Georgia's Bulldogs Tear Apart Even Alligators (1)

Life is a composite of coincidence and consequence.

That's why people always judge by the results.

Back then, it had been disappointing.

But now? It was fine.

If anything, it had turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

And that was exactly why Dan Mullen could finally shake off the humiliation of failing to recruit Dwayne Moi Stone.

The Florida Gators currently sat at 3 wins and 1 loss.

Their offense was sharp and ferocious.

Like the teeth of an alligator.

And at the center of it all stood two men.

First, quarterback Kyle Trask.

And then, the other one.

"Throw it right, Kyle!!"

"Yes, sir."

"Once you lock onto your target, do NOT hesitate! You hear me?! We have a perfect system! The SYSTEM! The receivers are going to run their routes like machines, so don't second-guess — just throw it! As fast as you can! Good! Let's run it again!"

The marked improvement in the Gators' offense this season owed a great deal to Brian Johnson, a former player at the University of Utah.

Brian Johnson, once rated the best high school quarterback in the state during his playing days, had cruised through college as well. As a sophomore in 2005, he racked up 2,892 passing yards and 8 touchdown passes.

But in the eleventh game of that season, against New Mexico, he suffered a devastating injury that ended his year. After more than a year of rehabilitation he returned to the field, but the sharpness of old never came back.

And so a promising quarterback once all but assured an NFL career closed out his playing days as an ordinary college player.

Afterward, Brian Johnson returned to the college ranks and began his career as a quarterbacks coach. His abilities were recognized quickly, and he went on to coach quarterbacks at Mississippi State and the University of Houston as well.

He first crossed paths with Dan Mullen during their Mississippi State days, and last year, when Florida's offense was floundering, Mullen persuaded Johnson to join him with the Gators.

His current title: Offensive Coordinator.

He was in charge of the entire offense.

"That's it, Kyle!! That's what I've been talking about!!"

"Throw without fear."

"Yes!! Throw it like you mean it!"

These days, everyone in the Florida Gators organization believed Brian Johnson would eventually make his way to the NFL. Watching him orchestrate the entire offense with such effortless command, admiration came naturally.

But what was most astonishing of all was his eye for reading defenses.

If he'd never been injured — if his playing career had continued unbroken — he might have become the greatest quarterback in the NFL.

That was the kind of thought his brilliance provoked.

Brian Johnson was simply exceptional.

"You were right about him."

"Brian is the best in that field, sir."

"The effort was worth it, then."

"It was. We were fine without Dwayne Moi Stone from the very beginning."

"…."

In truth, Brian Johnson had been Florida's blueprint for the future, a plan drawn up with Dwayne Moi Stone in mind. That was how things were supposed to unfold.

But during the recruitment of Dwayne Moi Stone, University of Florida President Kent Fuchs had been through a hellish ordeal.

He still had no idea why the reporter had never published the story — and because of that, he lived each day with his heart in his throat.

And maybe it was petty resentment, too.

But he desperately wanted Georgia taken down.

"You've built a fine team. I'll keep counting on you."

"Just leave it to me."

Kent Fuchs gave Dan Mullen's arm a light pat and left the football team's training facility.

Time had begun to dull the wound, and even amid the chaos, daily life carried on. But every time Kent Fuchs thought of one particular thing, his insides burned.

The donation.

One point three billion dollars, no less.

Had the recruitment of Dwayne Moi Stone succeeded, the university stood to receive roughly 1.3 billion dollars more.

Now all of that money had vanished in an instant.

And Kent Fuchs was left nursing a grudge.

November 5, 2020. Athens, Georgia. University of Georgia — the House of Payne.

Thursday.

The preparation was sprinting toward its finish line. Tomorrow, we had to travel to Jacksonville.

Quite a few guys on the team were genuinely looking forward to it — it was a rare chance to legally set foot inside an NFL stadium.

Me? I was ambivalent.

"Turbo, set!!"

Game-condition practice. Behind us stood the head coach and his staff.

"Move!! Keep moving!!"

"Nice pass!!"

"Good Job, Good JOB!"

Florida's secondary was badly vulnerable, so we'd prepared tactics aimed squarely at that weakness. Whenever I didn't like a receiver's route or an O-lineman's block, I'd walk back and talk it over with Coach Monken, and we'd adjust it and run the snap again. Think of it as fine-tuning the details — raising the whole tactical framework a level, if you will.

The tiniest differences forged here.

They were what decided inches, yards — and ultimately, the outcome.

"Left guard!! Seal that block for real!!"

"It'll be different in the game."

"FUCK!! You want me to cut out that mouth of yours, huh?! Yeah?! You're dogshit in practice and you're gonna be great in the game?! You got no head?! Huh?! You got no brain!!"

Justin Shaffer, the team's senior left guard, was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a little lacking when it came to consistency, persistence, and patience.

With a blessed frame of 6'4" (193cm) and 310 pounds (140kg), and the technique to back it up, it was precisely those shortcomings that kept him from climbing any higher.

He'd make the NFL. 100 percent.

Because that body was too attractive to pass up.

If he could sharpen his focus and close the consistency gap between practice and games just a little more, even the agility that scouts dinged him for would improve dramatically.

But that was a personality issue.

And honestly, those are hard to change.

"Turbo, set!!"

I called the Turbo signal for the entire session at the House of Payne, and practice only wrapped up after nearly a full hour.

Now we'd shower and gather for meetings. After that, dinner.

"Shiiiit. Why're you singling me out, man? You ever seen anyone work harder in practice than me?! Four years of college and I've never once been late. I LIVE in the weight room!"

"I know, Shep."

"Goddammit."

I'd showered next to Justin Shaffer on purpose, letting him vent every last grievance. To rebuild the confidence Coach Monken's chewing-out had knocked loose, I laid out his strengths honestly, one by one.

And then—

"You're the only one who gets it, man. Thanks."

"Whoa-oh. Save the hugging for outside."

"Ah- right. Khehehe. If I'd wrapped my arms around you in here, it would've looked gay. Am I wrong? Khehehehehe."

Justin Shaffer's mood had lifted, so it would probably be fine.

Florida ran a 4-3 defense built around a ferocious D-line pass rush. If our guards couldn't hold up, no pocket would form for me.

With that in mind, Ben was rock solid.

A trustworthy OG.

He bore a slight resemblance to WWE superstar Kevin Owens, so we teased him about it now and then — and apparently he'd internalized it, because lately he'd started growing his beard in exactly the same style.

He'd even threatened to shave his head into a mohawk.

We barely managed to talk him out of it.

"You still hung up on the mohawk?"

"Yeah. It'd be sick as hell, right?"

"…Not even a little. You'd look like some trailer-park biker pickled in booze and junk food at a run-down Southern pub."

"Whoa. That simile is way too vivid."

"I told you, didn't I? No mohawk!"

After toweling off and getting dressed, I headed to the meeting room with the O-linemen.

Two offices that had originally served other purposes had their connecting wall removed to create one huge conference room. That way we could sit 1.5 meters apart and stay compliant with the distancing protocols.

When I'd talked to Amon-Ra on the phone a while back, he told me USC was barely following its COVID policies at all. Part of it was that the rules varied a bit state by state, but being in L.A., the whole atmosphere was just very different from Georgia's.

Not that I was jealous or anything.

The meeting centered on analyzing the opponent's personnel. We drilled the key plays over and over.

"If the linebacker waves his hand like this here…"

In college football, the first layer of preparation is recruiting. The second is camp and practice. And the last is decoding the opponent's playbook.

Everyone knew the NCAA was a world crawling with spies and play-stealers, so how well you read the other side's signals — and how well you hid your own — could decide a game as much as anything.

You could never know it all.

But at minimum, the hand signals on the field were worth memorizing.

That was exactly where we were now.

Click.

The lights went out, and Coach Smart stood at the front.

"Lights out by 6 a.m. tomorrow! I'll give you five minutes, then I'm leaving anyone who's not up! Make sure your roommates actually wake up! Good work today, everyone. Dismissed!"

While preparing for the Florida game, something suddenly came back to me.

A story I'd heard during my recruitment.

Brian Johnson.

Back when I visited the Swamp, Dan Mullen had called Brian Johnson a custom-made coach prepared just for me.

"He actually said that?"

"Yup."

"You went to the Swamp too?"

"Yeah. Beautiful place. It screams Florida the moment you lay eyes on it. Of course, it's no Sanford."

Slipping a piece of chicken into my mouth, I picked my fork back up and kept talking.

"Florida's offense is his creation. Not Dan Mullen's."

Watching Florida's offense this season, it was the polar opposite of what Dan Mullen had pitched me.

The man who'd gone on and on about a Tim Tebow 2.0 suddenly locking his quarterback into the pocket and running a passing game? Please. It made no sense.

If Brian Johnson had been there during my recruitment, maybe — just maybe — he could have swayed me.

Regardless of how they'd tried to deceive me.

Because what mattered in the end was the NFL.

"So here's my point: what we're competing against isn't their defense."

"It's not?"

"Nope. That game's going to be a shootout either way. We have to outscore them. So the opponent we're really facing in two days isn't Florida's defense — it's Brian Johnson."

"Hmm—"

"…"

The more I prepared, the more I trained, the clearer it became: this game was going to be a slugfest.

Maybe our defense ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be the ones caught off guard.

After all, they were the unit that had bottled up Alabama at a relatively modest score — and now they'd be leaking points left and right.

Of course, ideally that wouldn't happen.

Twenty points, max?

That's all we'd need them to hold.

But if things didn't go that way, the wavering of the defense could shake the offense, too.

Football is a team sport, after all.

"Let's not sweat the points we give up. Let's just do our job."

"Now that, I like."

"Right? That's my whole point."

I knew it would sound odd — preaching team sport one second, then saying let's just do our job the next.

But that was the reality.

No sport divides labor more cleanly. It was a game stacked with selfish players on the field — and yet, at the same time, no sport depended more on organizational cohesion. Contradictory logic ran straight through its heart, and because I understood that, I could lead an offense the way I did.

The offense's group Snapchat buzzed for a while before bed.

It was exactly the response I'd been counting on, so a smile crept onto my face on its own. And so I left one more message in the chat.

Georgia's Bulldogs tear apart even alligators.

In two days, we were going to prove it.

November 6, 2020. Jacksonville, Florida — TIAA Bank Field, Front Office.

Friday morning, people bustled about inside TIAA Bank Field, home of the Jacksonville Jaguars. At the center of the field, the emblems of Georgia and Florida had been painted, and the signage announcing the matchup was going up along the fencing in front of the stands.

And one man watched it all.

David Caldwell.

General Manager of the Jacksonville Jaguars.

"Would it look petty of me if I said I didn't care much for the sight of that?"

"…"

"Whew—"

David Caldwell had taken over as Jaguars GM in 2013 and thrown everything he had into dragging the franchise out of the swamp of mediocrity.

Just before his arrival, Jacksonville had gone 2-14, dead last in the AFC South.

On his very first day in the building, Caldwell fired the head coach and made other radical moves that sent the fanbase into raptures.

But that was where the magic ended.

Gus Bradley, the head coach he'd handpicked himself, left the team after a little over three years with a miserable 13-42 record.

Then in 2017, on the back of a sudden defensive awakening, the team reached the AFC Championship Game for the first time since 1999 — only to swallow their tears in a loss to the Patriots.

After that, the decline began all over again.

5-11 in 2018. 6-10 in 2019.

Dead last in the AFC South once more, and this year the Jaguars sat at 1-6.

After edging the Indianapolis Colts 27-20 in the season opener, they'd dropped six straight.

And so, both inside and outside the organization, the calls came.

Fire the GM.

At this rate, last place was a foregone conclusion — so appoint a GM who could tear the roster down and rebuild, and construct a team around Trevor Lawrence, the presumptive #1 overall pick next year.

Under these circumstances, a Georgia-Florida game meant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolutely nothing to David Caldwell.

Worse, it was a net financial loss.

He had to pay each school a million dollars.

"If it were me, I'd sell this year's #1 pick."

"You'd throw away Trevor Lawrence?"

"I'd be playing for two years down the road. I could run a rebuild too — that's what I mean. I could turn this into the team that wins the fewest games in the league for the next two years. Ja'Marr Chase, Penei Sewell. Draft the studs this year, take the quarterback in two."

David Caldwell's remarks about Dwayne Moi Stone weren't truly the words of a man looking toward the future.

They were just—

a little sourness twisting his gut.

Since before the season, ownership and those around him had begun laying the groundwork to select a new GM, plotting a future built around Trevor Lawrence.

If that mission had been handed to him, he'd have worked harder than anyone.

But because it wouldn't be his —

he was acting out.

Knock knock—

"?"

Click.

The closed door of the GM's office swung open, and a secretary handed Caldwell a memo.

The Jacksonville GM read what was written there — and promptly crumpled the paper and flung it to the floor.

"Sir?"

"Whew—"

A message from ownership.

Activate the backup quarterback.

"They're benching Minshew."

"…You're serious."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"I am."

"So they were planning to push you out from the start."

"They needed a scapegoat in the court of public opinion, I suppose."

Even with public sentiment at rock bottom, the ownership group had adroitly tied Caldwell's hands and feet. Before the season he'd been ordered to trade away several starters for draft picks and young players, and now the memo demanded he demote the starting quarterback.

Gardner Minshew was the one person in the organization who'd treated him like a human being — and ownership intended to seal off every possible path to victory, terrified that Minshew might actually win them a game.

The New York Jets were openly, deliberately losing on purpose, and Jacksonville wanted in on the scheme.

But none of this was something the fans knew about.

And every ounce of the blame would land on the GM.

That was how it would play out.

It made him that much easier for the ownership group to fire.

A sacrificial lamb.

True, it was an outcome he'd helped bring on himself.

But nobody ever wishes for it.

"Whew—"

As Jacksonville reached out its arms to embrace Trevor Lawrence—

Georgia, home of Dwayne Moi Stone, was heading its way.

10:17 a.m. Jacksonville, Florida — EWC Community Field.

Today's practice site was the field Edward Waters College used as its home stadium.

EWC was an NCAA Division II school, and the quality of the turf — the overall condition of the stadium, honestly — was actually a notch below even Kahuku's home field.

One side of the NCAA, you could call it.

The wealth gap was considerable.

"Damn— THIS is a home stadium?"

"I could never play on something like this."

"Yeah? Then run even harder."

"Goddammit. Fine, I will."

The guys who'd been stars since high school and cruised into Georgia were stunned at the sight of the place.

I wondered how long that feeling would last.

At least through tomorrow, I hoped.

"Hey."

"?"

"Look over there."

"Huh?"

I turned my head toward where Stetson was pointing. Someone was walking our way.

The guys recognized him instantly.

So did I.

Chris Conley.

A wide receiver who'd played at Georgia from 2011 to 2014, drafted by Kansas City in the third round, 76th overall, in 2015.

After his rookie deal expired, he hit free agency and signed with Jacksonville in the spring of 2019.

Coach Kirby Smart had arrived after his time, so none of the current coaches knew him personally — but it seemed he'd come out to visit his alma mater's practice anyway.

"Moi!!"

"He's calling you."

"Go ask for an autograph."

"Keep your composure, boys. Here I go."

I left my teammates behind and walked over to Coach Smart's side. Next to him stood Chris Conley.

"Dwayne Moi Stone. I've been keeping an eye on you lately."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Just call me CC."

Chris Conley had sent an ice cream truck here for us.

"Can't have anyone stealing my spot, right?"

"Yes, sir. I'll give it everything I've got."

"Good. Because from what I can see, you're going to be a big deal. Demolish teams like Florida, nice and smooth."

For Chris Conley, the famed DC Comics and Star Wars superfan, I promised I'd do a special celebration if I scored a touchdown tomorrow.

We didn't decide on anything specific.

I'd improvise.

"You're oozing confidence, huh?"

"Always do."

"Haha. I like it. Mind if I follow you?"

"The honor would be all mine."

According to Coach Monken, whom I ran into after Chris Conley left, he'd come here purely to meet me and talk in person.

I'd scoffed — no way, right?

But apparently, that really was the truth of it.

"Just don't put too much tension in those shoulders."

"My shoulders are always softer than butter, sir."

"Damn it! Then show me that tomorrow on the field."

"Yes, sir."

My first impression of Jacksonville in this lifetime.

So far, it was just about ordinary.