Deep South's Oldest Rivalry (2)

"ALL DAY-!! ALL DAY-!!"

"That's exactly it!!"

"What did I say!! What did I tell you!!"

"COME ON-!!"

A score on the opening drive is always a massive shot of adrenaline. The whole team's energy leapt up several notches in an instant. I slipped out past the sideline along with my teammates, still caught up in the celebration, and the head coach was there waiting for me.

"Good pass."

"Of course it was."

"You'll get another chance soon, so stay calm and be ready."

"Yes, sir."

Back at the bench, I took my seat and immediately spread the Play Book open across my lap.

Bo Nix had won SEC Freshman of the Year the season before. The honor was more symbolic than anything else. He had been the first true freshman starting quarterback in Auburn Tigers history, rewriting every record a rookie QB could rewrite.

So doesn't that make him good, you ask? If he were, they wouldn't have wanted me. I'd call him a quarterback with a ceiling.

Having given the Play Book one full pass, I set it down beside me and rose to stand at the front of the sideline, raising my voice to fire up the defense.

"Let's go, D!! Eat them alive!!"

Beeep-beep-beep—

Beeep—

"The ball moved weird on that snap."

"Exactly."

They were blowing the whistle on Auburn's very first offensive play. From where I stood, that was—

There it was. The snap had gone wrong. In football, the offensive center may position the ball however he likes for the snap — but once he's set, the ball cannot move. I could see the ball wobbling violently side to side on its way from the Auburn center to Bo Nix, and that usually means the center shifted it beforehand. Call it a drawback of the shotgun formation — the snap has to travel three or four yards, so the burden on the center is heavy.

On top of that, Auburn's O-line had been rebuilt from scratch this year. Mistakes could spring up anywhere. It was a point our coaches had hammered home repeatedly in meetings, and from what I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠understood, the defense had drawn up a beautiful design for exactly this.

Even now, I could see all four D-linemen shifting left and right before the set, constantly shaking the opposing offensive line to sow confusion. And sure enough—

Beeep—!

"Yeah-! There it is!!"

"Let's Go-!"

The D-line delivered. Auburn's right tackle jumped early. False start — another five-yard penalty.

Just like that, Auburn had backed up ten yards before even attempting a real play, and now they needed twenty yards across four tries. Football is a game where the opening stretch matters enormously, and when things tangle up like this from the very start, it's hard to get your head straight for a long while.

I moved down the sideline to Coach Glenn Schumann.

"The defensive design is gorgeous, coach."

"Ha! We worked hard on it."

Schumann was remarkably young — born in 1990, only eleven years older than me. After graduating high school, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠went to his father's alma mater, Alabama, and learned football coaching under Nick Saban. He started as a Student Assistant while still an Alabama student, then spent three more years as a Graduate Assistant after graduating. Back then, Kirby Smart was Alabama's defensive coordinator, and from that point on the two of them supposedly spent every single week building defensive game plans together. When Kirby Smart was hired by Georgia in 2016, he asked the school to let him bring this man along.

His ability is genuinely extraordinary. Every player acknowledges it.

"Auburn's drive is about to die."

To Coach Schumann's confident declaration, I answered, "Then we'd better get ready."

Sure enough, Auburn managed only eight yards on their first three tries and promptly sent out the punt team.

"Moi!"

Quickly, we got our window. Coach Monken called in the play.

"Start with West Ride Duo."

"Yes, sir."

While I was taking in the call, the punt went off. But I stayed locked in on the conversation, only heading out to the huddle once I'd heard the whole thing — and the atmosphere out there was a little off.

"What's going on?"

The field sat empty. And from across the way—

"A foul was called?"

"Looks like targeting."

"Targeting? On who?"

"Auburn's number 21."

"…"

Targeting is a serious penalty. Fifteen yards, which is massive in itself — but the offending player is also disqualified from the game. Simply put: ejection. The referee emerged from the video review, raised his mic in his left hand, and delivered the ruling.

"Was that 21 kid any good?"

"No. Not really."

"Shiiiit. That's a shame."

"Let's go. We focus on our own play."

"Right."

Nodding along with Zamir, I pulled my helmet on and stepped onto a field that had grown a bit chaotic. The problem was Auburn's, sure — but a mood like this bleeds onto us too. As the quarterback, it was my job to kill it. The best way to do that is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to show them with a play. And conveniently, the play I'd been given fit perfectly. I had room to improvise.

So I decided to run it myself.

"West Ride Duo, right swing, Z-decoy — Hawaii."

Snap!

West Ride Duo. A scheme that sends two men running from the left. It starts with me at under center, taking the handoff and stepping back after sending Zamir in motion on a Jet Sweep.

"Re—d 22!! Rea—dy!! Hut!!"

Normally, this is where I'd take the snap, drop back, and flip the screen pass to Zamir. I went through the motion — but never actually threw the ball. Right swing: the tackle moves right. Z-decoy: the Z-receiver is the bait.

I had already pictured exactly how the field would take shape, and there between the enemy D-linemen I saw the gap. So I just ran. Hawaii. My hometown. When I call Hawaii at the line, the team always has to account for my rushing.

I clutched the ball tight to my chest and charged forward.

I could say it with certainty: that play blew the chaos right off the field. The tackle hurt — but it was worth it. Pain means nothing.

"Great job, Moi. You killed it out there."

"Yeah. Let's go. Keep grinding them down."

"Our QB says so-!!"

"Let's Go-!!"

Truth be told, Auburn's punt just before hadn't been a good one — they hadn't gotten much distance on it. Our initial catch point on the fair catch was at the 42-yard line, and with the fifteen-yard penalty stacked on top, we were starting well up the field. Add this eleven-yard rush, and we needed just thirty-two yards to put points on the board. A long way, obviously — but I chose to look at it positively. My words and actions like these ripple through the whole team, after all.

From there, I kept playing without hesitation. First—

"Alpha, Jackson, Rainy Day watch. Brad Stick."

The rush picked up four yards.

"Right trip, short pants, left swing."

The Jet Sweep gained five more.

Then—

"Sneak."

"Whui— you mean the ooga-ooga thing?"

"Time to show off these muscles."

The quarterback sneak — the most reliable way to grind out one yard, sometimes half a yard — though most QBs hate it. The moment the ball is snapped, the O-linemen topple forward like a collapsing wall, and the quarterback dives over the pile protecting the ball. Every D-lineman on the field charges straight at the QB holding it, completely exposed. The injury risk climbs. But honestly? More QBs hate the sneak simply because it hurts. Even now, several 300-plus-pound defenders were burying me under their weight, and I was yelping as every part of my body screamed.

But—

We got the first down again. That's all that matters. Pain really does mean nothing.

The way a great quarterback transforms a team isn't confined to what happens on the field or the final score. It transforms the coaches too — especially the head coach and the offensive coordinator.

One of the biggest reasons coaches celebrated as tactical masters in the NCAA fail in the NFL is that they can't create pro-level schemes of their own. Of course they know all kinds of plays — but what lives in your head has to be tested on a real field. In college, a quarterback's limitations rarely give you that chance, and the pros are not a stage that waits patiently for trial and error.

In that sense, Moi must have felt like a magic Converse sneaker to Kirby Smart and Todd Monken — letting them unleash, to their hearts' content, the schemes they'd only been imagining for years.

"Halo-!!"

"Halo!!!"

The play came in from the bench, and the huddle formed instantly. Georgia's offensive tempo this year had been blistering. Speed for speed's sake isn't automatically good — but this wasn't rushing; it was the feel of men who understood the play down to the bone and executed it click, click, click.

Moi's voice rang out across the field.

"Re—d 28!! Rea—dy!! Hut!!"

Georgia's players moved with razor precision. On top of Halo, a foundational diagram, Moi's own brushstroke revealed itself.

"YES!!"

Kirby Smart, famous on the sideline for his perpetual fire, pumped both fists and slid his position downfield a few yards to shadow his team as it closed within five. Up in the coaching tower, Jacob Russell, working from his bird's-eye view, offered Todd Monken his read.

— Go with Chicken Out.

"Makes sense."

The play called Chicken Out sends a single receiver sprinting toward the sideline, and it's used only in the red zone. Football divides its offensive schemes by where on the field a drive begins — roughly four zones: defensive territory, midfield, offensive territory, and the red zone. Most NCAA teams settle on about five big schematic frames for each and adjust in-game.

But right now, Georgia was splitting the fine-grained adjustments fifty-fifty between the bench and the quarterback. Extremely rare at the college level.

"Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk."

The signal coach flapped his arms, imitating a chicken, and Moi, nodding, jogged back into the huddle. George Pickens had been getting locked up by Auburn's cornerbacks all afternoon, so if they were fine-tuning the Chicken Out concept, the Z-receiver was the right call.

The formation set, and Kirby Smart watched it take shape with satisfaction. Just as he'd expected — the Z-receiver.

"Re—d!! 17!! Turbo, set!!"

Taking the snap from under center, Moi retreated quickly, and in that beat Jermaine Burton ran his route. A short distance meant no time to waste, and Moi swung his arm without hesitation. Auburn's right cornerback, who had dropped deep inside the end zone, scrambled forward — but Jermaine Burton touched the marker with ease.

Two offensive attempts. Two scores. Auburn's plan — young but green players pouncing on the visiting team's opening-game nerves to bury them early — had backfired spectacularly, and Georgia's scheme was feasting on the cracks.

14–0.

Given Auburn's caliber, a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠truly lopsided scoreline wasn't in the cards, but there was no disputing that Georgia had climbed into an enormous position of strength. Two touchdown passes already today. Moi, beside himself, bounced up and down, shouting:

"ALL DAY!! ALL DAY!!"

I can do this all day, he was yelling. Kirby Smart turned his head and looked up toward the high seats — thinking of Moi's parents, watching from up there.

I hope they can keep coming to every one of these.

Before his family's eyes, Moi was putting on a show once again today.

A stunning first half. Even Georgia's own head coach hadn't predicted a margin this wide, and ESPN's cameras chased Bo Nix through the worst afternoon of his career. If Auburn wanted to mount any kind of chase in the second half, they'd have to gather up players whose spirit had been completely snapped and whip their fighting edge back into shape. This was why Gus Malzahn's head was pounding.

He was bewildered too. He'd had no idea the Bo Nix he trusted could play this badly — and no idea Moi could play this well. Freshman quarterbacks are supposed to be streaky, and after such a dazzling debut the pressure should have been crushing. Instead, the kid looked like he was savoring every second of the game. Meanwhile, Auburn's freshmen and transfers looked nothing like the players they'd been in week one. Too much had gone wrong, too early.

"I have never in my life watched a game this much of a mess!! You gutless cowards!! Gutless!! Keep this up and you'll be a national punchline!! We're Top 7?! You actually believe that?! We were worth jack shit out there!!"

A coach in any other sport, facing a hole this deep, would usually deliver a pep talk and manufacture a comeback narrative. Not football. You have to drive the storm even harder. To hold together players running their bodies to pieces on the field, a coach has to radiate endless energy himself. Curse them. Provoke them. And weave the cold reality in between. It was partly why he'd lasted seven years as Auburn's head coach — Gus Malzahn, for all his flaws, had earned the right to lead men.

"What in God's name is there to be afraid of!!"

"…"

"…"

"Nothing! The only thing we should fear is playing stupid football out on that field!! You don't need to fear the man across from you!! So get back out there for the second half and fix it!!"

As Gus Malzahn's tirade brought the Auburn locker room to a boil, Georgia was tightening its own grip on a momentum that could so easily have gone slack. Each coach bustled about, and Moi too stood at the center of the locker room and roared:

"Don't you dare blow the second half!! Let's do this right!!"

The biggest blowout in the history of the Deep South's Oldest Rivalry was 44–0, back in 1900. Ancient history — and yet Auburn's fans had hauled out that 1900 scoreline for a century and more to mock Georgia, and they'd done much the same after Georgia's 40–17 win in 2017.

And right now, Moi was talking about exactly that.

"We're paying back the 44–0 today!! They've been torturing us with that score for a hundred and twenty years — so today we're going to build the score they'll be tortured by for the next hundred and twenty!! You understand what I'm saying?! 31–3 is a score nobody gets to be satisfied with!!"

Georgia's players, staring up at their quarterback holding court at the center of the locker room, thundered back their approval, roaring with passion. And Kirby Smart — arms crossed, standing a little off-kilter, watching Moi — turned to Glenn Schumann beside him.

"How in the world does that kid know all this stuff?"

"I honestly have no idea, coach."

"Strange kid, isn't he."

Put another way, it meant the boy was a monster — but for now, strange was word enough.

The Deep South's Oldest Rivalry, with half still to play. Georgia had not loosened its grip one bit.