What an Interesting Town This Is

October 11, 2020. Athens, Georgia. University of Georgia. Vandiver Hall, Room 607.

Every Sunday morning, Alexi went to church with her family.

Which meant she'd been busy since the crack of dawn.

"If you crash on the way there, that's entirely on you."

"I'll take it slow."

"That's not it — my legs just won't cooperate."

"That's why I'm offering to drive you."

"By carrying me, I mean?"

"Yeah."

I broke into a grin, teeth and all, and Alexi stared at me in disbelief.

She was the one who'd started it, after all.

Last night I'd finished my film review, crawled into bed beside her, and drifted off — only to wake up to something odd going on, something apparently being prepared.

Well, obviously.

That.

"You're not forgetting anything, right?"

"Just my clothes and phone."

"If you leave anything behind, I'll keep it safe for you."

"Mm."

Alexi kissed me at the door, made it a few steps down the hall, then came running back and kissed me again, deeper this time.

Then she made the face of someone who genuinely did not want to go.

But honestly, I wished she would.

I needed some time to myself, after all.

Naturally.

I didn't let it show.

"I'll text you when I get to church."

"Yeah. Drive really careful."

"Love you."

"Me too."

Alexi looked back over her shoulder again and again as she left, and I watched her all the way to the end of the hallway. Just before stepping into the elevator, she blew a kiss from a distance — a pretty adorable sight, honestly.

Click.

"Whew-!"

Finally.

I was alone.

First things first — a quick shower. I stripped off my clothes and headed for the bathroom.

I was a little busy today too. The other guys might be taking a full day of rest, but I had to eat lunch and clock in at Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall.

With the next game being the game it was, Coach had asked for me.

Technically, that bent the NCAA's rules on organized training — but it wasn't the kind of thing I couldn't talk my way around, and we could always push it as "individual activity."

Like I've said before.

Hang it on your nose, it's a nose ring. Hang it on your ear, it's an earring.

Shhhk—

Clean and out of the shower — time for breakfast.

The only thing I felt slightly guilty about toward Alexi was that we hadn't eaten breakfast together.

Come on, it's the unspoken rule, isn't it?

Even if you've only spent a single night together, you at least feed her and send her off.

Let alone when you're actually dating.

As I said, Alexi volunteered to leave early. Between everything I learned in my past life, the physical gifts I'd gained in this one, and the whole quarterback thing stacked on top, I'd decided that being tied down to one woman was a losing proposition for now.

Later on, maybe. Not yet.

I wouldn't go as far as my previous life, but.

I wanted to enjoy life as much as I reasonably could.

"…"

Once the dishes were all washed and put away, I paused to think about what to do with myself.

Athens to Atlanta was about a fifty-minute drive, and she'd promised to text when she reached the church — so I needed to kill another twenty minutes or so.

Sleeping right now would've been ideal, but instead, I opened a book.

Not the play book.

A textbook. Actual schoolwork.

The Wednesday after next was the final deadline to drop courses, and my plan was to ruthlessly cut anything I wasn't sure I could pull a B+ in and make it up over summer semester.

Two classes, max. That level, I could handle.

There were about three subjects sitting right on the edge — unfamiliar fields to me, genuinely tough.

I was deep into my studying when the phone rang.

@@@

After sending a short reply to her messages, I gathered up my books, left the desk, and climbed back into bed.

I lay there reading a while longer, but within a minute, sleep found me.

Instead of fighting it, I chose to surrender.

Sleep matters.

"…"

A slightly unusual Sunday morning.

Honestly? Not bad at all.

1:58 PM. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall.

"The Heisman Trophy?"

"Yeah. Haven't seen the article?"

"I slept in, sir."

"Ha! Make sure you check it out later."

"Yes, sir."

Wanting to be on time for the meeting scheduled at 2:05, I'd left the dorm and come straight to the quarterbacks' room. None of the backup QBs were here — that, too, I already knew.

But still.

The Heisman Trophy?

Flattered, sure — but wasn't this all a bit much? We'd only played three games. If I went out and throttled Alabama like this, they'd wipe their mouths clean and act like it never happened.

That's just the metabolism of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠media.

"Don't tell me you got film review done yesterday too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Diligent, aren't we."

"You know what else?"

"?"

"I watched Alabama's highlights too."

"Hahaha. Seriously?"

"Yup."

And the more highlights I watched, the more one player stood out to me.

"DeVonta Smith. That kid is a killer."

Alabama wide receiver DeVonta Smith was the player Nick Saban had painstakingly recruited for my sake. His family background carried an atmosphere of you'd better graduate from college, and Saban had pitched him to me as the sharpest weapon I could wield the moment I stepped on campus.

And then he'd turned around and started in with the redshirt nonsense.

Would that piss you off? Because it pissed me off.

But DeVonta Smith's play was dazzling enough to wipe all of that from my mind. Even Mac Jones's hot start felt like it existed because of the overwhelming weapon that was DeVonta Smith.

"Our guys are good too, but…"

"Yeah- he's on a different level."

"His release especially is insane."

"It's at perfection's level."

A wide receiver's release, simply put, is the initial movement — the first step or two before the actual route begins, designed to deceive the cornerback. Every part of the body is in play: planting the impression that you're headed down one specific path, or using those first couple of steps to bury your true route.

"The center snap's rock solid too."

"Ah, Dickerson. Great run blocker as well."

"Yeah. And their corners, too."

"…"

"…"

That's not why I'd brought it up, and now the mood had gone unnecessarily heavy.

I was about to clap my hands and change the subject when Coach and Coach Monken walked in, and the air cleared itself.

"You took a girl back to the dorm last night, I hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"…She a good one?"

"She says she's applying to Georgia next year."

"Hm- I see."

"Yes, sir."

I'd never expected privacy in the first place. Everyone on the team already knew, so what was the point.

Here in Athens, at least, every single move I made was on camera — the actual CCTV, and every pair of human eyes in town.

Which is exactly why I don't do anything I can't hold my head up about. Only what I'm fully prepared to take responsibility for. Nothing more.

"Alright. Next week is the Alabama road game."

With Coach's opening remarks, the meeting began, and we reached several conclusions.

First: lower our expectations for the X receiver.

Second: the screen pass.

And third —

"Looks like you'll have to do some shaking things up yourself."

"Yes, sir."

Coach was planning to run me more than ever before. He didn't love designing quarterback rushing from the snap — scrambles were one thing — but against a team the caliber of Alabama, he was prepared to bend his principles.

Viewed another way, when facing elite opponents, the element of surprise matters — so even the plays he normally holds back in reserve are ones we've always calculated in advance.

Too calculating, you say?

No. That's just being cunning.

"Ahem- you are compensating me separately for this, right?"

"Hahaha. Being the guaranteed starter isn't enough for you?"

"I earned that one with my own ability."

"Unbelievable! Is your confidence some inexhaustible spring? How does every single thing you say refuse to lose?"

"That's my charm, isn't it?"

"Kukkukkuk."

The meeting ran about two hours and twenty minutes. When it ended, I stepped outside and sent Alexi a message — she was a little sensitive about this sort of thing.

Still, she'd gotten much better than yesterday. She seemed to have convinced herself that I'd become hers.

Well.

For the time being, I intended to let her keep believing that.

Let's see. Time.

4:31 PM was an awkwardly in-between hour, so I chose the treatment ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room. During the meeting I'd heard that the team doctor had come in today — Georgia's medical staff was one head physician and five physiotherapists, and I was closest with Elaine Bonner among them.

"Whoa. These bruises just refuse to heal in here."

"It's the same every week during the season."

"Shirt off."

"Yup."

I wasn't the only one in the treatment room — the linemen and linebackers practically lived there. I hadn't had many chances to talk with and get close to the defensive guys, so I figured this was a great opportunity and chatted away enthusiastically.

And before I knew it —

"My treat-!!!"

"YEAH-!!!"

I had somehow blown a full $764 of my savings.

That's a lot of money.

But still.

It looked good on them. Undeniably.

October 12, 2020. Tuscaloosa, Alabama. University of Alabama. Mal M. Moore Athletic Facility.

Alabama, whose offense had put up a monstrous 153 points across its first three games, was preparing for Georgia with unmistakable caution.

Especially lately, the entanglements had piled up. Crimson Tide defensive coordinator Kirby Smart had taken the head coaching job at Georgia — and brought along Glenn Schumann, a highly respected member of the staff, with him.

At first, truth be told, Nick Saban had tried to block it. Kirby Smart had informed him of the Georgia contract only after signing it, without consulting him beforehand.

But.

Nick Saban chose to keep his dignity. There was nothing to gain from a scene, anyway.

And what lingering old grudges remained had all evaporated back in the 2018 SEC Championship, when he'd beaten Georgia 35-28.

Except —

"…"

The recruiting war over Dwayne Moi Stone, and how it ended, had set all those old feelings ablaze again.

He'd already hated how Smart's departure unfolded; losing the recruiting battle for Moi on top of it — and then losing the upcoming game too — would be a blow too devastating to bear. And while no one could know the future, this game's winner looked overwhelmingly likely to be this year's SEC champion.

Which meant he could not afford to lose.

No. He simply hated it.

"Mac!"

Mac Jones, spectacular through the first three games, was already being projected as a top-two-round pick in next year's NFL Draft. Last season he'd managed only four starts, but after Tua went down with injury he'd seized the starting job and shown everything he had in short order.

The moment Nick Saban watched Mac Jones play like this, he wavered.

He knew Moi was a once-in-a-lifetime talent. But was he still just a freshman? Betting the team's entire season on that?

Alabama was too good a team for that.

That hesitation had ultimately cost him Moi — and now, every time the internet and television sang the praises of Georgia's quarterback, Nick Saban looked harder and longer at Mac Jones.

Because his own choice hadn't been wrong. Couldn't be wrong.

"How's your condition?"

"Good, Coach."

"Excellent. You still hesitate on some passes. When that happens, make a habit of looking farther downfield."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Go on."

"Thank you, Coach."

It was still early in the season, but if things continued this way, Mac Jones would be rated the best quarterback in the NCAA. Under the usual assumption that Alabama reached the National Championship, he could surpass 4,000 passing yards on the season — and quarterbacks posting numbers like that rarely number more than five in a given year.

And this was a shortened season, which made it mean even more.

I should have told him to set his sights on four thousand yards.

Thinking he'd have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to tell him later, Nick Saban observed practice.

"…"

The more he watched, the more magnificent the team looked.

Special teams aside, every position group held NFL-caliber talent. Upper-tier NFL talent, at that.

Granted, the defense was somewhat shakier than in years past — but the winning DNA built over more than a decade raised the team's focus at every critical moment.

And in a way, that mattered most of all.

This is my team.

At some point, almost no regret over losing Moi remained in Nick Saban's heart. A team he built. His team. Forcing in a player who didn't want to belong there would have been an affront to the reputation of the man called Nick Saban and to everything Alabama had achieved in NCAA football.

The greatest one isn't the player. It's me.

Nick Saban believed that, wholeheartedly.

October 13, 2020. Athens, Georgia. University of Georgia. House of Pain.

Today was a free-ideas day, and as always, all sorts of talk bounced around the room. Then I noticed George's expression had gone sour.

I set my mouthguard down and hurried over to my friend.

"G."

"?"

"Something wrong?"

"Nah, it's just… those damn decoys."

Ah.

I had a pretty good idea what this was about. But I feigned ignorance.

"Decoys?"

"Yeah. I looked at the plays for the Alabama game, and a bunch of them had me designed as the decoy. Is this a joke right now? Sh- it. It's ESPN College Game Day. A massive crowd's going to be watching this game, and I do NOT want to spend it running decoy routes?"

Last Sunday, this exact topic had come up in the meeting.

Could George Pickens actually beat Alabama's cornerbacks?

Patrick Surtain II.

A five-star cornerback who enrolled at Alabama back in 2018 — the guy who'd been on the East team with Trevor at that year's U.S. Army All-American Bowl.

Jaylen Waddle got absolutely locked up by him back then. Most of our yardage plans assumed working around him.

Even after arriving at college, Surtain had wasted no time showing off his talent, exploded last season, and heading into this year he'd ranked as the top cornerback in every preseason evaluation.

Guaranteed first-round NFL pick next year — that kind of assessment followed him everywhere.

So our plan was to grind out yardage through the run game and short passes, and design our end-zone plays around using Pickens as the decoy.

Real training started tomorrow, so apparently today was when the plays got revealed.

And he hated it. Which I completely understood.

"Man- I get why you're hurt."

"Right? It's total bullcrap, is what it is."

"Tell me about it. Coach went too far."

"Phew- decoys. Unbelievable."

Football is a beautifully divisionalized game. Coaches give their all for the team's victory; players give their all for themselves. Chasing your own stats ultimately helps the team too, and the sacrificial positions know they'll be stuck in the same role their whole careers — so they fight tooth and nail to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠make themselves stand out a little more.

This game is built on that philosophy. Very American, in a way I can almost admire.

And among every position on the field, only the quarterback bridges the two sides — padding his own numbers while still dragging the team to victory. That's the one position where both are possible.

Which is also why the quarterback stands out.

"I'll talk to Coach for you."

"…Thanks, man."

"Yeah."

Later, when I went to see Coach, this is what I said:

Coach. George has a problem with it.

I wouldn't ask him to change the tactics — that wasn't my job. From one angle it might look like I was just pandering, but drawing out each player's emotions and managing the locker room's temperature to maximize everyone's output is precisely a coach's role. The quarterback simply delivers the message.

So all I had to do was say it.

"G."

"You talk to him?"

"Yeah. He says he'll think about it."

"Phew- man, thank you for real."

"Don't mention it."

Maybe Coach already had something prepared. Something a little different from what George had first received — a play book with one or two routes revised. He'd still spend plenty of snaps as a decoy, but George would take satisfaction in knowing his voice had been heard and the scheme had changed.

And sure enough —

"Mo-ii!!"

"What?!"

"New play book!!"

After practice ended, George waved the new play book in the hallway.

Called it.

Coach had probably planned to deliver it some other way, but when I stepped in as the middleman and it worked out, he'd simply handed over the revised book right away.

At the end of the day, I'm the one who handles the players on the field. The rest of the time they can follow the coaches — but on the field, they follow me.

Anyway.

What an interesting town this is.

At 8:30 PM, with the day's schedule complete, I set my course for the dorm.