'd take the ball right back.

But that didn't mean he'd hand the possession over easily.

"Sixteen yards. We're going pass — you got the confidence?"

"Yes, sir. One hundred percent."

"Good. Slot Alpha, A-Town, Ziggle Pop."

"Yes, sir."

Play confirmed, Moi jammed his helmet on and sprinted back onto the field. As Kirby Smart watched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him line the huddle up, the voice in his earpiece spoke again.

["What did you just call in?"]

"…Slot Alpha."

["Whoa-ho. That's a hell of a gamble, isn't it?"]

"I know. But…."

If this had been last year, he never would have made that choice. Even if it meant coming up short on the first down, he'd have put the ball in his running back's hands — try, at least, to pick up whatever yards were there, then punt it back to the opponent. That was Kirby Smart's way.

It was also everyone's way — the most conventional approach in the book.

Kirby Smart drifted into thought for a moment. He'd forgotten he was mid-conversation.

["Kirby?"]

"Hm? Ah — right."

["What on earth are you thinking about over there?"]

"Shut up. Just watch."

Kirby Smart cut the wireless feed, lifted his head, and looked out at the field. Rolled up in his hand was the play book.

Alright then, kid. Show me.

Jacob Russell had said it just moments ago: this call was a gamble. And yet, somehow, Kirby Smart couldn't picture it failing. If anything, success felt like the closer outcome.

The reshuffled O-line set its stance at the line of scrimmage, and Moi settled naturally in behind Trey Hill. Most quarterbacks, with the pocket collapsing around them all game long, would hate to line up under center — but the freshman commanded the line of scrimmage like fear was a concept he'd simply never heard of.

At the sight of it, Kirby Smart felt a faint chill run through him.

Just how brave did a man have to be?

Then came the voice, ringing out across the field.

"8!! 45!! 8! 45!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

On Moi's play call, the giants on the field began colliding all over again.

Converting a third attempt and getting a fresh set of downs — there are few feelings better. Why? Because it's effectively your last chance.

You see, football gives a drive four attempts, and each one carries a loosely defined meaning.

First, the opening tries — first and second down — are the freest and the boldest. You can play it safe and grind out yards on the ground, or take a shot with a short pass. You only need ten yards across all four attempts, so whether you gain them all at once or in little bites, the only real objective is moving forward.

And third down is, in practice, your last chance. To explain why, you have to start with fourth down.

Fail on fourth down, and the ball changes hands right there. To minimize that risk, football has the punt: instead of the quarterback, a specialist kicker comes on and boots the ball deep into enemy territory. Do that, and even though you're surrendering possession, the risk of giving up points shrinks. Unless the ball is inside the defense's 30-yard line, the offense punts on fourth down.

About nine times out of ten.

Which is exactly why third down is the de facto last chance — on fourth, the special teams are coming on.

Anyway — that's why football keeps a stat measuring whether you secured every yard you needed on third down for a fresh set of downs: the third down conversion.

And we had just done it.

Needing sixteen yards, no less. The whole sideline's spirit surged.

I did my part to fan the flames.

"Some guys get it DONE!!"

"Get out of here! You're a freshman!"

"I'm the quarterback — I get to say whatever I want??"

"FUCK! The privilege on this kid!"

"Damn right. If you don't like it, go be a quarterback yourself. Now listen up."

The mood shifted with that one play. The whole team's face brightened. Swapping in a new left guard had snapped the entire O-line back to attention, and with the pocket protected, I could swing my throwing window wherever I pleased.

@@@

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And then, again — I could feel it. The game riding on our rhythm.

"Black 22!! Turbo, set!!"

@@@

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The game's final moments came on defense, so I was standing on the sideline when the win was sealed. People had been coming up to congratulate me for a while when the CBS reporter approached.

"We'll be doing your interview shortly."

"Okay."

"Don't head straight out — come find me over there. You see the spot?"

"Yep. Will do."

I wanted to go celebrate with my teammates right away, so I gave her a half-hearted nod and moved immediately.

A season-opening victory. On a Saturday afternoon, we had fought beautifully and come away with exactly what we wanted.

"Nice job! Nice job!"

I went around to every teammate I could see and told them so. Along the way I ran into players from the other side, too — they told me I'd left a deep impression on them. Arkansas cornerback Montaric Brown, who'd matched up with George Pickens one-on-one all game, offered his roundabout version of lavish praise: don't ever throw it like that against me again.

"Have a great season."

"You too."

In football, you usually only face a given team once a season. That's why goodbyes go like this — if both of us stay with our teams, the next time we meet will be next year.

I kept walking the field, shaking hands. Arkansas head coach Sam Pittman was one of them. He gave me a thumbs-up.

"You're a marvel. You're playing in a completely different world out there."

"Thank you, Coach."

"Keep it up. Three years from now, you'll be on an NFL roster."

"I certainly hope so."

"Ha! Then we agree."

@@@

When I got back ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the locker room after the interview, everyone was waiting for me.

"WHOOOOAAA-!!!"

"LET'S GO-!!!!"

Water came flying at me from every direction, bottle after bottle, and I leapt in place and savored the win. We'd earned the right to celebrate. And here's the strange part —

"Mo—i! Mo—i! Mo—i!"

"Mo—i! Mo—i! Mo—i!"

I never taught them a thing, but my teammates were doing exactly what my friends in Hawaii do. The savages had returned. In truth, our Georgia is UGA — it's the mascot's name too. So when they howl "Uga, Uga," it's really the same thing: chanting the team's identity.

As the roar of joy finally began to settle, Coach walked over holding a football.

There it is. Today's game ball.

Quiet fell over the room, natural as breathing. Everyone was looking at Coach.

"Tonight, we fought a good fight!"

"…."

"…."

"We handled Arkansas with force and with grit — and we proved we deserved to win! Rest up today and tomorrow! We start preparing for the next one Monday. And… today's Bulldog of the game. Moi."

Coach smiled and tossed the football my way. The instant I caught it —

"WHAAAAA-!!!"

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

"COME ON!!!"

"Mo—i! Mo—i! Mo—i!"

My teammates swarmed around me again, howling at the top of their lungs. And then, from somewhere far across the room, somebody cranked up a song. The moment Kendrick Lamar's voice filled the room, the guys started nodding along, dancing — and I set the game ball in its place of honor and went roaming the locker room once more.

"Good game, Dawg— good game."

You're getting this cocky over beating a bottom-tier team? Give me a break. Maybe that flew in high school, but from college on, there's no such thing as an easy game. We're the ones who made it look easy. And like I said — in football, a single game is a whole season in miniature.

Today and tomorrow, the days off, are the off season. Monday through Friday is the prep. Which means we've more than earned the right to enjoy this.

"Good game, Dawg."

"Yeah. You too."

"Your blocking was insane today. You kept me safe out there all night."

"That's the job, isn't it?"

"Keep it coming, alright?"

"You know it."

It was, genuinely, a perfect day. For this one moment, you could almost forget the COVID era existed. Of course, the second I showered and stepped outside, I'd be getting tested again — back to the life of masks and protocols. But honestly, by now I'd grown somewhat used to the suffocation of it.

"I'm heading out."

"See you tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow? We have practice?!"

"Ah — Monday!!"

"Right!"

On the walk back to the dorm after parting with the guys, I made plans. The O-line was coming over later. No energy left to cook tonight, so I'd order some pizza and we'd all just game and unwind. Anyone with obligations wouldn't show. Seven pizzas, maybe? One each — that should about cover it?

Ring—

"Hm?"

I was strolling back to my room scrolling through Instagram when a DM arrived from an unfamiliar name.

How do you even pronounce this?

"Katerina… Rom? Ah — Rozmajzl?"

No offense meant, but that's a genuinely difficult name.

Another DM was already coming in.

Ring—

Curious who this even was, I looked her up on Google.

Miss Georgia 2019.

And her related search term? Sister.

The little sister Katerina had mentioned in her DMs was Alexi Rozmajzl. Born in 2001 — same year as me.

And her photos…

"Oh?"

Victory.

And now — a girl.

"…Unbelievable."

Finally, it's starting to feel a little like college.