Might As Well Enjoy It All
#. October 4, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. Kirby Smart's House
It was Sunday, and Coach Smart had invited me and my parents over. Right on time, the three of us stood at the front entrance of a handsome suburban home.
Ding-dong.
"Come on in!"
Mrs. Mary Beth Smart, the coach's wife, greeted us warmly, and I handed over the gifts my parents had brought.
Premium Kona coffee for the lady of the house, who loved her coffee, and Mauna Loa macadamia nuts for the coach, who had a thing for nuts.
We'd also brought hand sanitizer that our family's B&B had been selling for years — a far cry from the standard medicinal stuff you saw everywhere these days. It sat closer to a cosmetic, but without sacrificing the function.
Mrs. Smart seemed delighted with all of it.
What a relief.
The coach and his wife first met back in 2005. At the time, he was job hunting, while she — a star of the Lady Bulldogs' basketball team who'd graduated in 2003 — was working in the athletic association's office.
When he went there to interview for the Georgia football team's linebacker coach position, he fell for her at first sight. She liked his personality too, and after about a year of dating, they married.
That love story became a topic of fascination for the locals once he became Georgia's head coach, and since the two were famously affectionate with each other, they enjoyed a glowing reputation on every front.
And then—
"Moi!!"
"Hey!"
—there were also the three kids between them.
Twins Weston and Julia.
And the youngest, Andrew.
Ever since I enrolled, I'd been having dinner at the coach's house roughly once a week, so I'd grown quite close to the kids.
Andrew came sprinting over, and we shook hands — the special handshake we'd made up together.
"You keeping up with your homework?"
"Of course!"
"Listening to your mom?"
"Um... I did get scolded yesterday."
"Scolded? For what?"
"He was playing Nintendo until way too late."
"Julia!!"
Julia stuck her tongue out and disappeared into the kitchen, and I greeted Weston warmly as well.
"You killed it yesterday, bro."
"Thanks."
"You know how much Dad's been bragging about you?"
"Really? Whoa. I like the sound of that."
"Want to go outside and throw the ball around?"
"Now that's a great idea."
Andrew trailed after us, Nintendo in hand, and Weston and I began trading passes.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Weston was currently playing in a weekend youth league and planned to take football seriously once he got to high school. There were plenty of good schools within an hour of Athens, so he'd be able to pick whichever one he liked best.
And with a head coach for a father, it would no doubt be a very good school.
"You said you want to play linebacker?"
"Yeah."
"Nice. Defense is huge."
"Dad's been telling me that since I was little."
"Must be where it comes from, then."
Thwack.
Coach Smart had played defensive back in his playing days, at safety. He finished his career with 14 interceptions — fifth-most in Georgia history. He made the SEC All-Second Team as a junior and the All-First Team as a senior.
And yet the reason he never became an NFL player was that he was a white man standing just 180 centimeters and 81 kilograms. Jim Mora, the Colts head coach who'd drafted him back then, reportedly never gave him so much as a rep in practice.
"How do I get big like you?"
"I told you already."
Eat well. Sleep well. Never break the routine.
Genetics is admittedly the largest part of building a physique, but there are parts you can improve through the day after tomorrow effort — through discipline applied over years.
"You sticking to the meal plan?"
"Yep."
"Then just be patient a little longer."
"How long?"
"At least two years."
"Two whole years?"
"Yup."
Tossing the ball back and forth with Andrew, I glanced through the big front window at the living room.
My parents, thankfully, looked like they were having a good time.
They were flying back tomorrow morning — and who knew when I'd see them again after that.
"Where's the next game?"
"Tennessee."
"Isn't that the place you wanted to take me?"
"It is."
Thwack.
Our next opponent was the Tennessee Volunteers, and the week after that there was no game at all. COVID had compressed the schedule and handed us a bye — and that was the weekend Alexi and I had our first date planned.
"Bro, your girl's pretty."
"What? How do you even know that?"
"Social media. That's all anyone talks about."
"...She's not my girlfriend yet."
"Oh yeah?"
Thwack.
I did like Alexi. I wanted to see where things could go, too. But there was one thing nagging at me.
The fact that she was coming to the University of Georgia next year. Her grades were strong enough that admission looked likely.
Being coupled up at the same college felt like a bit much. Breaking up wouldn't be easy under those circumstances either.
So the plan was to keep things at a good feeling until she enrolled next year — and maybe, before then, see a few other girls as well.
Not that I could ever say that part out loud.
Weston was just a kid.
And his dad was my head coach.
"Where do you want to play, bro?"
"In the NFL?"
"Yeah!"
"Somewhere warm, for starters."
Players don't get to choose, of course — but if I could pick my team, it would be a warm one, no question. Florida. San Francisco. L.A. Texas. And so on.
And if I absolutely had to play somewhere cold...
The Jets would be my pick.
Granted, in this world the Jets were the worst team in the league, a franchise where nothing but misfortune ran through the pipes — but dragging a place like that up by my own two hands sounded like it could be a lot of fun.
"What about Atlanta?"
"Nothing wrong with Atlanta."
Oh, right. Atlanta existed too.
It actually came with plenty of perks. Playing college and pro ball in the same city, building familiarity with the area before the NFL even started. Not a bad setup at all.
But.
That was a problem for later.
"Weston! You wash your hands before dinner!!"
"Yes, Mom!!"
Thwack.
I lofted the football gently back to Weston, then urged Andrew inside.
The delicious smell that had been drifting out of the kitchen had grown even richer.
Mrs. Smart was a seriously good cook.
My parents were going to love this.
"Wow — this looks incredible!"
"Haha. Anything you need, you just say the word, sweetheart."
"Will do!"
Beloved family, good people all around.
That was the most perfect way to spend a Sunday.
#. October 5, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. Athletic Association Office
Lunchtime.
The athletic association office called. They wanted me to stop by for a minute.
Ordinarily I'd have been sprawled out on the lawn taking a nap, but there was nothing for it — I picked up my feet and went.
Knock knock—
Click.
The moment I opened the door and stepped in, the people inside turned to look at me. I gave a small bow and walked further in.
At the very back sat a single private office —
the office of a woman named Jennifer Jordan.
She handled public relations and marketing for the Bulldogs.
"Hey there. Come on in, have a seat."
Once I'd settled comfortably, Jennifer explained why she'd called me over.
A request for an interview had come in from Korean media.
"From Korea?"
"Yep. The email came in early this morning."
"What's the format?"
"We've asked for details, but no answer yet. I'll let you know the moment we hear back. And also... this."
"What's this?"
What Jennifer set down in front of me was a paper box of no small size.
She looked at me and said, "Open it."
...
Inside the box was a stack of envelopes, thick enough to bury both hands — and Jennifer told me every last one of them was fan mail addressed to me.
"I've worked here for five years, and I've never seen anything like this."
"Wow. All of this is for me?"
"Yep. I figured I had to show you somehow."
"Haha. This is the first time I've ever gotten this many fan letters."
"Get used to it — there's plenty more where that came from. I'll have someone carry these over to your dorm."
"Oh — would you? Thank you."
"Of course. And one more thing..."
This time Jennifer handed over a thick bundle of A4 sheets — interview questions sent in by various Georgia media outlets. She'd already emailed me the same set, she said; I could read the paper copies at my leisure, check the email, and send my answers back. The outlets would then run them as news.
"Can you get them back to me by the day after tomorrow?"
"I'll do my best."
"Good. I'll leave it with you, then. That's all I needed."
"Alright. I can head out, then?"
"Absolutely."
Two days into the season.
Small as it was, I could feel something shifting.
"You want me to do interviews?"
"That's right. Starting tomorrow."
"...Yes, sir."
When I arrived at Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall after my last class for team activities, Coach Smart came over and told me I'd be representing the players at the interviews held every Tuesday and Friday.
For the first two weeks, Trey Hill had handled them — but since the quarterback typically fronts the media, that would be my job from now on.
And just like that, more gets added to my schedule.
Who's going to manage my time for me?
"Go find Allison."
"Yes, sir."
Week 3 of the SEC had begun — and I now had even more to do.
Busier days ahead, then.
#. October 6, 2020
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. The House of Pain
Every Tuesday, Coach Smart and Coach Monken gave us players free rein to run around and play.
Practice was open rather than rigidly controlled, and everyone was free to speak their mind.
"So we mix in a flea flicker."
"How are you picturing it?"
If people ever found out how ideas actually come to me in football, they'd probably be too dumbfounded to laugh — the origins are just that ridiculous, that childish.
This one started with a prank my friends had pulled earlier — filtered, eventually, through the nickname the Athens local radio had coined for me: Dwayne Moi 'Hot' Stone.
On the way in that morning, the O-linemen had picked up a smooth stone they found on the path, soaked it in scalding water for a good long while, and then set it on my locker-room chair. I picked it up without a thought and nearly jumped out of my skin — and the guys caught the whole thing on video.
Not that it was actually that hot.
They weren't the kind of idiots who'd go that far.
Anyway.
The guys came sprinting over, shrieking, and circled around me, and I played along — then casually flipped the stone to Jamire.
Jamire caught it mid-daze, yelped, and flung it sideways; Trey Hill, in turn, tossed it up over his own palm once, then just hurled it off to the side for good.
And that exact moment was where the spark came from.
The Flea Flicker.
One of football's oldest deception plays.
"We send Zamir on the jet sweep first."
"..."
"I take the snap and hand it to him, then the Z-receiver swings back around behind him like this and runs."
Simply put, the flea flicker is a trick play built to exploit one of football's core rules: only one forward pass is allowed. Which means that as long as the ball never travels forward, you can pass it as many times as you like — and the flea flicker is designed precisely around that loophole.
I take the snap, then throw a backward pass.
The running back then flips it back to the Z-receiver.
And finally, the Z-receiver pitches it back to me.
By the end of that sequence, I need to be set up in the back of the pocket — and the receiver who'll ultimately catch the pass likewise needs to have advanced, by design, to the targeted spot.
And what we're hunting for is:
The element of surprise.
My favorite thing in the world.
"The target is the slot receiver."
The flea flicker isn't just a gimmick. There's a concrete payoff built into it.
Because the ball leaves my hands and goes to the running back immediately after the snap, the D-line and linebackers' charge toward the quarterback halts cold. At the same time, the defense's attention stays chained to the rushing attack — which opens the chance to slyly slip the tight end into the void where the line just collapsed.
By the time the defense realizes it's a flea flicker, they'll have shifted their focus to the X-receiver first — and I'll push the tight end into the Z-receiver's original spot to manufacture space.
On the second backward pass, the Z-receiver closes toward the quarterback and then veers away, which vacates the spot the opposing cornerback was holding. If that corner chose zone coverage instead of chasing the Z-receiver, then the Z-receiver has already beaten the coverage — I just throw it that way.
Minimum yardage, guaranteed.
"We can't lean on it too often, though..."
"Right. Once or twice, it looks legit."
"That's what I was thinking."
The game we cared most about was this weekend's matchup with Tennessee — but at the same time, all of us were already peeking at next Saturday night's road trip to Alabama.
CBS had already started airing ads for the game, and the interview questions I'd been combing through yesterday and today were stuffed with Alabama talk.
Alabama fans still hadn't stopped tracking down my family's social media to curse us out, so in a way, the reduced crowds from COVID had been a mercy.
Mom's restaurant's ratings had started climbing back up, too — and the wave of hate had died down right after the pandemic began.
Not everything about it was bad, is what I'm saying.
Though I did miss normal life.
"Run it by Kirby."
"Yes, sir."
"What's the call going to be?"
"Talked it over with the guys — Hot Stone."
"Hmm. Not bad at all."
"Right? Once it's on paper, it almost sells itself."
Who knows — heading into the Alabama road game, we might just add a strategy called Hot Stone.
If we actually put points on the board with it that day...
God, that would feel good.
Twenty minutes before the end of afternoon practice, Coach Smart pulled me aside.
Interview time.
I walked into the prepared room, climbed the stage of the empty indoor hall, and sat down in the chair. Directly across from me sat an enormous monitor.
With COVID social distancing making normal in-person interviews impossible, this remote question-and-answer format had become the standard lately.
Honestly, it was kind of novel and fun.
And I'd be doing plenty more of these.
Might as well enjoy every bit of it.
Right?
Listening to the masked reporter's questions on the screen, I began my first official interview.