Truly the Dream Job I Always Wanted
There have been exactly two occasions when the famous Las Vegas sportsbooks created betting markets related to me.
The first was my college decision.
The second was this.
“A lead block?”
“Yes, Sir.”
#. October 26, 2020 — Athens, Georgia / University of Georgia / House of Payne
People first learned that I intended to become a football player when I was eight years old.
In other words, around the time USATF started taking notice of me.
And then, a few years later—right before I entered high school—a betting site called VegasInsider opened a market on me.
[What will Dwayne Moi Stone's position be?]
At the time, the runaway favorite was wide receiver, with linebacker in second and tight end trailing at similar odds.
Fast feet. A solid frame. Those physical attributes meant little for a quarterback, so the consensus was that playing any of those positions would benefit me far more as a football player.
And honestly? They weren't wrong.
If there are physical attributes a quarterback actually needs, it's natural shoulder strength and height—nothing more. Shoulders speak for themselves, and height matters because of the sightlines. Once a pocket forms, the line of scrimmage blocks your view, so you have to be tall to spot your target quickly.
Why not just memorize the routes and the playbook, you ask? My only answer is: human beings are not machines. Besides, your targets are moving. You have to see them with your own eyes before you can deliver a proper pass.
Anyway. In my past life, when I delivered the Super Bowl trophy to the Jets, the starting quarterback I inherited had a build remarkably similar to mine. Hoping to squeeze one hundred percent out of his ability, I assigned him lead blocks as well.
People called me insane for it, of course. Just like they're doing now.
“Is this you talking with a straight face?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Jesus! Did the coronavirus eat your brain over the weekend? A lead block? From the quarterback?”
“I'm not saying I'd do it every play.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Coach Monken was recoiling in horror, and I understood it one hundred percent. It's a choice nobody would make—unless you were a lunatic like me. But the effect would be undeniable. I was one hundred percent certain of that, too.
“Would it hurt to at least think about it?”
“When the sun rises in the west and I start speaking politely, I'll think about it then.”
At that flat refusal, I couldn't help but smile. I figured today was as good a place as any to stop.
“You're obsessed.”
“Yep—tell me about it.”
A lead block means blocking for the ball carrier—throwing your body in front of a defender the moment a receiver catches the ball and starts running. It's the job of an O-lineman who's slipped past the line of scrimmage, or a receiver without the ball. A quarterback never takes a lead block. Why? Simple.
“Have you even imagined what happens if you get hurt?”
“Yup. Stetson starts.”
“Dude! That's not the whole story, man!”
“Haha. Don't get worked up, Z. It's a no-go anyway.”
The reason the quarterback's role is confined to throwing and handing off is to keep him as far from injury as possible. Even on designed runs, QBs are drilled to slide early and abandon the play the moment they spot a defender bearing down on them. Other positions can be replaced; the quarterback cannot. If your backups are all evenly mediocre, fine—but when there's a real gap in quality, an injury to the starter becomes a catastrophe. You're effectively losing double your firepower or more.
That's why a lead block—where you crash head-on into opposing defenders—is the one duty a quarterback is never, ever given.
“I honestly don't know what's going on inside that head of yours.”
“Things that would never come out of yours.”
“Screw you.”
I thought the Alabama game had bought me more trust from the coaching staff, but apparently a lead block was still a bridge too far. I'd keep pushing anyway, though. Because it would be the most certain strategy we had.
Today was Monday, and we were preparing for Saturday's road trip to Kentucky. A fifth straight win of the season was our current goal.
“Alright, quarterbacks!! Let's roll out there and get after it!!”
Coach Monken opened the week with that thunderous voice.
#. October 27, 2020 — Lexington, Kentucky / University of Kentucky / Joe Craft Football Training Facility
There's a saying: if you want to know where the SEC stands in the hierarchy of NCAA football, just look at the Kentucky Wildcats.
2018: 10 wins, 3 losses overall. 5–3 against the SEC.
2019: 8 wins, 5 losses overall. 3–5 against the SEC.
Every one of the eight losses Kentucky had suffered over the past two years came at the hands of SEC teams. And with this year's schedule stacked almost entirely with SEC opponents thanks to COVID, it was obvious without even watching that the Wildcats would struggle. In fact, early in the season they sat at 2–3.
And now they had to face a very difficult opponent: the Georgia Bulldogs, currently ranked No. 2 in the AP poll.
“Blitz. The blitz is the key.”
At the coaches' meeting ahead of Saturday's game, Kentucky laid the foundation of its defensive strategy: blitz—because Georgia's freshman quarterback had shown at least some vulnerability to the blitz against Alabama.
“We need to grind out long drives.”
“Yes. That's crucial too.”
“Let's build the offense around the run.”
What made Kentucky's matchup against Georgia look even harder was the absence of starting quarterback Terry Wilson, sidelined with an injury. Sophomore QB Joey Gatewood was waiting in reserve, but the gap in ability was plain to see.
Georgia had injury news of its own, of course—Kenny McIntosh couldn't play. But whether losing a quarterback or a running back is more devastating isn't a question that requires deep thought.
So Kentucky had no choice but to drag the game into a mud fight and win it on defense. The answer they arrived at was the blitz. They were going to hunt the quarterback. Among the Kentucky coaches straining to break free of a nightmarish ten-game losing streak against Georgia, there had been hours of debate and heated discussion—and this was what it produced.
And at that very same moment, at the University of Georgia—
“God… Fuck!!!”
“….”
Midway through practice, Georgia's sophomore wide receiver George Pickens dislocated his shoulder.
#. October 28, 2020 — Athens, Georgia / University of Georgia / Vandiver Hall, Room 607
Yesterday's injury to George stung badly. The whole team was deflated.
During practice, George—running reps with Stetson—reached out for a slightly deep ball, lost his balance, and came down on his shoulder. The examination confirmed he'd be out for two weeks; closer to three once you counted rehab. Realistically, he'd return around the Mississippi game.
The one silver lining was that he was guaranteed to be back in time for the Except One Game. But we needed a replacement, and fast. The head coach signaled he'd move KJ to X-receiver and install senior Dmitri Robertson—a return specialist and nickel—into the rotation.
And to that, I raised a careful objection. I said Addison was the better fit.
The chemistry between a quarterback and his wide receivers matters enormously, so Coach Smart and Coach Monken told me they'd have an answer by tomorrow. But I already knew which way it would go. It usually did. Setting aside any gap in raw talent or production during practice, Addison had been quietly excellent all along. I believed he had more than enough ability to compete in the SEC not just as a Z-receiver but as an X as well.
That's exactly why I was spending my evenings with him now.
“Z-lock.”
“Z-lock… right, that would be…”
“Nope. That's the dummy triple.”
“Goddammit. My head's gonna explode.”
“This is your opportunity, J.”
“Yeah—I know.”
“Watch. This is the back-right swing.”
“….”
Jordan Addison hailed from Frederick, Maryland, and in high school he'd played three different positions: wide receiver, quarterback, and cornerback. But QB at the NCAA level was out of reach, so during recruiting he was classified as an ATH—an athlete whose position was still undetermined. Of all the schools that pursued him, only Pittsburgh and us offered him a defined position.
Originally, Jordan had given Pittsburgh a verbal commitment—but after I committed to Georgia, he withdrew it and changed his mind, choosing Athens instead. Because of that, I felt a sense of responsibility toward him. That's why I was going this far.
“Hot source.”
“Oh—that one I know.”
“…Right. Correct.”
“Man—this stuff's gum, easy.”
“Shut up, man. You got half of them wrong.”
“Hehe. Still fifty points, though, right?”
“Fuck. Relentlessly positive.”
Jordan had the most siblings on the team. Darnell came from a family of eight—Jordan had a staggering ten. Six brothers, three sisters, and—unbelievably—one mother. For all the size of his family, he grew up wanting for nothing, and by his own account his older brothers and sisters sacrificed as much as they could for his football career. It's a common story in the Black community: the entire family pools its strength for the one sibling with the most ability.
So he'd grown up taking being taken care of for granted, and he had a flair for showing off—but there was no real malice in it. If anything, he treasured his family deeply. Jordan's dream was to make the NFL one day and have all ten siblings plus his parents living together in the same neighborhood. I'd always cheered that dream on, and he knew it.
“Goddammit. You really think I can do this?”
“I told you, J. You were born to be a receiver.”
“You and Coach are the only ones who say that.”
“Then isn't that all that matters?”
“Huh. Fair point.”
“You sleeping over?”
“Oh? Do I get breakfast service too?”
“FUCK OFF!! That's gross, knock it off. There's stuff in the fridge—cobble something together yourself in the morning.”
“The Addison family omelet is a little special, you know.”
“Ugh. Make me one too.”
After showing Jordan to the guest room, I came out to the living room for a video call. I'd already filled Alexi in on the situation beforehand, and Jordan—fresh clothes on—wandered into frame.
“You got a girl hidden in here?!”
“FUCK OFF!! Ignore everything this idiot says. Got it?”
— It's just the two of you, right?
“Yup.”
I got up and wandered through the apartment, showing her every corner to prove we were alone. That was the only way she'd relax—I knew that much by now.
After hanging up, we each finished our showers, gathered back in the living room, fired up the PlayStation, and started Madden.
“Picking Buffalo again?”
“Obviously. You?”
“Chiefs.”
“Damn—that's cheating and you know it.”
“Buffalo's a strong team too, for the record.”
Back when Jordan was in the thick of his recruiting visits, he'd asked every single one of them a question: “What position will I play?” Of the eight schools offering scholarships, six told him he'd become the best cornerback in the NCAA. But really, that question was how he chose where to go.
Stefon Diggs.
Born in the same state of Maryland and drafted by the Minnesota Vikings in 2015, Diggs is the wide receiver behind the historic play known as the “Minneapolis Miracle.” On January 14, 2018, with ten seconds left in the game, Stefon Diggs hauled in a 39-yard pass and ran it in for the go-ahead touchdown—the score that sent the Vikings to the NFC Championship. That single play is what made Jordan Addison decide to become a wide receiver.
No wonder he'd hated the whole cornerback talk. His ego was nothing to sneeze at either.
“Fuck, J. A blitz? Really?”
“Hehe. This is how you gotta shut down Mahomes.”
“Fine. So that's how you're coming out, huh?”
George's injury had thrown a wrench into things, but we were fully expecting Kentucky's blitz. Kentucky's D-line was bottom-tier in the SEC, but their defensive backs were mid-to-upper level. Anybody with common sense who'd watched our games would know that rushing the line was pointless—so they'd use the D-line as meat shields and send the linebackers instead.
I was the first one to say it. The offensive coaches, Monken included, agreed immediately, and at an emergency Zoom meeting Monday evening, Coach Smart committed to preparing for it too. Our blitz protection had been a little shaky against Alabama, but Kentucky would be different. I was ready. The team was getting ready. And since we'd be starting from 0–0 rather than protecting a lead, I was already thinking through an aggressive, score-first game plan.
“FUCK!!”
“YEAH BABY!! Got through, suckers!!”
“Mahomes is busted in Madden, I swear!!”
“Mmm~ Josh Allen is trash. Enjoy~~”
“Come On-!!”
A night hanging out with a friend. This one never got old.
#. October 29, 2020 — Athens, Georgia / University of Georgia / Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall
“…What is all this?”
“Collected from here and there. Want some?”
“You even have Sour Patch?”
“Yup. Sour Patch, Cry Babies, Squashies—take your pick, whatever suits your taste.”
It was Halloween week, so the campus had been decorated since Monday. COVID or not, Halloween was not something you skipped, and I loved every bit of it. The only downside was that I'd be in Kentucky on the day itself. At least the game was a noon kickoff, so if we got back here it'd be around eight at night—late enough to catch some of the Halloween atmosphere.
The reason I was carrying candy right now was Halloween too. I walked past, and the girls just kept handing it out? And somehow, I'd become a candy vendor.
“…There was news about you this morning.”
“You saw that?”
“It just happened to cross my feed.”
“God! I know you love me, Coach, but could you tone down the stalking a little? Between men, friendship should be enough.”
“Crazy bastard. One of these days I'll rip that tongue out.”
“Then you'd lose your starting quarterback.”
“Dammit.”
This morning, a video had gone up online of a girl on the Kentucky cheer squad saying she had feelings for me. Her name was Ashley Dinda. The problem was her boyfriend—a player on the Kentucky team. When he found out, he posted on social media that he'd kill me if he saw me at this weekend's game, and the NCAA decided to take the matter somewhat seriously. It could have been waved off as a spat between hotheaded college kids, but to everyone's surprise they said they would monitor the situation.
I only knew about any of it because Alexi sent me the link, telling me to watch my back.
“What can I say? The sorrows of a popular man.”
“Still, be careful with rumors.”
“Yup. I'm on it.”
“…And how are things with your girlfriend?”
Football players' girlfriends are always a serious concern for head coaches and coordinators. It doesn't change much in the NFL either. Not even after marriage. Guys who have money, fame, popularity—everything—face constant temptation, which is why in some circles wives and girlfriends are brought to the same party. Though in those cases, of course, neither one knows the other exists. Only the man savors the thrill.
The reason Coach Monken brought up Alexi was that my girlfriend had been making a bit of noise—marking her territory on social media, so to speak.
“She's a little possessive, but I can handle it.”
“Might not be my place to say, but from experience, girls like that you need to watch carefully. It's your problem, though.”
“Yes, Sir. I'll keep it in mind.”
“…Good.”
After the brief personal exchange, Coach Smart walked into the quarterbacks' room and the real meeting began. Today was the day we received the new plays.
“The base is the Shallow Cross.”
“Nice.”
Like I'd said, the best way to beat a blitz is the hot throw—pre-designated routes with the offense moving in sync around them. But against Alabama, our only shallow-movement concept had been Hello Kitty, and that limitation haunted me. The Ranch concept fundamentally requires a protected pocket, so its weakness against the blitz was glaring.
In that sense, the Shallow Cross was the safest, surest option we had—and on top of it, Coach Smart made a bold call: we'd layer in the Bunch as well.
Shallow Cross: The most common blitz-counter concept. The receiver's route runs just behind the D-line, targeting the gap created when linebackers charge the quarterback.
Bunch Set: Exactly what it sounds like—a cluster of receivers stacked on one side, with deliberately overlapping routes that attack the weakened backfield a blitz leaves behind. Hits deeper than the Shallow Cross; combining the two lets you attack both levels at once.
The core of both concepts: Can the quarterback read the defense well enough to recognize the look? Can he correct the blocking and route paths with audibles to match?
“And the receivers?”
“They're in a meeting right now.”
“Make sure they have it locked. Even if I have to stay up all night, I'll have all of it memorized by tomorrow. There's only one full day left to drill it, so I want everything nailed down.”
“Right. Then let's begin.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The Shallow Cross had one variant. The Bunch had two. But depending on Kentucky's blitz looks and linebacker coverage, I'd have to memorize—and perfectly internalize—nine different scenarios and fourteen receiver routes. Add it all up, and I needed to be able to apply 9 × 14 = 126 total situations on the field, cold.
With barely thirty-six hours left on the clock, the difficulty was damn near impossible.
And yet.
God, I love this.
A festival was unfolding inside my head. I couldn't wait for the moment I got to unleash all of it on the field.
“If the defense shows a High 2 shell…”
“Shallow X, Bunch duck-exit deep.”
“…Hmm. Good. Next.”
The quarterback.
Truly the dream job I had always wanted.