The Corner of My Mouth Was Already Curling

The corner of my mouth was already curling upward.

The momentum of the second half had swung to Alabama with a single penalty from our O-line.

It had started so well. We opened the third quarter on offense and moved the ball beautifully — a 33-yard completion carried us into the red zone without a hitch. Then, after coming up short on first down, we dialed up a bold trick play and punched it into the end zone… only for a flag lying on the turf to flip a perfect moment into its exact opposite.

The officials ruled that right guard Ben Cleveland had grabbed an opponent's face mask during his block.

Touchdown wiped off the board.

Fifteen yards back.

In the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end, we walked away with nothing.

And then came Alabama's ensuing drive.

Just now — they scored.

"We can't lose our rhythm, Coach."

"We need points."

"I'll do my best."

Leaving the head coach's side, I walked over to the O-linemen and clapped my hands together, driving the encouragement home. Whatever regret we carried from last drive, we had to bury it now — a battlefield was spread out right in front of us. The only thing we could do was move forward. And then move forward again.

"Time to show them what we do! They're smelling our asses right now! They think they can stomp right over us!! Let's show them that doesn't happen — not even in their dreams!! I need you!! This team needs you to win!! LET'S GO!!"

With things having spiraled like this, I was grateful we'd held back a couple of plays on that first drive of the quarter.

Squall.

Ranch.

Two plays freshly installed at halftime — and neither had touched the field on the last drive. Alabama's momentum was surging. And when you break a surging team at exactly that moment…

the effect doubles.

"Alright. We start from Right Trip."

"Yes, Sir."

"Right Trip, Mad Guitar, 34 Rich."

After receiving the play call from the head coach, I waited for my moment to step back onto the field. Alabama's kickoff sailed into our territory, and Jermaine Burton gathered it in and tacked on about fourteen more yards.

First and ten at our own 21.

Not bad at all.

A field goal wouldn't be a bad outcome, to be fair. But three points versus six — or more — is self-evident. I had no intention of settling for a kick before the drive even began.

"Right Trip, Mad Guitar, 34 Rich."

Snap!

Right Trip — carry the ball right. Mad Guitar — the assignment that dictates the motion of the left slot receiver and the right tight end. From here, the O-linemen execute what's called a Reach Block — a tackle technique that carves open the running lane when a back bursts toward the edge. The 34 specifies the direction of the block and the man.

All that remained was the call itself.

"Reeeed 20!! Turbo, set!!"

I took the snap and handed the ball off to Zamir — or rather, sold the handoff without actually handing it off, then spun back and set up to pass. In the meantime, Zamir knifed into the right-side gap and churned out twelve yards before they finally brought him down.

First down, secured in a heartbeat.

Had Alabama gone soft? Convinced themselves the momentum was theirs now? I couldn't be certain yet — but it was worth probing a few more times.

"Reeerd 80!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

Alternating between Zamir and Milton, our rushing attack had quickly marched us up to midfield. It was about time to change the flavor of the offense — and from the bench came the signal for Ranch.

"Ranch Sauce. Hard-Boiled Egg. Back Left."

Snap!

Ranch is a short-passing concept sometimes called 2x2. You line up in a 1-1 personnel group and come out in a standard shotgun formation — but the fun begins when the back beside me shifts to his designated spot. In this case, I'd called Back Left, so James Cook slid over to the left slot receiver position and, the instant the ball was snapped, ran his assigned route. Every other receiver did the same. All of us attacking the same patch of grass — the space behind Alabama's D-line.

In other words: the gap between the linebackers.

"Reeerd 80!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

I caught the long snap and scanned the pocket, firm and well-formed, hunting for a moving target. Among receivers breaking outward before all collapsing toward the middle at once — which one gave us the best odds of stealing extra yards?

Meanwhile, Alabama's D-linemen were closing in on me, intent on swallowing me whole.

Come on.

Come on.

Move for me, will you?

"…"

There he was!

THUD!!

"Fu…"

The impact rolled from my chest all the way through my body, and I crumpled backward without ever getting to see how the pass ended up. Flat on my back on the turf, a groan escaped me before I could stop it.

That was a genuinely good tackle.

And yes — that's a compliment.

"Ungh—!"

Teammates crowded around me where I lay, unable to so much as twitch. Breathing hurt for a moment, and I needed a beat to collect myself. The referee checked on my condition — and I had to wave him off, tell him I was fine. In reality, nothing of the sort. But you have to show fight. Toughness is part of the job.

"Ah… what happened out there?"

"G came down with it."

"Yeah? First down too?"

"Not quite that far."

"Shame. Help me up, will you?"

"Got you."

I grabbed Trey Hill's hand and pulled myself upright, then checked the spot of the ball. Eight yards gained, then. Less than I'd hoped. A first down on the spot would've been perfect, but Second-and-2 meant a short-yardage run scheme could take care of the rest.

The next call was a screen pass.

"Reeerd 45!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

Now that Ranch had landed, Hello Kitty would shine again. Right after locking up the first down, I glanced to the bench and flashed the hand signal for Hello Kitty, then held up both hands to request a specific personnel group.

Hello Kitty is normally a 1-2 PG package. This time, I was going with 2-1 — leaving Zamir and Milton on the field together, planning to scramble Alabama's defensive alignments with the personnel look and a Jet Sweep.

"Listen up — this one runs long. Hello Kitty, Right Swing, X-Jet, Sparta Pack Right. Z-Cash."

Snap!

Georgia's playbook carries a concept called the Sparta Pack — multiple running backs deployed as blockers. I used Right Swing to slant the O-line's tackle direction to the right and sent both backs that way to join the block. The X and Z receivers just had to run — they were decoys anyway. The idea was to sell the defense on a right-side scramble from me, then slip out of the pocket on the left and hit Kitty sliding into the vacated space behind it.

If Alabama's defense bit completely, ten-plus yards was on the table. Even a partial bite would net at least five.

Second-and-7 at the Alabama 35. I stepped under center and studied the defense. Nothing jumped out immediately — the D-linemen would be coming for me and my O-line no matter what, so my eyes kept drifting back to Alabama's linebackers.

First: the Jet Sweep. I twitched my left hand and sent Kendall Milton jetting across from left to right — and there it was. Christian Harris, Alabama's No. 8, flowed with him.

At the same moment, Patrick Surtain began backpedaling. Seeing both, I was certain: this play would work.

Alabama was worried about Ranch. That's why their corner had dropped. If Harris had stayed put, I'd have had to second-guess the whole call. But there was no reason to doubt it anymore.

I barked the cadence with total confidence.

"Reeerd 80!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

Take the snap, turn, fake the handoff. Then wheel to the left. Sell a little run. Then plant and stop — and there was Kitty, sitting deeper than I'd expected. My right arm whipped forward and the ball was gone. Kitty caught it, turned upfield, and sprinted for the left sideline while George — receiver turned blocker — shoved Surtain aside to spring him. He didn't reach the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end zone, driven out of bounds at the line, but he'd carried us into the red zone.

Inside the eight.

From here, it was back to scoring football. Scoring personnel. Scoring calls.

When the bench sent down the Chicken Out call, I broke the huddle feeling thoroughly satisfied. A play that was simple yet threatening — and safe, all at once.

"Shotgun. No Fear. Tail-off. X-Pasta. Z-Double Right Slot. Hard-Boiled Egg."

Snap!

Shotgun — the standard, as everyone knows. And No Fear means we're emptying the backfield. Zamir, in at running back, aligned left to function as a fullback; the Z-receiver's route and the O-line's blocking scheme were all pre-set as well. Once the formation and the broad strokes are drawn, the guys around me make their own judgments about how to protect me. The pass itself would go to George, set up on the right — lined up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tight like a slot receiver before bursting out toward the wide-open right end zone.

The right sideline was George's destination, and I'd need to deliver the ball to him quickly. The critical part: both Z-receivers had to drag Alabama's safeties and corners away with them — to make sure no extra defender drifted over to Pickens, who already had his hands full with Patrick Surtain.

As always — preparation only takes you this far. The rest is the play itself.

"Reeerd 16!! Reeerd 16!!"

I held the play call a beat longer, letting the tension stretch, and checked the defense one last time. Right as the moment reached its peak, I called the rest.

"Turbo, set!!"

He'd managed to claw back within eight with another field goal, but Nick Saban was far from pleased with how things had unfolded. Yes, a single offensive possession could tie the game. But to get that chance — the defense had to stop someone first. Even accounting for the critical penalty from Georgia's O-line and the subsequent missed field goal, you could hardly credit Alabama's defense with playing well.

It had been nothing but luck.

"One stop! We get ONE stop, that's all!"

"We are NOT letting those dogs run wild in our own house!! You want them spraying their mess in every corner of this stadium?!"

Fired-up voices kept rising from the Alabama defensive sideline — but raw adrenaline alone wasn't going to break Georgia's rhythm. A choice had to be made. Nick Saban summoned his defensive coordinator.

"What about bringing the blitz?"

"The backend will be light, Coach."

"Haven't we watched it all game long? Sitting back in coverage hasn't stopped this offense once. Better to go straight at the quarterback. Well? Can you assemble it?"

"Hoo— we'll make it work."

"Good."

Only on the eve of the fourth quarter did Nick Saban admit his mistake. His defensive game plan had failed completely. He had never imagined Georgia would arrive with a short passing game and option looks this polished, built entirely around high-grade quarterback play. Pushing the current strategy forward would most likely end in defeat.

While he still believed his offense had teeth, changing the defense was the best move available.

Blitz.

From this point on, Alabama would design their D-line tackles to split Georgia's O-line open, sending linebackers sprinting through those cracks directly at the quarterback.

Before long, Pete Golding arrived at Saban's side and presented two blitz packages. Judging them reasonably sound, Alabama's head coach resolved to open the fourth quarter with them.

If this worked — he could turn the game around. More than that, he could say he'd been right all along. If this ended in a loss to Georgia, the damage would cut far deeper than a single defeat. For the program. For him personally. For a coach who stood among the defining minds of NCAA football.

Today's battle, with so much riding on it, had only its final fifteen minutes left.

And then Georgia's offense began. The instant Alabama's defense was set—

"Timeout, timeout."

Moi burned a timeout in a hurry.

Nick Saban's expression stiffened slightly. Of course, it stayed hidden beneath the mask. At the sudden timeout, Pete Golding leaned in close to Saban's ear and lowered his voice.

"Did he read it?"

"…"

"A blitz?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How sure are you?"

"They went to three safeties. They're planning a linebacker blitz — I've been on the film all week. Every time No. 9 was in the game, Alabama blitzed almost without fail."

The blitz is a defensive tactic with crystal-clear strengths and weaknesses. It shines when you already hold the edge in the trench war. But calling it while the line of scrimmage is churning like this means one thing: they've got a designed package behind it. And I knew several of those designs by heart. I'd done the film work.

"We'll need the hot throw ready."

"That's my read too."

The blitz's greatest virtue is pressure on the quarterback — one clean hit and the entire offense collapses. But for every extra rusher, the coverage behind the line grows thinner. Speed is everything against a blitz: you have to swallow the quarterback for a sack or force an incompletion before the ball can reach the backend. Fail, and the vacated space gets picked apart.

To guard against exactly that, some coaches invest their nickel in a safety rather than a corner — filling the third defensive-back spot with a safety to shore up the deep zones. Greedy coordinators who want to hide the flaw and keep only the strength do it this way.

Which is to say — Nick Saban.

"Empty back should work too, shouldn't it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Then we go."

The most traditional counter to blitz defense is a technique called Throwing Hot — precisely what the head coach had meant by "hot throw." It helps to think of it as a Hot Line: a direct connection. A blitz shape inevitably leaves a vulnerable pocket of grass behind it, and when a nickel safety is on the field, the weak spot is whichever direction that safety isn't covering. So the offense predesignates the receiver and route attacking that exact space, and forces the quarterback to look nowhere else. That way, you get the ball out before you're buried.

Assuming Alabama's defense doesn't change after the timeout, we have a play aimed at the left backend.

And it is—

"Pasta. Y-Chip Vanilla Extra. Tuna Rollercoaster."

Snap!

There was no need to spell the blitz out for the O-linemen. These men are trained from day one to block blitzes — layer rational explanation over instinct and all you get is a muddled mess. Besides, they've been playing out of their minds today. I have to trust my team.

The formation was set. I stepped behind Trey Hill.

Alabama's defense held steady. I could feel it — Saban's gamble, his conviction, seeping through my skin and racing along my veins, firing hard into my brain.

A fourth-quarter blitz? Bold of him.

But does he know?

"Reeerd 50!! Reeerd 50!!"

I used to call a pretty mean blitz myself, back in the day.

Which is why I know them all too well.

The strengths.

And the weaknesses.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

I took the snap and dropped back — and the corner of my mouth was already curling upward.