Today, We Bark Loud From Here

The moment Dwayne Moi Stone ripped off his first rushing touchdown of the game, social media caught fire almost instantly.

Alabama's cornerback DeMarco Hellams was a gifted safety already projected to make the NFL — and the moment a player of that caliber collapsed so utterly, the reactions could only burn hotter.

And now, another play had been made that set the internet ablaze all over again.

With his left blind side caved in and pressure crashing down on him, he shed the entire defense using nothing but upper-body movement and his footwork.

He sprinted right, then pivoted his whole body in a smooth arc and cut back to the left.

Right up until that moment.

Everyone watching thought it was a mistake.

It was second down, after all. It would have looked far smarter to just throw the ball out the back of the end zone, force an incompletion, and take his shot at scoring on third down.

Instead, Moi had drifted even deeper on the run, all the way out to the 35-yard line — and if he got tackled there, the scoring chance would have evaporated on the spot.

In the middle of all that chaos.

Moi, running left, suddenly gathered himself.

Then he threw across the middle of the field.

Where the ball was headed, Zamir White was waiting — the pass landed perfectly in the hands of the running back who had vanished from the receiver option.

One yard out from the end zone.

Zamir took the catch.

And simply fell backward into the paint.

Second touchdown.

Having seized the momentum completely, Georgia steamrolled the first quarter of this marquee matchup against Alabama.

Up 14-0.

And the atmosphere around the team was excellent.

But Alabama was no pushover either.

They steadied themselves quickly, recovered their composure, and launched their counterattack in the second quarter.

Running back Najee Harris began chewing up yardage with sweeps around the edge and screen passes, while Nick Saban — provoked by Georgia's tactics — started mixing in the double option to change the look.

The two running backs kept rocking Georgia's D-line back and forth until they punched their way into the red zone, manufacturing a touchdown and a field goal apiece to drag the game back to 14-10.

Just as Alabama was clawing the flow back to their side.

Georgia tried something new again.

Even if things stayed exactly like this through halftime, there'd be no real problem.

But honestly? I just didn't like it.

Alabama's defense had locked in during the second quarter, and we hadn't set foot in the end zone once.

And personally, I'd been poor, too.

I'd fixated on it too hard.

The end zone. If I could just get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there. If I could just reach it.

So consumed by that thought that my play in the midfield stretch had gone bad.

Coach Monken had called it out too.

While all that was happening, Alabama tacked on a field goal to cut the lead to four, and as I stood cooling my head outside the sideline, Head Coach came walking over to me.

"Run Cooking Time once."

"Yes, Sir."

Cooking Time.

A scheme built around James Cook.

The idea had honestly come from pure coincidence.

It was back at summer camp.

Every so often, we'd mess around by playing each other's positions — and it turned out James was surprisingly good lined up as a wide receiver.

So whenever the actual receivers were training and short a partner to catch their passes, I'd go find James Cook and put him in the receiver spot.

Naturally, the coaches noticed.

And this time, they built a scheme around it.

There's nothing complicated to it.

This one is extremely simple.

Like the Clovis play, everything is packed into a single word: no running back, five receivers split left and right.

The base formation is Trips.

The key is timing.

"Orange 22!!"

The moment I called it out, James Cook — lingering beside me, playing the part of the running back — drifted toward the vacated space on the right.

Alabama's number 8, Christian Harris, chased him down. Seeing that, I judged we were clear to force the play.

If I'd decided the attack wasn't going to develop here, I'd have kept the ball myself and run it.

Christian Harris is a linebacker.

Six-one, 185 centimeters, 244 pounds — 111 kilos.

He used to be a good deal leaner.

This season he'd bulked up by about 20 pounds.

All for competitiveness at the linebacker position.

But that cost him speed, unavoidably.

James could break through him no problem.

If Patrick Surtain had been the one trailing James, I'd have made a different call — but the man seemed focused on covering the first wide receiver moving from the right.

In this personnel group, that's Jermaine Burton.

Surtain would be locked onto him, one hundred percent.

That, too, became more evidence the play was safe to run, and I barked the snap call.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

Shotgun formation.

No need to even glance left.

The three receivers on the right would run their assigned routes — all short routes close to the line — which would pin Alabama's linebackers up front.

I took the snap, bounced once in the pocket.

And swung my arm toward the right side.

James was flying downfield.

We could have done this from the very start.

Which is to say.

Today's plays.

The moment the season schedule dropped, we knew the games against Alabama and Clemson would decide how the whole year went. So we'd played every game before this one with our cards held close to the chest.

Auburn and Tennessee were tough teams.

But we trusted each other anyway.

And thanks to that trust.

Today, we're collecting the reward for it.

"ALL DAY!! ALL DAY!!"

In football, an eleven-point lead is nothing.

It can evaporate in a matter of minutes.

But when you're being steamrolled in momentum the way Alabama was right now, you had to look after your players' morale and focus first.

Nick Saban tended to exactly that.

"It's fine! We're not in bad ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shape at all!"

"…."

"…."

"A few adjustments and we're right there! We'll fix those fast, and then we'll go out in the second half and show them what real football looks like! Drink your water! And read the situation with clear heads! Eleven points is two possessions! Me and the coaches will get the problems sorted — all you have to do is prepare to play your best football! Am I understood?!"

The situation was anything but pleasant.

And yet Nick Saban was relaxed.

The composure came from everything he'd built and achieved over his years in the NCAA.

And among those achievements.

Was the 2018 SEC Championship.

Back then, too, Nick Saban had won coming from behind.

And from a position.

Far worse than this one.

Visiting his offensive and defensive coordinators, Saban spoke in a tone far sterner than anything he'd said in front of the players, telling them outright that the first half had been a failure.

The defense, he could live with.

The offense was the disappointment.

Of course, the offensive coordinator had his own rebuttal.

"We had absurdly little time of possession."

"…Then fix that too."

"Yes. I'll start with the O-line."

"It has to be done properly. No exceptions."

"Yes."

What struck Nick Saban hardest in facing Georgia today was Moi's command of the clock.

The entire sequence, from huddle to play call, was folded almost flawlessly into the 25- and 40-second play clocks given on every down.

That's something you normally only see from veteran quarterbacks in the NFL — and he'd done it for the entire first half.

Because of that immaculate clock management, Georgia had run a nearly identical 43 plays, yet consumed 18 minutes of possession — six more than Alabama's 12.

That's a quietly significant metric.

Ordinarily, the team that scores more naturally runs more plays — yet Georgia, up eleven, had run only two more than Alabama.

An invisible quarterback skill.

And it had shown up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠directly in the results.

"…."

For a moment, a memory of recruiting days past flickered through Nick Saban's mind. He shook it off.

Then he turned his focus back to lifting his team for the second half.

"Mac!"

"…."

Nick Saban pored over the Play Book with Mac Jones.

He believed in his quarterback, absolutely.

#. Same Moment

#-1. Georgia's Locker Room

When I walked in, the team was floating on air — and I knew we needed to bring it back down. Fast.

"We still got a game left!!"

"?"

"We still got a game left!!"

I claimed the room with the loudest voice I had.

Then I planted myself in the center and shouted at everyone.

Remember the 2018 SEC loss.

Granted, almost nobody on this roster was there for it.

But we got comeback-ed by Alabama.

"NEVER 2018!! NEVER 2018!!"

Whether the boys truly absorbed the repeated shout, I couldn't say — but the mood did cool a little.

Normally, that would be a bad sign.

Right now, it felt exactly right.

"One touchdown from them and it's instantly a four-point game! You celebrate when the game's over — that's the only time it counts!"

"He's right!!"

"…."

Head Coach came back into the locker room after his halftime interview with CBS, and I naturally stepped aside.

He glanced at me.

He was definitely smiling.

"Like Moi said — one touchdown from Alabama and it's a four-point game. If we're not ready when that moment comes, this game flips on us in an instant. That's exactly how I lost in 2018. And I've never once forgotten it since. I was too sorry for the players who missed their shot at a championship because of me."

"…."

"…."

The mood that had been bouncing all over the place was now gripped tight.

Here come the good words, right on cue.

"The first half was good."

There it is.

That's how it should be.

"We executed close to one hundred percent of what we prepared. O-line and D-line, quarterback, receivers, defensive backs, special teams. Not one man short of his job. But you haven't shown everything yet. I believe every one of you is holding something back — saving it for the second half."

"…."

"…."

"Remember this. The last time we won here was 2007. And we've dropped our last five straight against Alabama. We don't want this kind of history any more than it wants us. This year — the year you boys take this field — I want you thinking about cutting it off for good. I am sick of losing to Alabama. You should be too."

Thanks to Head Coach's hell of a halftime talk.

The room found its footing again.

Big voices rolled through the locker room like before.

But not one of them sounded giddy.

"Moi!"

"Yes, Sir!"

Coach Monken called for me.

I hustled straight over.

"How'd the Halo look?"

"Barely worked at all."

"Hm— and Skol?"

"Yeah. I think that's the better option."

"Good. We're changing the midfield scheme."

"I'll tell the boys."

"Do that."

The reason the offense had sputtered in the second quarter was the scheme we ran in the midfield stretch.

Just as we'd prepared for Alabama's offense.

They had obviously prepared for ours.

Specifically, they'd read and shut down the Halo, our go-to scheme in that zone — though exactly how they caught on, we'd have to figure out after the game.

Which made this counter the right move.

Otherwise, I'd have been the one speaking up.

To be fair, if we'd botched it once or twice more in the third quarter and things had gone truly sideways, that's exactly what would've happened — but either way, choosing to adjust this quickly was a good call from Coach Monken.

I went to the O-linemen first.

Because they matter most.

Every offensive scheme starts with them. Always.

"Second half, we're off Halo and on Skol."

"Skol? That's the one, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Straight-ahead push."

The O-line coach would handle the rest of the details with them, so I moved on to the tight ends.

"Second half is Skol."

After that, in order.

Running backs.

Then wide receivers.

"Man— look out for me in the second half, alright?"

"Our last drive of the second quarter got burned."

"That's why."

"Huh? How's that?"

"Surtain's gonna be rattled by it. Once I've watched you run a few routes, I'll call something for you. Got it?"

"Shiit. Please. Do it."

Our three first-half touchdowns.

Me.

Zamir.

And James Cook.

No touchdown had come from the wide receiver group yet — George Pickens had been targeted exactly twice, and nobody else had more than three catches.

Kitty had taken the most passes today.

Six or seven, roughly.

It varies a little by scheme, but in NCAA football, it's rare for a tight end to break thirty catches in a season.

In fact, last year our top tight end, Eli Wolf, managed just 13 receptions — and Charlie Warner, drafted by San Francisco this past spring, caught only 7 passes all year.

You could argue our run-heavy schemes just didn't use the tight end much, but still — six catches in one game is a lot.

And then it hit me.

One other thing.

I went looking for Coach Monken again.

"They'll probably prep for Kitty too."

"Hm—"

"Obviously not perfectly. But they'll be paying attention to any short game that involves the tight end. I'd rather compress everything up front and work through the receivers instead. I'm not saying we throw Hello Kitty out completely for the second half. But if we shake them with something a little different early in the third quarter, I think their heads will spin clean off."

"…Ranch. Ranch would be perfect for that."

So I went back to the wide receivers.

And told them there'd be a Ranch in the second half.

"Hot Sauce, how we looking?"

"Fuck off, G. I ask you to look out for me ONE time, and now that you finally are, you gotta breastfeed me on top of it?"

"Hehe. Ranch doesn't sound half bad, though."

"Listen up."

"…."

I explained to the receivers that we were running Ranch because the opponent might have prepared for Hello Kitty.

You have to explain the why.

They'll grasp the scheme a hundred times better that way.

And every one of them will draw his own picture in his head.

The biggest difference between high school and college is that starters at this level can think for themselves about eighty percent of the time.

"If any good idea hits you, come to me anytime."

"Will do."

Just as I stepped away from the receiver group again.

This time, Kitty came to me.

And said the same thing.

"Talked it over with the boys. They might've caught on to us."

"Whoa. That's literally what I just said."

"For real?"

"Yeah. So we're going ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ranch."

"I like that. How's this? We sweep both sides and cross them into their blocks. Give Zamir the ball and let him do whatever he wants."

"You mean in the red zone?"

"Yeah."

This is what a high level looks like.

Never stopping, always trying to develop something further.

Feels a little weird praising myself like that, though.

But this energy — it came from me raising my voice earlier.

No.

That's probably it, at least.

I'd say these ideas came from the difference between celebrating a first half and preparing for a second — between being satisfied and knowing we still had thirty minutes left, so our plays had to keep evolving.

Thirty minutes remaining.

We were ready.

Before we took the field again.

I pulled everyone's hands together into one.

"Today!! We bark loud and proud, right here!!"

"WOOF!! WOOF!!!"

"That's it!! Win on three!! One, two, three!!"

"WIN!!!"