Deep South's Oldest Rivalry (3)

Auburn's defense had gotten noticeably better. The D-line's focus. The jamming at the line against our receivers. Everything else was night and day compared to the first half, and for the first time all day, they actually felt like a top-seven team in the country.

Thanks to that, the entire third quarter had amounted to a single field goal across two drives.

Of course, credit also went to Bo Nix wandering around out there like a lost tourist.

We had finished the third quarter without giving up a point.

But.

"You can do it, Coach."

"…"

I wanted more than just a win.

"Sure, their defense has gotten better — but they're still crashing straight up the field, every single play. I want to use a screen pass. Same play call, but this time Z or Q goes in jet sweep motion. A few reps of that and their linebackers will start flowing sideways, and that's when I run through the gap they leave behind."

Frankly, you could say the game was already decided.

Nothing in football is ever absolute, but a 31-point deficit over fifteen minutes is, by any sane measure, a mountain to climb.

Besides, look at the opposite sideline right now — Gus Malzahn was warming up his backup quarterback.

Auburn, in effect, had accepted the result.

What they'd fight to prevent now was a humiliation.

"Two touchdowns is all I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need."

The reason I was pushing this hard was simple: Coach had been about to pull me.

But I didn't want that. I felt a little guilty about stealing Stetson's opportunity, but reaching 48 points without conceding a single score mattered enormously to us.

Because it was still early in the season.

Right now, we needed a little fun.

"…Think you can pull it off in two drives?"

"I'll give it everything I've got."

"Good. But this is the last time."

"Yes Sir, Thank you, Sir."

Permission granted, I sprinted straight for the offensive huddle. Coach had already called Monken over.

"Screen pass, huh?"

"Yeah. When I give you the jet sweep sign, just slide out wide and hold there. We're punishing them for their linebackers crashing inside every play. On Left Trip we'll put two wide receivers to the left — they'll be the ones protecting you."

"Damn—! You came up with this?"

"Just... adapted it a little."

A screen pass is, put simply, a pass thrown laterally — or a short one behind the line. More precisely, it's a pass delivered to a receiver shielded by the screen of blockers. Back in my past life, when I won my first Super Bowl, I'd used it to devastating effect.

"MO-I!!"

"Coming. Anyway — you got all that? Keep it in your head."

After leaving word with Zamir, I ran back to Coach Monken.

"Heard the pitch. Screen pass?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Laura? Rose? Which one?"

Laura meant left. Rose meant right.

"Laura. I want Darnell lined up in the slot."

The single most important element of this screen concept was the receivers' blocking. If we stationed Demetris Robertson and Darnell Washington on the left to take on Auburn's backside defenders, we could carve out a runway for Zamir to sprint through.

Once I'd finished syncing with Coach Monken, I hurried back onto the field.

We'd ended the third quarter at our own 32-yard line — second down, six yards to go.

"Left Trip, Z Double Shield, Hard-Boiled Egg."

Clap!

Everything was ready. The deception was baked in. The routes were drawn up.

If X-receiver George Pickens, lined up on the right, ran a slant, then thanks to the way our O-line designed their splits, Auburn would have to account for the space behind their own D-line. And the moment I delivered the ball to Zamir on the screen, the linebackers — KJ Britt included — would take a few extra steps away from the middle.

There was no guarantee it would actually unfold that way.

But you try everything. That's the whole point.

"Re-d!! 60!! Re-dy!! Hut!!"

Taking the snap from the shotgun, I immediately fired the ball to my left.

Zamir, aligned nearly parallel with me, secured it with both hands and took off upfield.

I could see Auburn's defense falling apart in confusion. The linebackers were scrambling side to side. Auburn's right cornerback and right linebacker converged on the running Zamir — but Demetris and Darnell were erasing them, block after block, textbook and merciless.

Now there was a runway stretched out in front of Zamir.

I just watched the man fly.

And a few seconds later, I raised both arms to the sky.

"Told you I could do it."

"Heh."

I flashed a wink at the coach, who could only laugh in disbelief, hung my helmet on its hook, and settled onto the bench with a spring in my chest.

For now, 40–3. Once the kick went through, it would be 41–3.

Auburn's offense, now led by the backup quarterback, actually looked a touch livelier than it had under Bo Nix. They picked up two first downs — one of them a third-down conversion.

But that was all they had.

Monty Rice, our middle linebacker, swatted down a pass over the middle, and Jermaine Johnson pounced on the ball as it skittered across the turf. The officials waded into the mountain of bodies and confirmed possession, and the referee's arm swung toward the Auburn sideline.

"THAT'S IT!!!"

"COME ON!!"

Time remaining: 9 ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠minutes 48 seconds.

If we scored on this drive, we'd reach the 45-point margin we wanted.

Just as I was stepping onto the field, Coach's hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"Listen up, kid."

"…"

"I've been around football for almost thirty years now, and I have never — never — seen anyone like you. When you said 'two touchdowns' earlier, I swear you sounded out of your mind. You talked about scoring touchdowns like you were talking about grabbing the morning paper off the front porch. But somehow, you go out there and you do it. So. Go make your parents sitting over there proud. You hear me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Now go."

I genuinely love Coach Kirby.

His passion for the game. His philosophy. The balance he strikes between hard discipline and genuine care. And no one wants to win more than he does. Even the way I'd seen him as a father and a husband, the first time I visited his home after enrolling at Georgia, earned my respect.

Which is why I wanted to dedicate today's victory to my parents — and to him.

Coach had played his college days right here at Georgia, back when he was the best defensive ballhawk in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠entire SEC. His NFL career never materialized. But that was no reason to respect him any less.

Walking up to the freshly formed Huddle, I said this before calling the play: let's give Coach the win.

"Coach's ass is gonna get kissed absolutely raw, huh?"

"Obviously. My mind's made up anyway."

"Man, being a quarterback really is a whole different level of office politics."

"Jealous? Go earn the job then. Now listen up."

There wasn't a single player on this team who didn't like Coach. Sure, we butted heads now and then — opinions collided, voices got raised. But in the end, everyone came around and accepted it. Because in most of those arguments, Coach was simply right. And when a day or two passed and we were the ones who came forward to apologize, Coach would say, "It's because of you boys that I get to look at this game from every angle," and thank us first.

Generally speaking, when a football coach starts screaming at a player, that player ends up feeling cast out. But there was none of that in Coach's voice. He never once trampled on our feelings. He simply treated us as football players — nothing more, nothing less.

And somehow, that made us carry ourselves better. Conduct ourselves like proper Georgia Bulldogs. Never embarrass the team or the school.

Above all —

"Roko Moko!! Roko Moko!! Turbo, set!!"

— never let that man be disappointed in us.

The reason we could hold our edge at the highest mental pitch, all the way through the end of a full week of preparation, came down to that trust in Coach.

Watching the line of scrimmage churn and tangle, I — who'd been bouncing lightly on my toes on the field —

— started sprinting toward the line where bodies were colliding and grinding.

The setup was there, but this hadn't been the plan. On a drive that had started at our own 41, I'd burned my previous two tries on screen passes, punched out eight yards, and lined up the same concept again. But at the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠final instant, I barked the code word for my scramble and changed everything — an Audible.

My reasoning was the positioning of the defensive backs. The moment KJ Britt trailed James Cook out on the jet sweep, I knew Auburn was switching to man coverage. And running the geometry of the pocket that Auburn's defense and our O-line would form in my head, I calculated that if I took off toward the No. 2 spot, I'd find an absolutely gaping lane.

And then —

The moment I broke into a dead sprint across that field, electricity coursed through my entire body.

Because the play from my past life — stretch the defense horizontally with screens until their backs start drifting, then attack the hollowed-out middle — had worked exactly the way it was drawn on the chalkboard.

Crossing into the end zone, I threw my head back and roared, then pointed a finger at one section of the stands.

That was where Alexi was sitting.

NCAA regulations were far stricter than most people imagined.

Excessive celebration was expressly forbidden. Which is why, when I pointed up at Alexi earlier, I hadn't been able to gift her the ball in my hands. A college football player giving a game ball to a fan? That's an immediate disciplinary offense. A one-game suspension.

So now that the game was over, I was jogging toward the end zone to hand over the ball I'd so carefully kept.

"This one's yours."

Held against Alexi's chest, the football suddenly looked enormous. Honestly, it was kind of adorable.

Alexi, blushing and glowing at the same time, seemed to have trouble getting any words out — but we couldn't linger anyway, so I mimed a phone call as I backed away, promising to call later.

Then I bolted straight for my parents.

Just beyond the sideline sat a family-only section. I traded hugs with Mom and Dad, one after the other.

"Who's that girl? She's cute."

"Alexi Rozmajzl. We've been talking lately."

"Girlfriend?"

"No. Not sure yet."

"Moi?"

"Yes, Dad."

"You know that right now, football matters more than girls. Right?"

Of course. Alexi was pretty and adorable, and yes, I wanted things to work out with her — but NFL players can meet all the women they'd ever want. If a relationship ever got in the way of my focus on football, I'd choose the breakup without a second's hesitation, and find a girl who'd never put me in that position.

Still, my dad's way of putting it was gentle.

Certainly compared to Amon-Ra's father. What was it he'd said again?

"Women will always ruin a male athlete's future."

He'd said that. To her face, no less.

Amon-Ra's girlfriend burst into tears on the spot.

"We'll head inside now."

"Yes. I'll shower up and come find you."

Turning away from my parents, I ran for the locker room, waving both arms at the roaring fans.

Even at less than a third of a normal crowd, Georgia's faithful had been absolutely tremendous. People who had more than earned a victory like today's in return.

"WOOO-!! LET'S GO-!!"

I shouted as I entered the corridor, slapping high-fives with everyone I passed.

And a little later, after Coach handed me the football used at the final whistle, I hoisted it high overhead and bellowed:

"We're up 45 now, and we're gonna say it out loud!!!"

"45!!!"

New pages had been written into the history of the Deep South's Oldest Rivalry. From now on, whenever anyone talked about the most lopsided game this rivalry had ever produced, they would speak of today.

"45!!"

"45!!"

"45!!"