This Week Just Feels Right

September, when the season began.

No—before that. May.

No. Truthfully, it went back to February, when the 2020 recruiting class had more or less shaken itself out. That was when I'd started working closely with the school and talking regularly with one Samoan.

Kingsley Suamataia.

(Kingsley Suamataia)

Born in 2003 in Orem, Utah, he was the son of a Samoan father and a mother from Laie, Hawaii.

Like me, he'd only picked up football in high school.

His position was offensive tackle.

"Seriously? You're really coming here?"

-Yeah. Just got off the phone with Coach Kirby.

"Dam— I promise you'll never regret it."

-Well, it's your relentless persuasion that got me here, after all.

"Can I get a little smug about that?"

-Smug away.

Our current roster has players who are definitely leaving the college stage at the end of this season.

Obviously, that happens every year. And how well you fill those holes the following year is the key to sustained success. We call that process recruiting—a game I'd already lived through once before.

In Georgia's case, the losses on the line were heavy.

The D-line practically needed to be rebuilt from scratch.

The O-line was losing its anchors too.

Center Trey Hill. Left tackle Jamaree Salyer.

Sedrick Van Pran had been turning heads at practice and looked like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a real answer at center, but if Jamaree left, the left tackle spot would be a ghost town. We absolutely needed a body there.

That said, Jamaree was in a standoff with his parents about finishing his degree, so there was a chance he'd stay through next season.

But even so.

Left tackle was non-negotiable.

The team knew it too—that's why we'd already landed a 5-Star OT in Amarius Mims.

He and I had talked a ton as well. Honestly, by now I'd met nearly every kid coming in next year.

So what if people said I was just the face of the class?

Really. I say I've earned the right to be smug.

"If you and Mims protect me from both sides in 2022... damn! Can you see that? I've got goosebumps! Look, I'm serious!"

I held my arm up to the laptop camera.

Sure enough, the little hairs were standing on end.

According to Coach, Mims and Kingsley both had the talent and ability to be trusted with either tackle spot, and adding the two of them would make the 2022 O-line perfect.

What about Peter, you ask?

They'd play him at guard.

Fair enough. At the NFL level, guard is right for him too. In the athleticism and footwork that tackle demands, Peter might be upper-tier in the NCAA, but in the NFL he'd be middle-to-lower tier.

Left guard would be covered by Clay Webb anyway.

At this point it really was an All-Star planetary defense unit.

"Hoo—!"

After ending the video call with Kingsley, I reported to Coach.

I didn't pass along the details of the conversation. Just said I'd had a video chat.

Buzz buzz—

[Alexi]

Shouldn't you be in class right now?

A message from Alexi. I didn't check it right away.

I'd answered her texts yesterday and called her in the evening. She'd been crying so pitifully that I'd pretended to cave one more time.

What's a man supposed to do, winning against his girlfriend?

Of course, I had no intention of actually giving up the initiative. I just let her believe she held it.

Monday lunchtime. Time to prep for afternoon classes.

#. 8:20 PM

#-1. Butts-Mehre Heritage Hall

#-2. The Quarterbacks Room

The opponent we'd face this weekend was, of course, the University of Florida.

Yeah. That place. The one that sent a recruiter under an assumed name to my grandmother's house and tried to brainwash me nonstop.

Setting that aside, the Georgia–Florida game was one of the SEC's signature rivalries, and it even carried the nickname "The World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party."

The fun part was the venue.

Jacksonville. TIAA Bank Field.

At the home stadium of the NFL's Jacksonville Jaguars, Georgia and Florida had been playing their rivalry match since 1996.

The all-time record wasn't one-sided either—it traded back and forth. And from 2008 onward it got even more interesting. Florida won three straight. Then we won three straight. Then Florida won three straight again. Then us again, three straight.

If we beat Florida this time, we'd break the pattern and rip off four wins in a row.

That alone was reason we absolutely had to win.

Personal reasons too.

Coach, however, disliked the neutral-site game against Florida—because it cost us one of our precious recruiting weeks.

This year COVID made things a bit of an exception, but normally the Florida game fell during a recruiting week. Under NCAA recruiting rules you can't contact players off campus, and with a travel day Friday and a Saturday game, recruiting simply couldn't happen. You can't even make phone calls. Email is out of the question too.

But this arrangement had persisted for so long because the Jacksonville game brought both universities enormous financial benefit. When the contract was renewed last year, the city agreed to cover all the costs of home-game losses and hand each university a million dollars on top of that.

Why would a city go this far?

Because it pays them back even more. I said it earlier, didn't I? The biggest cocktail party in the world. The Georgia–Florida rivalry game is the football event Jacksonville locals love most, and it pours enormous money into local businesses and the entire commercial district.

Especially in a COVID-battered year like this one, the city needed the distraction all the more.

For the record, that nickname was coined by a Florida Times-Union sportswriter who in 1958 watched a drunk fan, caught up in the festivities, offer a drink to an on-duty police officer.

It isn't used anymore these days. Why? Because people used the nickname itself as an excuse to drink themselves into a stupor and cause endless problems. So nowadays it's called this instead:

The War for the Oar.

Traditionally, the winning school took home the Okefenokee Oar. The victor proudly kept it until the two schools met again the following year, brought the oar back to Jacksonville, and the winning team carried it off once more.

To anyone outside of Georgia, Florida, and Jacksonville, it might be a "so what? what of it?" kind of thing. But not to us.

"Doesn't feel like a strong defense."

"They've been giving up points."

"35 to Ole Miss. 24 to South Carolina. Even watching on film, I can see a few holes."

"You think it'll go like the Alabama game?"

"More like... a way sloppier shootout."

Alabama's Mac Jones knew how to pace himself. The Florida quarterback doesn't do that.

"..."

"..."

Sometimes we quarterbacks study the opposing QB's movements, and in the process we pick up ideas—or pass along tips that might help our own defense.

Best-case scenario is forcing the guy to move. But the team obviously knows that too.

The things only a quarterback can see.

Those were what we had to find.

"He's mechanical."

"Good shoulders."

"Not better than mine, but hey. Serviceable."

"Kluk kluk kluk kluk."

Kyle Trask operated almost exclusively from the shotgun. Florida's center looked good—perfect snap placement every time. No wonder he could be mechanical. This was a team with the Tim Tebow era carved into its DNA; I figured that shaped these tendencies too.

Of course, Kyle Trask can't run. His athleticism is right at the NCAA average.

But still. Terrifying thought—if I'd gone to Florida, that would've been exactly me. A pass-producing factory, living in the shotgun morning, noon, and night.

Not that I ever had any intention of going. Just imagining it was enough to make my skin crawl.

Anyway. Nothing special had jumped out yet. All I had was that Florida owned a very well-organized offense, and that the quality of their receivers and routes could give our defense real trouble.

Now.

Our turn on offense.

Right on cue, Coach walked in.

"Moi?"

"Yes, Sir."

"My wife sent this over for you."

"Whoa— wow. What's this?"

"Blueberry pie, I'd wager."

"Whoa—oh!! THE blueberry pie?"

Back when I'd had dinner at Coach's house, the pie his wife had baked was genuinely delicious. And she'd remembered to make me another one.

"So? How far did you get?"

Certain that one whiff of it would break my discipline, I swallowed my tears and set it gently aside.

"Nothing special, Sir."

"Really? Then let's get started."

"Yes, Sir."

Clips of every scoring drive Florida had allowed this season began playing from the top of the drive. And I gave my reads quickly.

"The secondary's communication is broken."

"It's the same in this clip, too."

"Could you rewind a moment, Sir?"

"See that? Before the snap, the right tackle can't stay still."

"They keep benching him and the calls are getting crossed."

"The alignment keeps breaking down..."

"Their D-coordinator's straight-up bad, huh? And the head coach doesn't seem to be reining things in either."

"The linebackers are at houseplant level."

"Let's go with the midrange game."

Pulling the conclusions together: their defense was a total mess.

Just like Alabama, they were covering for it by ramming the ball down throats on offense. The difference was that where Alabama ground you down steadily across all four quarters, Florida's game was about raw destructive power—detonating their energy in short, violent bursts.

Which meant one thing.

"Their QB's a moody one, Sir."

"Like Kirk Cousins?"

"Cousins feels a bit more timid to me. But yeah, similar."

The Georgia coaches treated me with remarkable respect. Probably because of how sharp I was in these meetings—my old head-coaching habits kept leaking out. Sure, I got things wrong now and then. But hey, everyone does. Where in this world is there a perfect human being? Am I right?

"Alright. That's it for today."

"Whew— hey, do you know something?"

"?"

"As of this very moment, I'm carrying this beauty home for a private rendezvous. Milk and orange juice are joining us, so don't even dream of interrupting. Understood?"

Most of the coaches laughed at my goofing. Coach looked mildly dumbfounded, and Coach Monken delivered his verdict.

"Crazy bastard."

"Well then—Good Night, Everyone!"

"Sleep well, son!"

"Yes Sir!!"

Maybe it was because the team was riding a five-game win streak, but the campus mood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠these days was fantastic.

The walk from Butts-Mehre to the dorm took ten minutes on foot. The pie would cool a little, sure—but cold pie had its own charm. The sugar in the blueberry filling would firm up into something dense and rich.

"Dam— I really do love pie."

People passing on the way to the dorm greeted me warmly, and each time I answered with a smile or a salute.

Thanks to Alexi marking her territory so aggressively, the girls waiting around in front of the dorm had vanished.

Girls like that, in college, generally wanted one night with a campus celebrity to brag about. If a player had declared for the NFL or just entered it, though, it meant she was designing her own future: get pregnant, collect child support. Even if his NFL career turned out pitiful, he was still NFL genetics—she could raise a son into a football player.

In my past life, one certain player had more than ten children out of wedlock.

Why do you think I was so careful back in high school?

Because I'd seen too much with my own eyes. Some insane women showed up with another man's child already on the way, thinking "let's see if he's fooled"—and dragged the poor guy through paternity tests. That alone was enough stress to tank a player's performance.

COVID. Alexi. The ingredients of my peaceful nights.

One good, one bad. But hey.

"Oh! James."

"Just getting back?"

"Yes, Sir. Had a meeting."

"Three years I've worked this post, and before that I always thought athletes never studied. You're the exception."

"Haha. Football's the exception, Sir."

Look at the basketball or baseball guys—they actually get to focus on schoolwork. We football players study double. And the quarterbacks? Call it quadruple.

"Ah— James."

"?"

"You've got plates and forks in there, right?"

"Sure do. Why?"

"Because I've been handed a mind-blowing blueberry pie. A work of art by Coach's wife. One bite and you'll understand why I said 'work of art.'"

"Whoa. You'd really give me some?"

"Of course. You work hard, Sir."

"Haha. You know you're the only one who says that?"

"What can I say? It's just that charming of a face."

"Kluk kluk kluk. Come on, then. I'll accept it gratefully."

"Lead the way, Sir."

I couldn't say why my mood was so good today. Alexi had been well-behaved, recruiting was going smoothly, the meeting had gone well—and above all, it was probably this blueberry pie.

Having carved out a generous slice for security guard James, I carried the rest up to the sixth floor, set the plate straight on the table, and opened the fridge for something to drink.

Ah. A fork.

Tap-tap went my head as I realized I'd forgotten something important, and then I video-called my family back in Hawaii.

Soon enough, Mom appeared on screen with a beaming smile. She'd been just about to go to sleep.

"Aloha— how's it going over there?"

-Aloha, Moi. It's wonderful here.

"That's great. Oh— Darnell's family left already, right?"

-They arrive the day after tomorrow. Scheduling issues, apparently.

"Oh, got it."

Last week, after some deliberation, I'd gently floated the idea of sending his mother to Hawaii. At first Darnell was naturally flustered—then, a moment later, he hugged me. He jokingly drove in the nail of "only until I make the NFL," but that was really just a little awkwardness talking.

I'd left out Stephanie and Layla on purpose—those two were Darnell's pillars. They were living together at school anyway.

"Thank you so much, Mom."

-Oh, hush. I'm just happy you're carrying on the Stone family spirit.

"Well, whose blood did I inherit?"

-Haha. What were you up to, anyway?

After showing Mom the pie, we chatted a little longer and hung up. Oh—somewhere in the middle I'd talked to Dad too. Then Aunt Mel. And last, Grandma.

-Kahuku's had it rough this year.

"Haha. Coach actually reached out about it already."

-Did he, now?

"Yes. But he'll find his answer."

-Good. Are you eating properly?

"Grandma, food is growing on trees here. Though of course, none of it would suit your exacting standards. Oh—and I mentioned you to Coach's wife, and she said she'd love to meet you and Coach together. Says she wants to learn your cooking."

-Any time, dear.

After wishing her goodnight and ending the call, I saw the clock had crept toward 10:30.

Last up was Alexi—but first, I had to clean up my food.

Swoooosh—

Clatter.

Clatter.

The school sends a housekeeper over every day for cleaning and dishes, but I still rinse off simple food stuff myself. A man's got to have a conscience, no?

Day one of Florida prep. Somehow, it felt really, really good.

Feelings like this usually proved right.

#. November 3, 2020

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

By some stroke of luck, my schedule lined up today, so I was spending it entirely with Jamaree.

"I'm telling you, I will make it to space someday."

"Then you'd better drop two-thirds of your body weight."

"I'll drop it. Whatever it takes."

This dear friend who guarded my blindside was deeply fascinated with outer space. His dream was to go up there someday—he wanted to know what was out there. So most of what he watched was sci-fi movies or documentaries, and because of that, our circle called him the Astronaut.

For the record: he absolutely loves that nickname.

Truthfully, with that stone-faced look and those dimensions, his face and frame could scare the daylights out of you—but the moment he smiled, he turned into a big baby. You could see his pure heart right through him. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠That was exactly the kind of guy he was.

Jamaree was also voted the most trusted vocal leader among the teammates, and he usually handled the final pre-game pep talk. A very earnest athlete, too—he kept a quiet life outside the game as well.

He was hopelessly hooked on Call of Duty, and now and then we'd game together. His eating habits were a bit of a disaster, so I occasionally invited him over and fed him properly. He called me his personal chef.

I liked that, too. This was our friendship, after all.

"I could never live like you do."

"Excuse me?"

"Dating a gorgeous girlfriend, with a mountain of girls outside just waiting for you two to break up. I couldn't handle that."

This adorable friend—a devoted, pure-hearted romantic—was doing well with the girlfriend he'd met here. They were one of the campus's famous lovebird couples.

"So? Who's next on the list?"

"Nobody."

"Come on—don't be like that."

"I'm serious. I'm not planning to settle down yet, but while I'm with someone, I stay faithful. When I'm not, sure, I could sleep around. But I don't think about what's next."

"That's the polar opposite of football."

"Kluk kluk. Right? It is, isn't it?"

Before this conversation, actually, we'd talked about the Draft. Today, for the first time, Jamaree signaled that he intended to finish his senior year and graduate, adding that he'd give it more thought before saying anything for certain.

It didn't exactly set my heart at ease. But it felt good knowing I was the first person he'd told.

"Hey—your girlfriend's coming."

"Then I'm off."

"Yeah."

Jamaree rose from the grass and walked toward her. I waved them off, then flopped back down.

Ah—

How leisurely. This is the life.

November in Georgia had chilly mornings and evenings, but the daytime still climbed past a warm twenty degrees. It wasn't Hawaii's sky—but I'd come to love this sky too.

"THIS. This is living."

Let me say it one more time.

This week just feels right.