Georgia's Bulldogs Tear Even the Gators to Shreds (2)

#. November 7, 2020

#-1. Jacksonville, Florida, USA

#-2. TIAA Bank Field

Wherever you go, the Bulldogs exist.

Even in the age of COVID, we were no exception.

Five buses pulled up to the stadium, and the fans waiting a little ways off came out to greet us.

Some of them were holding up picket signs.

Still dressed in the suits we always wore on road trips, we stepped inside TIAA Bank Field.

Maybe because we'd already been here once yesterday, the place felt strangely familiar already.

"Moi."

"?"

"How do you think you'd like playing in Jacksonville?"

How would I like it?

Not much.

"Really? It's Florida."

The weather I could live with, sure.

Honestly, it beat Miami ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or Tampa. Those places get hammered by typhoons and hurricanes, but by the time a storm rolls through, Jacksonville is where the wind goes to die — nothing to worry about beyond the occasional gust.

The problem was that Florida itself was such a red ocean for football that the fanbase got split every which way — and, first and foremost, the owner sucked.

"Every year he throws a fit about moving the team to London."

"Fair — that part's rough. Wait, isn't London the capital of Spain?"

"It's England, you idiot. Look at a world map sometime."

"Not knowing doesn't hurt my quality of life."

"The capital of Spain, London. Unbelievable. Truly."

"Yeah, yeah, aren't you great."

I am, actually.

I really am pretty great.

Anyway, setting aside all that, Jacksonville was the textbook case of an owner running his mouth until he wrecked the franchise. The team technically employed a president and a GM, but the real management was all handled by the owner's son — Tony Khan, vice president of the Jacksonville Jaguars.

The problem was that this man knew absolutely nothing about football, and cared about pro wrestling far more than the sport he supposedly ran.

Which is why I never wanted to end up on this team.

It'd be a nightmare, right?

If Trevor Lawrence went somewhere else and Jacksonville kept tanking all the way to the #1 pick of our senior class' draft, I'd seriously consider spending an extra year in college.

I'm not joking. Not even a little.

I'd rather play football in some frozen nowhere like Chicago or Minnesota. Jacksonville? Absolutely not.

1:28 PM.

We took the field.

We held a Quick Meeting — a short session with Coach Monken and the rest of the offensive staff.

We ran through the plays we'd prepared one more time.

Threw a few passes to loosen the arm.

"Looks good to me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Let's see one deep ball."

Tommy Bush from the practice squad lined up to run a long route.

"Turbo, set."

Coach Monken called the play himself and tossed me the ball. I took the snap, gave the sprinting Tommy a single glance, and launched the pass high into the air.

The ball traveled a good fifty yards.

And Tommy didn't come down with it.

On an easy catch, no less.

"God sake, Tommy!! Is that seriously the best you've got!!"

Tommy Bush, a graduate of Samuel Clemens High School in Texas, had come to Georgia in the 2018 class as a 3-Star Prospect with a scholarship offer.

The head coach had brought him in as a wide receiver with room to grow, looking only at his long frame (196 cm), and in the end, it had turned into a failed decision.

Tommy simply lacked the will to survive competition on an NCAA level that existed in a different dimension from high school ball.

Worse still, last year his grades had cost him his eligibility to play this season — until COVID saved him.

Given the extraordinary circumstances of the pandemic, the NCAA had temporarily instituted a 5-Year Eligibility Extension for collegiate athletes.

Ordinarily, a player who fell below academic standards couldn't participate in games or even practices, but thanks to the extension, Tommy had essentially been redshirted.

Personally, I believed he ought to be working himself half to death to change his own life. Tommy just didn't have the will or the grit for it.

Even now, the kid looked like he wasn't thinking about anything at all.

"Fuck. With an attitude like that…."

"Mind if I throw two more?"

"Go ahead. Cam! Reed!"

Cameron Moore and Reed Case were also wide receivers on the practice squad.

Sorry to say it, but

these two had no talent.

They were both 178 cm, too small to play NCAA Division 1, and didn't have any real athletic gifts either — realistically, the practice squad was their ceiling.

They weren't scholarship players, either.

They were Walk-Ons.

They loved football so much that they'd joined the team more like a club activity, and the joy of their lives was getting to wear a uniform with their number and name stitched on it.

They worked hard. Genuinely, truly hard.

They just never got better.

But it was exactly because of guys like them that we got this kind of help at practice — and the team's whole atmosphere was better for it.

"Nice catch!! That's it exactly, Moore!!"

"That was a really good catch."

"The walk-ons are hauling down balls way tougher than that one, and… tsk. Tommy's a lost cause."

Speaking of which.

Tommy was waiting on the portal.

The Transfer Portal — the window during which the NCAA allowed players to transfer — opened around January every year.

From the day after the season ended, players had roughly sixty days to file a transfer request through the NCAA application, and anyone who switched teams during that window could play immediately the following season.

In the old days, you had to sit out a full year after transferring.

"How many minutes left?"

"Twenty-one."

"Can I go warm up on my own?"

That your routine? Go ahead."

"Yes, Sir."

I put on the headphones that had been hanging around my neck and pressed the button to crank the volume.

Lately it was Jack Harlow's WHATS POPPIN or The Weeknd's Blinding Lights — and both artists followed me back.

I jogged slowly toward one end zone, then the other.

Then I sat down with my back against the goalpost.

And slowly severed the world from myself.

The people on the field grew blurry, bit by bit.

The kaleidoscope of color drained into black and white.

I breathed in and drank down the positive.

I breathed out and let go of the negative.

A few rounds of that, and then I closed my eyes —

and it felt like I could hear the roar of the crowd.

How would I play on this field today?

How did I want to look out there today?

"I'm going to be the best."

I exhaled those words and opened my eyes.

"Faster!!"

"Head in the game, run!!"

"Go! Go! Go!"

My ears popped open, and everything snapped back to the way it was.

I pushed myself up off the ground, took a ball, and started walking.

Walk five yards, throw motion.

Another five yards, throw motion.

From just in front of one end zone to the far one, every five yards I ran through a different imagined situation — setting up, releasing, resetting.

Then I started the whole thing over again.

"EVERYBODY!!! LOCKER ROOM!!!"

"You heard him?! Locker room!!"

From here on, we got ready in the locker room.

It started with putting on the uniforms.

The protective padding was always layered underneath first.

And then—

"How's the pressure?"

"Perfect."

Time for taping from the physio.

This was the most important part of pregame prep.

Wrapping tape around every part of the body.

Especially critical was lacing up the shoes and binding shoe to ankle, tight and solid.

Ankles were the most common injury in football — if the tape wasn't wrapped so snugly that your gait felt stiff, one or two plays was all it took to go down.

Beyond that, I taped my fingers.

That one was about feel, too,

so I always did it myself whenever I could.

Tape on, grip the ball.

A little more tape, grip again.

Peel a layer off, grip again.

Only when I found the feel I liked best

did I set the tape down in my locker.

"Alright—! Everyone take a seat!!"

Coach Dan Lanning brought the room to order,

and Zamir stepped up front first.

Today was a very big game.

We wanted to keep the winning streak alive, claim the #1 spot in the AP rankings, and take a massive step toward the SEC Championship — all in a single day.

And Zamir knew it as well as anyone.

He began to speak, the way a captain does.

"DYJ!! Do Your Job!! Keep your eyes locked where they're supposed to be! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And trust your brothers!! You feel me?! We do what we've always done!! But today, we do it a little bit better!!"

The captains of each position group backed Zamir up,

and I stood for a moment and raised my voice too.

"On a day like today, there's no room for excuses! If you act like shit out on that field, then you're just plain shit! We laid the Oar over there a minute ago — and four hours from now, we're carrying that Oar back to Georgia! FEEL ME?! We're tearing the gator's jaw apart!!"

When the players' portion ended,

the head coach stood before us.

Ordinarily he was cheerful and almost never cursed, but the moment a game arrived, he became a completely different man.

We loved that transformation.

"This is a Big Game. And that is why, today, we will deliver a Big Win. Do I make myself clear?"

Every man down on one knee,

we listened to the coach's voice.

"In a few minutes, we walk out onto that field, and we play for each other and we win for each other. Same as we've done in every single game. If you don't forget that, no one can beat you. Why? Because you are some damn fine football players, and we are one damn fine football team. We face Florida here in Jacksonville, we take a victory nobody can argue with, and we go home. If you want that — bark like a Bulldog."

"WOOF!"

"WOOF!"

"That's it! We're Dawgs! And after we blow them apart, we're gonna tell the whole state of Florida exactly this! How 'bout them Dawgs!! We go after the fourth quarter like dogs in heat!! We're gonna make them quit this game!! LET'S GO!!"

When the coach's pregame speech ended,

we raised our voices together.

And pulled our helmets down over our heads.

Out of the locker room,

I took my place at the very back of the front line.

And steadied my breathing once more.

In with the good.

Out with the bad.

A few rounds of that, and the men at the front began sprinting toward the field. When the wave reached me, I smacked my helmet once with both palms and charged forward.

Saturday, 3 PM.

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

Jacksonville beneath a lightly clouded sky.

Today, here, we

play football.

An Oar on the line.

A football game of long and hallowed tradition.

Before the game kicked off,

during the final warm-up,

while I was running through my routine, a familiar face appeared off to one side of the sideline.

The section reserved for family and VIPs.

And naturally,

I walked over.

"Hey."

"Hiiii."

Madison Beer.

A girl who was, quite obviously, interested in me.

Unlike Alexi, the classic blonde-haired white beauty,

she had dark hair and a sun-kissed tan.

And a body that was genuinely unreal.

"How'd you get down here?"

"I have a few connections."

"Impressive. You're even prettier in person."

"Haha. You're more handsome in person too."

"…."

"…."

Inside that short, hanging silence

was something thick and heavy.

Smoldering, yet

electric.

The naked desire in Madison's eyes, fixed on mine without a flicker, traveled through me from head to toe.

"Hey, one second."

"?"

At her beckoning,

I leaned in slightly.

And she whispered into my ear.

"Do I get a turn?"

"…."

I straightened back up,

shrugged once, and answered.

"What are you doing next week?"

"Nothing."

"Mm— check your DMs later."

There were far too many eyes on this place right now,

so this was as far as it could go.

Madison knew it perfectly well, nodded with a satisfied look, and I flashed her a smile before sprinting back to my teammates.

Zamir sidled up next to me like he'd been waiting for exactly this.

"Cheating?"

"Nope."

"Wasn't that Madison Beer you were just talking to?"

"So talking to another girl counts as cheating now?"

"Well, no, but Alexi's gonna see it that way."

"Whatever. Let her."

Since our last blowup,

I hadn't seen Alexi at all.

Partly because we'd both been busy.

And things definitely didn't feel the way they used to.

And above all—

"What?! That girl did WHAT?"

"I'm telling you. She went on a trip."

"How do you know?"

"She sent me photos."

"She sent them herself?"

"Yup."

"Damn—"

She was probably trying to bait my jealousy, but

Alexi had gone on a trip with her friends yesterday.

Four guys, four girls —

and she'd cheerfully sent me shots of herself in a swimsuit in a jacuzzi, posing with some guy, acting like she was just having innocent fun. If I'd been an ordinary college freshman, that would've wrecked today's game for me.

Because there'd be no way I could focus.

But right now, it was just—

"I'm planning to end it soon."

"Good call."

"I thought she was at least a little mature when we got together. She's not."

"Yeah— those types are exhausting."

"Right?"

While Stetson and I traded reps with the ball,

Zamir listened to me vent for a good long while.

Before long, Coach Monken called out the eleven men who'd open the first drive, and we hurried over together.

"First play, slot back."

"…."

"…."

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

"Florida's right side of the defense is especially soft, so we hammer it. Send the trips left, line up trips right, run the Jet Sweep, and fire off a Screen Pass off it. Got it?"

When the talk was done,

I took my place at the front of the sideline.

The special teams units were out on the field now.

Florida would be kicking off.

Florida's defense was weak by nature, and we were missing some pieces in the secondary ourselves — so how we handled that gap would be the key to everything.

In the stands,

I could see the crowd chanting

"Go Gators!!"

The Florida faithful were clapping their hands up and down in the air — the Gators' own signature rally, meant to mimic the snapping of a gator's jaws.

And I wanted to make sure they never got to do it.

Which meant we had to bury them early.

Florida's placekicker ran up and booted the ball deep, and KJ, waiting in the end zone, let it sail past him.

Starting at the 25.

Special teams came running back toward our sideline.

I turned to the men behind me and raised my voice.

"Let's kill those bastards dead!!!"

And at last, the game had begun.