Carly Rae Jepsen Absolutely Slaps!!

October 7, 2020

United States — Athens, Georgia

University of Georgia

The President's Office

Today, in Jere Morehead's office, visitors had arrived from far away.

"Fifth, you say?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"…Then first place would be Trevor Lawrence, wouldn't it?"

"No, sir. It is not."

"Then who?"

Last Sunday, while Jere Morehead had been discussing donations with a group of alumni, he received a phone call from all the way out in Oregon. The name on the screen read Eugene Parrish — the man who oversaw all of college football for Nike. And when Parrish arrived in Athens on Wednesday, he brought word that Moi had claimed fifth place in Nike's own internal popularity survey. Morehead had naturally assumed Trevor Lawrence would sit at number one — but what came out of Parrish's mouth was a far more astonishing name.

"Tom Brady."

"?!"

"This survey of ours covered the NFL and the NCAA together, you see. And Moi took fifth place in it. Trevor didn't even make the list."

"Is that really true?"

"Absolutely."

With a flick of his fingers, Parrish requested a document from the staffer who had accompanied him, and it was promptly handed over to Morehead.

Across those three questions, Moi placed third, first, and fourteenth respectively — the last because it had been limited to the NCAA rather than the NFL. Which, put another way, meant that Georgia had been chosen as a team people wanted to watch more than nineteen of the NFL's thirty-two franchises.

"The rankings are on the back page."

"…."

Swoosh—

There, directly beneath the names of the men hailed as the NFL's greatest legend, its present, and its future, Moi's name stood tall and unashamed. From Morehead's lips came a quiet gasp of awe.

"Good heavens…"

Without question, NCAA football was the second-largest sports industry in America — a product with the scale and commercial value to rank among the top five in the entire world. But the wall between professional and amateur was unmistakably real, and in the NCAA, the spotlight fell on the universities themselves far more than on the players. And yet here was Dwayne Moi Stone, vaulting clean over that limitation and standing shoulder to shoulder with the NFL's biggest stars. NIL rights would be permitted beginning February 1st of next year — and Nike intended to claim Moi first.

"If Moi signs with us here at Nike, it will without a doubt be a tremendous thing for Georgia as well. Our very best people are already brainstorming ideas in Beaverton that would benefit both sides."

As his college recruitment had already made clear, Dwayne Moi Stone was a difficult man to pin down. So before approaching Moi directly, Nike planned to first pull the University of Georgia over to their side. Backing at the university level would give them real leverage in contract negotiations — a far stronger position than any of the rival companies eyeing him jealously from the sidelines. That was precisely why Eugene Parrish had made the trip.

"We're already partners, of course, but…"

"More Money. Much Better."

"Yes. Exactly that."

Jere Morehead smiled and extended his hand. Eugene Parrish was utterly satisfied.

October 8, 2020

United States — Knoxville, Tennessee

University of Tennessee

Anderson Training Center

Despite winning his first two games of the season, Tennessee Volunteers head coach Jeremy Pruitt was sunk deep in worry. The reason he had gambled everything on RFM — Recruiting For Moi — was now laid bare: his team had no functioning quarterback.

The opponents they had already dispatched, South Carolina and Missouri, were regarded — alongside Vanderbilt — as bottom-feeders of the conference, while Tennessee had opened the season ranked sixteenth in the nation. And yet the situation was anything but smooth. Jarrett Guarantano, the anointed starter, had shown no development whatsoever since arriving on campus. It stung all the more because he was a senior.

"We may need to think about changing quarterbacks."

"For who?"

"Bailey's been looking decent lately."

"Not the freshman. We're playing Georgia."

"…."

That the coaches couldn't trust their own starter even after two wins showed up plainly in the numbers. Against South Carolina and Missouri, Tennessee had been outgained in passing yards both times. When you consider that the lower a team sits in the standings, the weaker its quarterback and the fewer passing yards it produces, this result was genuinely alarming. The completion percentage was barely scraping past sixty — against a strong defense, it would plummet. The pressure on offense existed on an entirely different plane. A weapon, it turned out, can feel old all at once.

"Hoo—"

Pruitt kept striving toward a road win over Georgia, kept trying to hold onto positive thoughts, but whenever he looked at reality with cold eyes, the road ahead felt daunting, and he knew it. The easiest path to an upset for a lower-tier team was seizing momentum — and even that didn't look easy. That left leaning on the defense, but his Front 7, regrettably, contained no NFL-caliber talent. The cornerbacks and safeties were actually pretty solid, so if they could bait Moi into an early interception and rattle the freshman's game off it, the odds would climb. But that, too, held little real promise. Jeremy Pruitt had studied more film of Georgia and Moi this week than anyone alive. Tennessee's odds of landing Moi had been slim from the very start, so the recruiting failure hadn't hit him hard. What he hadn't known back then was what it would feel like to face him as an enemy.

There was no clear way to attack Georgia's quarterback. The best he had was the blitz they'd been drilling lately — a defensive scheme that hunts the quarterback above all else.

'Gotta try something. Anything.'

Football was soaked into Jeremy Pruitt down to the marrow. He knew better than anyone that doing nothing was the worst option of all.

October 9, 2020

United States — Athens, Georgia

University of Georgia

Vandiver Hall, Room 607

Ding—

"Hm?"

I was back home, taking it easy, when a DM arrived. From someone I knew very well. There was no way I couldn't.

Matthew Stafford.

The first overall pick of 2009. The strongest arm in the NFL. A quarterback for the Detroit Lions — and, at the same time, a Georgia alum.

Stafford, who had spent his entire career in a Lions uniform, had sent me DMs a few times before — back when I hadn't yet decided on a school, and again when I officially declared for Georgia. He'd offered advice here and there, and somewhere along the way we'd settled into an easy rapport.

Stafford never once told me to come to the Lions. Because I'm a potential rival? No. The Detroit Lions were one of the league's traditional doormats, counted alongside the Cleveland Browns as the most dismal franchise in the NFL. On top of that there was the Curse of Bobby Layne — a jinx whose every step echoed, in a genuinely chilling way, the most famous curse in this very genre: the Curse of the Bambino. And Detroit being America's emblematic "fallen city," the market itself was far from appealing. The real poison, though, was that Detroit's front office couldn't run a team to save its life — meaning there was never any guarantee of a successful future for a football player there. Eleven years of devotion, and Stafford wanted out. Every bit of it had its reasons.

After trading DMs, I set the phone down, rose from the sofa, and stood a while looking out the window. The campus that had first looked like a city in the apocalypse now felt a little more like an actual university. It still wasn't bustling the way it had been before COVID, but people were out on the streets again, and the quiet town itself had begun to hum with life. Athens, after all, exists to orbit the University of Georgia — so the campus's mood is, more or less, the town's mood. Which is exactly why the locals look after me so diligently. Nearly every day I'm handed fruit, or pie. I can tell them it's fine all I want — they simply won't listen. So I thankfully share whatever I receive with the guys, and in return I help out wherever I can. When I spot someone sweeping their yard, I'll walk over and take the broom; when I see an elderly lady struggling with something heavy, I go straight to her and ask her to hand it over. That's how I made myself at home in Athens.

After drawing the curtains, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. On the sofa, the phone kept buzzing — a steady stream of messages from Alexi, who believed I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was already asleep. Photos and declarations of love, no doubt, packed to the brim. All this week she'd been sending fairly bold shots almost daily, dead set on making it unmistakably clear whose territory I was. And there were plenty of reasons for it.

First, on Monday, a girl named Mary Kate Wichalonis posted an Instagram photo in a white tennis skirt and a tank top stamped with Georgia's initials. The hashtags mixed my name with some heavily affectionate phrasing, and Alexi took the whole thing rather seriously. When she demanded to know whether I'd followed the girl, I denied it and showed her my following list. In truth, I hadn't.

Then, Wednesday — this time it was a Hollywood name. Sabrina Carpenter, a singer and actress, uploaded a photo of me to her own account and announced she'd be coming to Sanford this week.

And last, on Thursday — Madison Beer. Another singer. Madison in particular had gone so far as to digitally splice me into scenes from her music video, All Day and Night.

"Hoo—"

Feeling refreshed after brushing my teeth, I grabbed the phone and dove into bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I ran through the play book I'd memorized, turning the bare ceiling — nothing but a lamp — into a football field, and imagined virtual offensive sequences. During football season, I had no interest in spending energy on romance. The season was short, and my time belonged to football. I worried Alexi would run herself ragged chasing nothing, but that, too, was her own affair — nothing I could do about it.

Click.

Phone switched to silent. Alarm set on the bedside clock. Ever since the first week of the season, I'd been putting my phone on silent before sleep and using the clock's alarm instead. Otherwise the racket would make sleep impossible. I'd considered picking up a second phone, but gave up — too much hassle. The burner from my recruiting days was already canceled anyway.

"…."

Week three. Against Tennessee. A third of the season was already gone.

No matter how much of the week you spend preparing as though the season itself depended on it, there is always something that runs short. Some people shrug — can't be helped — and figure they'll show whatever they managed to get ready. Someone like me keeps grinding until the very last second before the whistle. Honestly, I'm a exhausting man to stand next to. So I've had to study every trick of persuasion there is.

"If they go man on them, G will eat them alive."

"Exactly."

"Let's show them, G. Even if the called play says otherwise, I'll change it. I want to see that route. You know what I mean? I want to watch you score on that route."

"Damn right. I'll kill it today."

"That's the spirit. High five."

Smack.

When a team's Front 7 runs a notch below its defensive backs, coaches tend to prefer man coverage against a shotgun offense. Their corners and safeties are confident in their own ability, so they use man to hide the Front 7's weakness in zone schemes. Playing zone drags half your linebackers down low semi-against their will, whereas man coverage lets you deploy them exactly as you please. We had anticipated all of this when we built today's offensive game plan, and committed to leaning on screen passes out of shotgun. Coach Monken, evidently pleased with how well the screens had paid off against Auburn, had drilled screen plays relentlessly since Tuesday.

So far, so good. The problem is that the more screen plays you run, the more often George — our X receiver — gets used as a decoy. And as I've said, receivers are a supremely selfish breed. As long as their own numbers look good, the team can lose for all they care. That's speaking in the extreme, but still. One way or another, the screens were going to fly today, and I had to make sure our number one receiver didn't end up with a sour taste in his mouth. So all week I'd been stroking George's ego. Pouring confidence into him nonstop. No matter how many screens we practiced, when the quarterback — me — told him I'd be looking his way, it lit a fire under him. If I targeted him just two or three times in the real game, George would happily swallow the decoy role and sacrifice himself with a smile.

Rustle, rustle—

Digging through my bag for the assorted snacks inside, I walked over to where the offensive linemen had gathered. I always stashed chocolate, candy, and gummies in there to hand out to the O-line. Some of them ate the stuff, some didn't — I handed it out regardless. All for the sake of saying the same thing as always:

"Bribes, as usual. Take good care of me today."

By now the guys just laughed it off.

"I seriously hate getting hit. So keep me clean, alright?"

"You do realize what your body can take, right?"

"My insides are fragile, I'm telling you."

"Pfft. Hilarious."

"It's true. There's still a young Moi living inside me. I love nature and poetry, and I listen to Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe."

"HAHAHA! What even is that?!"

After telling the O-linemen to hold on a moment, I walked over to the laptop sitting off to one side. All the locker room music played through that machine. The moment I cut off Pop Smoke's Shake the Room that was thumping out of it, the guys mid-groove reacted instantly.

"The fuck, man??"

"Moi!! Did your guts fall out or what?!"

"Turn the damn song ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back on!!"

I shot them a hand signal — wait just a sec — and then, boldly, I hit play on Call Me Maybe.

And naturally—

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?!"

"You serious right now?"

Paying no mind to my flabbergasted, gagging teammates, I skipped straight to the moment just before the chorus and started singing.

"Hot night, wind was blowing—"

"Somebody stop him!!"

"Where you think you're going, baby?"

Let me be honest with you. Who on earth dislikes this song? Sure, everyone talks a big game about hip-hop and metal rock — but this isn't just any song. You cannot hate Call Me Maybe. It is aggressively white girl. Aggressively feminine. A song shaped exactly like a Barbie doll. Every man alive has a little girl inside him, doesn't he? And this thing pokes that girl dead center.

And then the chorus arrived — and everyone, as if they'd rehearsed it, joined in.

"Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy—"

"But here's my number—"

"So call me maybe—"

The whole locker room launched into dancing that could only be described as very white girls at a school dance, singing at the top of their lungs, and that energy carried straight through to the final note. And when it was all over, we applauded. As though we had just witnessed a magnificent opera.

"Carly Rae Jepsen SLAPS!!!

"HELL YEAH—!!!"

The fact that a clip of this very scene went straight onto social media and hit the broadcast within ten minutes — that, I would only learn after the game.