The Georgia Bulldog Tears Even Gators Apart (3)

As any football fan knows, the first try of an opening drive almost always begins with a rushing play.

A warm-up, you might call it.

But then.

"What the…."

Every now and then, a situation like this one unfolds.

Right now, we'd have to call it a success for the play. Coach Monken's strategy had worked a hundred percent. A full house formation with a fullback and a halfback in the backfield together. We sent the Trips set lined up on the right flying across on a jet sweep to the left, fired a screen pass to Zamir—and Florida's defense simply opened up like a barn door.

A defense like that doesn't even show up in practice.

Something was….

"Isn't this a little too easy?"

I furrowed my brow and shrugged, then pulled off my helmet and jogged to the sideline. I walked right past a celebrating Coach Monken, came back to the bench, and sat down.

"We stomped them right off the bat."

"Yeah— but…."

"Hm? Why?"

"I don't know. It was too easy."

"What do you mean?"

Thinking about it, we had gotten lucky. Florida's defensive scheme, that is. Their safety, number 2, bit in far too fast, and number 23 took a bad angle on his tackle and ended up turning his back, so neither of them could bring Zamir down. If this wasn't just a fluke, we might be able to attack Florida's right side all game long.

And yet.

"Games like this have a way of going strange."

"Strange? How so?"

"Let's hope it's just my gut talking."

In football, an early score like this often turns out to be poison. This is a game where you can't see one play into the future, after all. Focus matters more than anything, and if you get carried away even a little, the whole thing can come apart at the seams. That's what the coaches are there to prevent—and me too, I suppose.

The situation stayed almost too good for us after that as well.

Florida's drive was over in twenty-nine seconds. There was a fourth down remaining, but it was obviously going to be a punt.

"Mo-i!!"

I went over to Coach Monken, who was calling for me, and received the play call.

"Let's go with a wheel play."

"Yes, sir."

The deep coverage Florida had shown on the scoring play had been so flimsy that Coach Monken wanted to shake them up a little more.

The wheel play. A quarterback rushing tactic run out of the shotgun, useful when you want to open up a gap of five to fifteen yards.

"Wheel. Left swing. Bait X. Y-bump."

Clap!

Right before I called the play, I shifted Zamir's position. The original design had Zamir working as a blocker too, but after one look at Florida's defensive alignment, I decided he'd serve better as a decoy.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

The shotgun snap arrived, and I faked the handoff to Zamir. While Florida's number 1, who had knifed through the O-line, hesitated at the handoff fake, I strolled right past the man and sprinted into the open space on the right.

Florida's number 7, the closest defender with a shot at me, was buried completely by Darnell.

Thud!

Whooo—

That's gotta hurt.

Darnell is a monster at 6'7" (201cm) and 270 pounds (122kg), and he delivers tackles heavier than the guys who tip the scales past 350.

Once number 7's wobbling frame vanished from my field of view, I crossed the first down marker, ran a little farther, and stepped out of bounds.

Seriously. Why is this so easy?

Florida had a gap on defense just like we did—though not from injury, but from internal problems. At halftime of their game against Missouri, Florida's players had gotten into a fistfight with each other. They drew one-game suspensions for it, so none of them could play in the first half today.

But even so.

This much of a mess?

Well. Can't be sure yet. I'll take the points.

In front of the huddle, I delivered the play call quickly.

"Pro Gun. Left Socks. Brad Stick. X-Atlanta. 45 Bump."

Clap!

After I suggested the screen pass strategy early in the season, Coach Monken had polished up a handful of plays around it. This was one of them.

Pro Gun. A portmanteau of Pro Set and shotgun. It meant I would run the classic Pro Set formation out of the shotgun.

Next, Left Socks. We would carry the ball to the left—though the play itself would launch from the right.

Brad Stick was the blocking scheme. X-Atlanta designated the route for the receiver catching the pass. And 45 Bump was the receiver blocking call.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

Before calling the play, I had sent James Cook to the left. Florida's defense barely reacted. Instead, the safety lined up deep on the left began trailing James Cook.

It didn't really matter. The touchdown wasn't the goal, after all. Pick up yards, get the first down—that was enough.

Florida's number 1 came charging through the D-line again and briefly caught my eye, but the screen pass got off clean, and James Cook took off along the route we'd agreed on beforehand.

Early in this game, Florida could not control our offense at all. Three plays so far. One had been a touchdown. The other two had been first downs. We hadn't even run a proper passing game yet.

And then, at last—

Beep-beep-beep—

Beep-beep—

Florida showed us it could get even worse. There were now twelve men on the field. The entire defense, D-line included, was scampering around unable to find its positions, and before the officials could even catch it, Florida's head coach burned a timeout to put out the fire.

I took off my helmet too and headed to the sideline, where a staffer handed me a water bottle.

"They're completely lost out there."

"You think something's going on with them?"

"What do you think about the Double Crossover?"

"That thing you and the freshman receivers were running?"

"Yes, sir. This is exactly the kind of day you use it."

I'll say it again. Florida's deep coverage is an absolute dumpster fire. If the defensive backs on my team had played like that? They'd have caught every curse word I had in the bag. Then caught a little more on top of it. And finally, they'd have been stapled to the bench.

Coach Monken thought it over for a moment, judged there was nothing to lose, and called over Jordan Addison and Marcus Rosemy-Jacksaint. He was accepting my proposal.

"Do your job."

"Yes, sir. You won't regret it."

"You'd better not."

The Double Crossover was built around Head Coach Kirby Smart's spread philosophy. No tight end—two receivers split left and right, each assigned a route, and with me carrying out the play action, we find the open man and deliver the ball.

Jordan and Marcus lined up on the right. Darnell and Jermaine Burton on the left. Four freshman receivers. Even for a team like Georgia, that's not an easy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thing to pull off.

Which was exactly what made it fun.

"Double Crossover."

"Let's go-!"

"Don't get hyped—listen up. Double Crossover…."

After assigning every route, I broke the huddle and set the formation. On the snap, the receivers on both sides would sprint toward the same spot, then suddenly break apart left and right.

Hence, crossover. Because two of them cross.

"Re-d 20!! Red 20!! Ready-!! Hut!!"

Clap!

A few tries early on had confirmed it. This play would work a hundred percent of the time. Going with only five O-linemen against a defense that chooses pass rush or blitz is a very dangerous judgment call—which is exactly why we used the running back as a blocker.

Even now I was well protected in the pocket. I had all the time in the world to survey the field in front of me. Marcus, who had crossed paths with Jordan on the right, stabbed into his slant route, and the moment I confirmed Florida's middle had caved wide open, I swung my right arm without hesitation.

I threw the pass and got tackled straight to the ground, so I never saw how it ended. Peter, who pulled me back to my feet, told me it was a touchdown—and when I looked toward the end zone, I could tell the mood was anything but celebratory.

What…?

No way.

Even though we had produced two touchdowns in under four minutes of game time, the mood on the bench had gone ice cold. Jordan, who had run over to celebrate, was so shaken that he'd taken off his helmet, sat down on the bench, and was crying.

His right ankle bone looked completely broken. The right foot was somewhere a foot has no business being. Visible even from a distance.

"…."

While they attended to Marcus, I went over to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jordan and comforted my friend.

"Fuck. Marcus's ankle…."

"You don't have to say it."

"Fuck… FUCK!!"

Earlier I'd said something felt off. Maybe this was why.

George was already out with an injury and the wide receiver room was thin—if Marcus went down too, we would effectively be playing today's game with three. Considering the stamina alone, that's a heavy burden, and tactically our options were bound to narrow considerably. We'd brought several passing concepts today built around Marcus's knack for slant routes, and now every single one of them was off the table.

I patted Jordan on the back, then walked over to Coach Monken.

"This is my responsibility."

"No. It's not."

"If only I hadn't suggested the play—"

"Even then, it wouldn't be your fault. Listen to me. The tackle that went into the ankle caused this. And part of it's on Marcus for not taping it up properly. This is football, Moi. Even things like that are all part of the game."

"Yes, sir."

I know. Getting seriously hurt is part of the game too. This happens on the field every single day. Back when I was a head coach, I'd have said exactly what Coach Monken just said to my players without blinking an eye. But now, looking at my receivers not as pieces on a board but as friends, detachment doesn't come easy.

And yet.

I can't sink.

"I'll gather the boys."

"Doing what?"

"We've got to change this shitstorm of a mood."

"…Alright."

From the very start of the game, it had been one strange thing after another. And then, out of a clear sky, rain began to fall. Dark clouds hung over the stadium—and nowhere else on earth.

What kind of nonsense is this.

Jacksonville. You really are too much, you know that?

Thinking, once again, that this was a place I could never bring myself to like, I raised my voice in front of my teammates.

"We run for Marcus!!"

After Marcus's injury, I tried everything to steady the ship, but the receivers were so rattled that the offense kept stalling. We handed Florida possession cheaply again and again, their rhythm came back to life, and right before the end of the first quarter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we surrendered the tying score.

And then, the second quarter.

I decided—

"Black 22!! Black 22!! Rea-dy!! Hut!!"

—to break this situation open myself.

I clutched the ball and took off down the field.

The sight of that injury had been so shocking that the image had lodged itself firmly in every receiver's head. All of them were freshmen. It wasn't going to shake loose easily.

So I kept running. With my own body.

Thud!

"Ugh!"

Crack!

Thud!!

"Nngh—!"

Every tackle sent the impact rippling through my whole body, but I did my best to act like it was nothing and huddled up again. From the bench came a gentle suggestion that I rest a while—use the receivers or the running backs instead.

I intend to keep going a little longer, at least.

"Pro Gun. Wheel. Left swing. Y-lock. Two Z-rep."

Still on our side of midfield. Second and six. We needed six more yards for a fresh set of downs, and I planned to pick up at least five on this try.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

The O-line washed Florida's D-line to the left, and Zamir stepped up in front of number 1, who came charging at me like clockwork. I ran to the right with my running back as a shield, and—probably because I'd kept trying to run—Florida's cornerbacks and defensive backs weren't sitting as deep as I'd expected.

Even so, Darnell buried one of them, and when I saw the defense flying at me near the sideline, the first down marker was close.

Time to choose. Step out of bounds like this? Or try for more?

"…."

Any other day, I'd have slipped out of bounds without a moment's hesitation. But right now, the team needed courage from somebody, and I decided to try a little more.

So I brought the ball to the center of my chest and secured it with both hands. Dropped my pads. Turned my left shoulder into the hit.

The tackle came exactly there.

Thud!!

"—!"

A pain that the word stinging didn't come close to describing shot along my left shoulder blade where the helmet had connected, then spread through my entire body. But I clenched my teeth and used the very force that had brought the pain. My body spun around to the right. And then, gripping the ball with both hands, I extended my arm as far forward as it would go.

A moment later, ball and body hit the ground together.

I have no intention of giving up the plays where I sit in the pocket, throw, and adjust the call with an audible. Prototype play is, to my mind, the ideal form of the quarterback, and from the moment I was reborn hoping to become that player, I have worked toward it every day since.

But the most important thing is being the one who wins.

Maybe that sits even above desires like these. The reason I built a tough body knowing full well it would interfere with prototype play was so that, on a day like today, I would be the one who could pull it out of the holster.

Until my teammates collected themselves and started playing properly again, I intended to carry the ball forward with my own two legs.

No matter how many tackles I absorbed.

No matter how much pain came flooding in with them.

I was not going to stop.

"Black 50!! Turbo, set!!"

Repeating rushing attempts and tackles. Every part of my body was screaming that it hurt.

But right now, all I could do was—

Just shut up for a bit.

Endure. And bear it.