My First College Halloween

Sean McDonough — SECN Play-by-Play: "First and goal for Moi. Georgia is knocking on the door for the first points of the ballgame. He throws toward the end zone— touchdown! Jordan Addison! The first receiving touchdown of his college career! ... And the opening drive ends in points. Six plays, 86 yards, 3 minutes and 9 seconds off the clock."

Todd Blackledge — SECN Color Analyst: "The forward progress of this Georgia offense with Dwayne Moi Stone at the helm is truly astonishing. They march down the field fast and furious, and they take points the way a kid scoops up the morning paper off the front porch."

McDonough: "James Cook. Jet sweep. In the pocket— a crosser headed for Kearis Jackson, and the teammates collide!! Jackson keeps running all the way to the end zone! Touchdown— Georgia! Fifty-four yards!"

McDonough: "After the timeout, eight seconds remain. They're going for a touchdown, not a field goal. Kirby Smart trusts his quarterback, it would seem. Third and goal. Play action. Moi— a flag is down, and the pass is away. Touchdown— Zamir White!"

McDonough: "Moi. Play action."

Blackledge: "It's deep!"

McDonough: "He's looking to the sideline— and the man is WIDE open!! Already twenty yards downfield! Tre' McKitty! Touchdown—!"

Blackledge: "Kentucky's blitz keeps getting picked apart. But at this stage there isn't much they can change to, because this is what they prepared for today."

McDonough: "That's right. First down. Moi. Gotta go deep— Jermaine Burton! Touchdown! Welcome to the Dwayne Moi Stone Show!! Short, deep, crossers. Wide receivers, running backs, tight ends— he hands out touchdowns to everyone, fairly and without discrimination!"

Kentucky University was, on this day, going through the most miserable Halloween ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of its existence.

They had built their blitz package off the Alabama game, and it came apart against a meticulously designed attack. From the moment they gave up the second touchdown, the game was effectively over.

With a quarterback who could run only half of the team's passing playbook, a seventeen-point deficit was a hopeless one. Worse, during that scoring drive Kentucky's defense had finally read Georgia's tendencies and the linebackers stuck to the receivers, only for the cornerbacks to lose the footrace and the trailing safeties to whiff their tackles and crash into one another.

That instant, Kentucky's morale snapped, and the scales tipped entirely toward Georgia.

Dwayne Moi Stone, creator of a career-high five touchdown passes, looked toward the Kentucky sideline after his celebration.

Not toward the players.

Toward ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the stands.

Moi pulled off his helmet and sent a wink their way.

Kentucky's head coach Mark Stoops was well aware of the recent cheerleader problem. He had also confirmed the video of Ashley Dinda, who was dating one of the team's backup wide receivers, publicly expressing her affection for Dwayne Moi Stone. The girl herself had brushed it off as nothing more than fan admiration for a celebrity.

But Kentucky's players had shown open hostility toward Moi Stone, and Stoops, who happened to be designing a blitz defense at the time, believed the two things would feed off each other.

And in truth, Kentucky's linebackers had brought Moi down a few times with ferocious tackles, but in the process came personal fouls like Unnecessary Roughness.

Fifteen-yard penalties.

They had deliberately slowed their offense to milk the clock, and then handed back free yards through penalties. On the play after the first down earned off the second personal foul, Moi connected on a 43-yard bomb to complete his fourth touchdown of the day.

It was their home field, so they would fight to the very end.

But with Kentucky's current offense,

they couldn't crack even Georgia's second-string defense.

McDonough: "Georgia is sending in Stetson Bennett. No reason for Moi to stay out there, I suppose. What a day this young man has had — 479 passing yards and five touchdowns. He did throw one interception, but it was closer to a drop by the receiver."

Time ticked away, and with 39 seconds left on the game clock, Stetson Bennett took the snap and dropped to one knee.

With the game clock running shorter than the play clock, ending the try this way left no reason to continue, and the game came to a forced close.

Mark Stoops hustled out onto the field and embraced Kirby Smart, both of them still wearing their masks as he was.

"You got me. Both hands and both feet are up."

"We got lucky, Coach. You didn't have your starting quarterback, after all. It'll be a tough season — hang in there."

"Appreciate it. See you next year."

"Happy Halloween."

Having finished his greeting with Kirby Smart, Mark Stoops went looking for Dwayne Moi Stone.

Before long he spotted the young man standing off to one side, and quickened his pace to close the distance.

"Whatever it took, you should have come to me."

"Haha. That would have made quite a picture too."

"You're saying that after watching our offense today?"

"The quality of the quarterback is what matters most, Sir."

"Impressive. If you weren't playing against us, I'd want to sit in a chair with a bucket of popcorn and watch it all over again."

"Thank you, Sir. I only did my best."

"See you next year."

"Yes, Sir. Happy Halloween."

The Georgia Bulldogs had been rated, from the very start, as the strongest team in the SEC alongside Alabama. The defense Kirby Smart and Glenn Schumann built was regarded as the most airtight in the nation, and the receiving corps, if not Top 3, was easily inside the Top 10.

A team with an average of 30 points on offense.

And an average of 15 points allowed on defense.

And yet, to date, Georgia was roughly holding to that 15 points allowed per game — while its offense was closing in on 50.

So where exactly had those extra 20 points come from?

Mark Stoops walked off the field and into the tunnel.

He thought it a very easy question to answer.

#. The Charter Flight Back to Georgia

#-1. Over Kentucky

Of every college sport in America,

football is the only one that travels to away games by charter.

A school with Georgia's history and résumé, in particular, keeps a dedicated plane decked out from the paint job inward, just like an NFL franchise. Schools without that luxury still charter planes through airline partnerships.

That's what carries them all across the country.

And do you know the single biggest reason this is even possible?

The number of games.

NCAA football teams play at most five or six road games a year, so even traveling by charter doesn't run up much in fuel or costs.

Owning one is, of course, an enormous undertaking that burns serious money — but the program earns back far more than it spends.

Besides, these dedicated planes are usually gifted outright by airlines closely tied to the region.

I'm told this one was too.

A charter plane obtained for free.

And so, aboard it, we—

"I just met you—"

"And this is crazy—"

"But here's my number—"

"So call me maybe—"

—blasted Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe, and sang and danced at the top of our lungs.

Only our upper bodies moved, of course. It was an airplane, after all.

Can't have the thing crashing.

The point is, we were having the time of our lives.

"Carly Rae Jepsen is killing it—!!"

"Killing it—!!!"

"WHOO—AH!!"

When we entered Kroger Field we'd been in full suits, per team code, but on the way out the dress code was gloriously lawless.

Kitty had gone as the Joker.

KJ had become a zombie.

Stetson was Constantine.

Darnell was Tiger King.

And I had dressed as Thor —

shirtless, for some reason.

It was all Carly Rae Jepsen's fault.

The song was just too hype.

"Attention, everyone!!"

"?"

The third round of Call Me Baby ended, and the head coach raised his voice from the center of the cabin.

In his hand hung the familiar necklace.

We're doing it here today?

"Today's Champion will be announced right here, right now!! Jordan!!"

"YEAH—!!!"

"COME ON!!!"

The Champion Necklace.

You could call it a Georgia tradition.

Under normal circumstances, the top performers by position group are announced at the Monday morning meeting the week after a win. Receivers. O-line. D-line. Linebackers. Special teams. Five groups in all, with the best player from each collecting $50 — every dollar of it out of Coach's own pocket.

For the record, quarterbacks don't qualify for that one.

We're the most scrutinized position on the field.

The Champion Necklace, however, can go to a quarterback too — simply put, it's the team's internally voted MVP. The prize is $100, and the winner wears the necklace for a photo.

A Polaroid.

Click.

Today's honoree was Jordan Addison, who had racked up a whole pile of firsts in his college career.

His first catch.

His first block.

His first touchdown.

Objectively speaking, the trophy belonged to the guy who'd thrown five touchdown passes — namely me — but team management is never that simple. Honestly, on a day like this, I think Jordan was the right call.

"Queue the song up again!!"

"Don't tell me we're playing Call Me Baby AGAIN?!"

"Why?! Got a problem with it?!"

"...FUCK NO!! I love that shit!!!"

"LET'S GO—!!!"

Our Call Me Baby video, leaked just before the Tennessee game, now sat at 80 million views on YouTube three weeks later.

Which was probably why every last one of the guys

had simply started enjoying the whole thing.

Sure, one day we'd get sick of it, and naturally we'd stop.

But today was not that day.

Until the exhaustion of the road trip finally caught up with us and drained us dry, we kept the party going inside that cabin.

A Halloween party,

thrown at 40,000 feet.

#. November 1, 2020

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607

The moment we touched down in Georgia in the best of moods,

the whole thing fell apart.

Only for me. Not the team.

Over the roughly hour-long flight, social media had blown up over our team boarding the bus in costume — and among the several girls who posted edits focused squarely on me, one in particular became this round's problem: an adult film actress named Elsa Jean.

Why wasn't I wearing a shirt?

Who was I showing off for?

Who even was this woman?

Were we in contact? And so on, and so on.

Alexi hounded me to the brink of driving me clinically insane, and refused to hang up. She rode me the whole bus ride from the airport back to campus.

And then from around eleven tonight until this very moment.

Around and around it went.

The same conversation, on an endless loop.

"I'm ASKING you why you did it!"

"I already told you."

"WHY did you do it?"

"God— you could drain a man dry, you know that?"

"What did you just say to me?"

Women want to install a manual for how men should be used.

Put plainly: they want to tame you.

The father and grandfather I love most in this world always said that losing to "a woman worth losing to" is the most manly thing a man can do — but Alexi is not that kind of woman. She's pretty, and sleeping with her is fun.

For those two things alone, I'd put up with the hassle.

But today,

she crossed the line.

"You not trusting me is entirely your problem."

"But YOU went and—"

"Stop. Stop. What exactly did I do wrong? Take my shirt off getting on the bus? Was I the only one? Plenty of other guys are shirtless in that video too. And yet you're acting like I did it to show off for other girls. Enough, Alexi. Stop. Why are you doing this? If I actually did something wrong, I'll own up to it. If not, then either there was a misunderstanding between us, or — I have never once failed to answer your texts, and I take your video calls anytime, anywhere, don't I? Outside of practice, anyway. Name one single time I haven't."

I hated gunning a girl down unilaterally like that.

But if I didn't, we'd be up all night.

And if that happened, this relationship was as good as over anyway.

"Cool your head. Sleep on it and think it through."

"You're STILL wrong."

"I'll grant that it's your opinion. But I'm not accepting it, and I'm not apologizing. Good night. I'm hanging up first tonight."

Click.

"Hoo— Fuck."

Back in high school, when my friends clutched their phones in the hallway screaming at their girlfriends, I mocked them mercilessly for it — and looking at myself now, I genuinely dread what those guys would say.

This is exactly why so many athletes' parents complain that women (and men) block their kids' path, isn't it?

Please.

Can somebody please understand that?

"Damn it. There goes Halloween."

My first college Halloween — it had started in pure joy and ended in a nightmare.

Deflated, I flopped onto my bed and pulled up the girl who had made Alexi explode.

Son of a—

It's this girl.

"Wanna see? If you hadn't told me who you were, I never would have guessed, would you?"

American athletes and adult film stars are two things you couldn't pry apart with a crowbar. Any party attended by professional players features no fewer than ten, often twenty, adult actresses.

At the owner's party held after my first Super Bowl victory in my past life, a staggering seventy-seven adult actresses were invited, and the team's biggest star at the time walked off with eight of them to his hotel.

It's not like I'm a stranger to that world, either.

Though reciting it now, it feels like reciting a novel I memorized.

But the memory is etched in vivid detail.

After my second Super Bowl win — on the day I got divorced for the third time — the owner sent four adult actresses to my suite, one of each race.

"Those really were the days—"

Normally, tomorrow—

No, wait. Today, actually.

Anyway. I'd planned to call Alexi over to the dorm today for some quality time alone, but with things as they were, I'd have to dig up something else to do.

First things first: I closed Instagram.

"Hoo—"

And of course, the instant the phone left my hand,

a message arrived from Alexi.

The vibrations wouldn't quit.

Going on everything I'd been through with her,

it would be a belated apology.

Because she knows full well that I'll pretend to lose and take her back.

But this time, I wasn't going to do that.

I'd keep ignoring her.

That's right.

I reached sideways, picked up my tablet,

and logged into the group Snapchat.

Channing Tindall and Travon Walker, both still up, were already online and called out to me — and I needed one more, so I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dragged in placekicker Jack Podlesny and scraped together our fourth.

Booted up the desktop.

Headset on.

Discord, connected.

"Hold up — why are YOU still awake?"

"Don't ask. Fought with the girlfriend."

"Again?"

"I feel you, man."

"Fuck. Let's just game. She's been blowing up my phone and I'm planning to ignore it straight through to tomorrow morning."

"Kekekeke. Bros gotta help bros."

"Damn right we do."

Play for about two hours,

and I figured I'd feel human again.

And so I lost myself in the game until dawn — properly focused on something for the first time in ages.

"Final match?"

"We won, so this is the last one."

"Haaah— I'm getting sleepy too."

"Jack's been playing half-asleep for a while now, hasn't he?"

"...."

"Jack? ...Jack?"

"Leave him. Kid's completely out cold."

"Fair enough. Get some rest, see you Monday."

"You too."

Turns out nothing in the world beats a game for resetting your mood.

Wholesome, and how great is that?

Women assume what men love most is picking up girls at bars and clubs — but that's like Christmas, a special occasion. In reality, gaming like this is the absolute best. Put a PlayStation and a pizza in front of a guy, and

how many would say no? Practically none, right?

At the end of the day, what wrecks relationships between men and women is always the same two things:

unverified suspicion born of imagination,

and the laziness that brushes off the small things.

Somebody had to wake Jack and put him to bed, so I had no choice but to turn my phone screen on.

Thirty-eight messages waiting.

She really sent a lot.

Taking care not to check them by accident, I tapped the screen and called Podlesny instead. The line rang, and a moment later—

"Heading to bed now."

"That's the spirit."

"Thank you, Buddy."

"Good night, Jack."

The quarterback looks after some of his teammates' sleeping habits, too.

Good grief — it's like we've got no mom around.

Which is exactly why I like the job, I suppose.

Thirty-eight.

Damn. She really did send a lot.

Morning problems belong to morning me.

Good night.