The Best Spear? I Don't See One

Football is a brutal sport by its very nature.

But honestly? The fan culture can be just as savage.

College football. And the SEC above all.

This place is more cutthroat than the pros, which means road games become hell in the truest sense of the word.

In the week leading up to our trip to Alabama, that was the single topic my friends brought up more than anything else.

As a condition of playing the season at all, the NCAA and SEC had imposed strict health protocols that kept fans from gathering around the stadium.

Normally, the roads leading in for the visiting team's bus would be packed wall-to-wall with home students and local fans. Things would fly at the bus — all kinds of debris — and in some cases, people would hurl worse things. Excrement included.

Football players are supposed to be tough.

But we're barely nineteen and twenty years old.

Of course it shakes you a little.

Of course it affects your preparation for the game.

In that sense, an Alabama road trip — already drowning in noise and hostile energy — could have unfolded as an even deeper circle of hell.

Yeah.

More than that, even.

A far bigger hell.

HOOONK—!

HOOONK—!

"MO-I SUCK!!"

"MO-I SUCK!!"

October 17, 2020

Tuscaloosa, Alabama, USA — University of Alabama

From the moment we took Exit 73 off the I-59 and merged onto McFarland Boulevard East, the bus carrying us had been marked prey.

A Georgia Bulldogs bus, sitting fat and exposed in a town where Crimson Tide was religion. Every eye locked onto us, and the people welcomed us in their own charming way.

Yeah.

That was sarcasm.

Cars running alongside the bus on either side blared their horns without pause, and people screamed at us through our windows.

At one point, an elderly woman who could barely walk, leaning on a wheeled walker, lifted her head and flipped us the middle finger.

That was the moment I felt, viscerally, that we had entered Alabama territory.

But it didn't stop there.

As we drove deeper into campus, the crowd began to swallow the bus whole.

Police had been escorting us since earlier, but there were simply too many people even for them.

"Damn— who told everybody it'd be quiet because of COVID?"

"Whoa!! Shit. Something just bounced off."

"They're doing all this over Moi?"

"Why else would they?"

The same chant kept hammering against the glass.

"MO-I SUCK!!"

"MO-I SUCK!!"

"MO-I SUCK!!"

On the picket signs were curses aimed at me and my family.

Along with promises to burn my house down with everyone in it.

"That's straight-up crossing the line, man."

"No kidding. That's way too far."

My teammates were worried about how I was taking all of this — while I quietly decided I'd make use of it later.

The bus inched forward again, and the barrage of debris slamming against the closed windows showed no sign of letting up.

Only after a long stretch down the road, as we finally drew near the stadium, did the people thin out and disappear from view.

Yeah, COVID was a blessing in disguise.

Because otherwise?

This place would have been an absolute war zone.

We'd have suffered through something far, far worse.

"Sons of bitches."

Manny Rodriguez, the bus driver who'd arrived ahead of us, was wincing as he inspected the grime splattered across the vehicle and the fresh scratches carved into its sides.

I gave Manny a light pat on the shoulder.

Then I walked on.

We changed into our uniforms.

Then we took the field to warm up.

"Whoa."

"What?"

"The girls here are seriously something else."

"That's what it was."

I gave Carson's shoulder a shove for the idiocy, then signaled Justin Robinson to run a route.

JR is a freshman, same as me.

He's on the practice squad right now.

"How's the shoulder feeling?"

"Not bad."

"You know it has to be better than 'not bad' today, right?"

"...Yeah."

After a few more passes back and forth, I handed my turn over to Stetson.

Then I circled my arms and roamed across every corner of the field.

Partly to take the temperature of the place.

Partly to get my eyes accustomed to the field itself — a quarterback's vision is everything. The faster your eyes adjust, the better plays come out of you.

Trying to see as far down the field as I could, I walked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slowly.

And then—

A loud voice boomed from nearby.

From the direction of the D-line.

"We're gonna WHIP those motherf***ers!!"

"YEAH!!"

I've mentioned this before, but a football team has leaders for every position group.

Quarterbacks.

Running backs.

Wide receivers.

Tight ends.

Offensive line.

Defensive line.

Linebackers.

Cornerbacks.

Special teams.

Those nine position leaders form the team's captaincy, and the group rallies around and moves behind whichever leader stands out front.

On this team right now, that man is Malik Herring — a defensive end among the D-linemen.

"We knock them down, and while they're on the ground we keep PUNCHING until they can't get up ever again!! Out on that field, we wage WAR!! Eat, or be EATEN!!"

"KILL THEM!!!"

"GRIND THEIR FACES IN!!!"

Malik always did his job well.

That's part of why our defense is so ferocious.

Jermaine Johnson, who leads the linebacker group, is doing his part too.

So is Tyson Campbell on the corner.

"Whew—"

I tapped the end zone and turned back toward the quarterbacks' area.

The O-linemen, now deep into their warmups, were showing off their tackling form, and Trey Hill — evidently unimpressed by something — was slapping his palms together and yelling at them to do it right.

Our starting center, Trey Hill.

The spiritual anchor of the O-line.

The tight ends' leader, naturally, is Tre' McKitty.

Even now he's got his guys gathered around him.

Looks like the pep talks are wrapping up.

"On one, two, three — tight end! One, two, three!"

"TIGHT END!!"

To anyone who doesn't know football, watching practice or pregame warmups might raise a genuine question: is this actually a team sport?

But it is.

This ball game is absolutely a team sport.

It's just extremely well divided into specializations.

And when you need to efficiently manage close to ninety or a hundred players, sending each group through its own drills is simply the best way to do it.

"Back from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your little tour?"

"Yep."

"Good."

I returned to my spot and began the real passing session.

For roughly the next fifteen minutes, I'd be firing passes at the receivers while everyone except the backup quarterbacks split off to warm up elsewhere.

Thap.

"Damn— that one was a little high."

"It looked fine to me."

"It was high."

"...Really?"

"Yep."

I patted Stetson's shoulder as he tilted his head in confusion, then stepped back to wait for my next turn.

About forty minutes until kickoff.

My body was starting to itch for it.

Up until last year, almost nobody knew Mac Jones's name.

Now, almost nobody doesn't.

That's what life is like for the quarterback of a popular college football program.

You get nationwide attention and fame.

And plenty of perks come riding along with it.

Interviews.

Media exposure.

Autograph and photo requests.

He's a college student living the life of a full-blown star.

And Mac Jones is enjoying every second of it.

This white quarterback, born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida, took over the starting job last year and steered the team to a 6–1 record, and in the game before this one he became the first Alabama quarterback ever to post back-to-back 400-yard passing games.

His nickname — 'Joker', earned thanks to that ever-present grin — became so famous that on game days, fans in full Joker cosplay would reliably show up at the field to cheer him on.

From backup quarterback.

To a national name.

And thanks to that—

Nick Saban's eye for talent was drawing praise all over again.

"Yes, sir."

Alabama had won the coin toss, and their kickoff return stalled at the 24-yard line — where Mac Jones now stood, ready to run the offense they'd prepared in advance.

Shotgun formation.

Mac Jones, with his soft, barely-muscled frame, is a pocket passer — a Pro-style quarterback built for throwing.

"Go— Ready!! Hike!!"

Clap.

Mac Jones claps his hands to set the snap timing.

The ball arrives.

And immediately, he looks to his running back.

Najee Harris — widely rated the best running back in all of the NCAA — had just set a new record with five touchdowns in the road trip to Missouri.

First drive of the game.

First down.

With ninety-nine out of a hundred coaches calling a run here, Nick Saban had prepared an opening strike designed to do the exact opposite.

Play Action.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

A play where the quarterback fakes the handoff to his running back and transitions into the passing game — Saban intended to seize the game's momentum in a single stroke.

Momentum matters more in football than in any other sport, which makes the opening statement the most important piece of all.

Handle just the first drive well, and you can hold the reins for a good ten to twenty minutes. Against a powerhouse like Georgia, that importance only multiplies.

And so, Saban made his call.

In one man alone.

Trusting Mac Jones.

Alabama's opening gambit had been designed around a simple premise: their individual talent was a tier above, so lean on it.

Send the unstoppable wide receiver DeVonta Smith downfield, and whether he drew one-on-one or one-on-two coverage, put the ball in his hands and rip off a huge chunk of yards in one play.

If it worked, they believed they could plant instant terror in Georgia's heart.

Can you even cover DeVonta?

With Mac Jones throwing?

If breaking down Georgia's D-line proved too hard, then shake the weaker back end instead — that was Nick Saban's thinking.

The justification was more than sufficient. It was overflowing.

However.

THUD!

Georgia's outside linebacker, Azeez Ojulari, detonated into a ferocious tackle.

Literally.

A tackle delivered straight to Mac Jones.

And to Nick Saban.

Blindsided from his blind side, Mac Jones never got his arm fully into the throw, and the pass sailed wobbly, landing a good distance behind DeVonta Smith — right into the arms of Richard LeCounte.

The very first try of the game had produced a sack and an interception — and to make matters worse, an Alabama player was down.

Miller Forristall.

The versatile tight end who serves as the engine of Alabama's offense.

We had stolen possession in all of fourteen seconds.

That is an extremely rare thing to see.

The head official was reviewing the moment LeCounte made the catch — determining whether it was a clean interception or merely an incomplete pass.

LeCounte was celebrating like it was obvious, of course.

But until they check the video, nobody knows.

And when it comes to this—

the ruling matters even more.

With an interception on the very first try and an injury on top of it, Alabama could be facing a genuinely rough opening stretch.

Offense and defense are separate units, sure — but possession didn't just change hands. A key player left the game with it. The shock is unavoidable.

And the spot? Midfield.

"YEAH—!!"

"LET'S GO—!!"

Right now, the defense is the star of the show.

LeCounte was sprinting around, high-fiving everyone in sight.

That's his single greatest strength, honestly.

He always wants to share his joy with everyone around him.

And when he does, the whole team's mood skyrockets.

"You're not dumb enough to blow this, are you?"

"If I did, what would you even call me?"

"Blood would fly out of your ears."

"That's horrifying just to hear, Coach. I'm off."

Sent off with Coach Monken's very special brand of encouragement—

I ran onto the field.

We huddled up quickly, a few yards behind the spot of the ball.

"Hello Kitty. Left swing. X-run, YZ double."

Clap!

The early momentum had swung to us fast.

This drive matters enormously.

If we put points on the board right here—

Alabama takes a deep, lasting wound.

But that's exactly why we can't rush.

Moments like this demand composure.

The initiative is ours either way.

Move the chains, pick up the first down.

Get into the red zone first. That's the priority.

This play, too, is one we've been preparing all week.

Hello Kitty.

A concept built around Tre' McKitty.

We'd lined up with two tight ends, two receivers, and one running back, and the plan is to get the ball into Tre's hands and let him do the work.

The O-line stands at the LoS.

A tight end on each side of them.

The instant the ball is snapped, the right tight end — John FitzPatrick — joins the O-line in delivering a left swing block onto Alabama's left linebacker.

The X-run sends George sprinting wide, with the sole purpose of clearing out Alabama's left defensive back.

And the YZ double tells Zamir, running the play fake, exactly where to go — toward the Z-receiver on the left, selling the run with everything he has.

I have full confidence in this play.

We poured real sweat into preparing it.

"WHITE 45!! REA—DY!! HUT!!"

Under center snap.

I took the ball and immediately turned my back to the line.

The fake to Zamir.

Play action.

Feet still moving, I spun my body around—

found Kitty—

and let it fly.

"YES!!"

The first play of the game had landed exactly as designed.

I stretched both hands toward the sideline.

And took the next play call from Coach.

There's no question about it — today feels different.

More aggressive, for lack of a better word.

If we tiptoe around Alabama just because they're a powerhouse, their momentum will swallow us whole.

Our opponent today is a team armed with the finest spear in the land.

...

That's funny.

The finest spear, you say?

I don't see one.

Not on this field, anyway.

Waiting for the moment I'd shove an enormous stick of dynamite straight down Alabama's throat—

I stepped back up to the huddle.