Georgia's Bulldogs Tear Through Even the Gators (4)

▷ HALFTIME

The tape binding my shoes and ankles had come loose. Bruises had bloomed all over my body, and the moment I stripped off the pads and the shirt underneath, a torso mottled in every color of the rainbow stared back at me.

Whoa. It's worse than I thought.

"Why did you push yourself this hard?"

"You know why."

"…There's still a whole season left."

"So you're going to chew me out because it's not a championship game?"

"Damn fool of a kid."

"I'm fine, Coach. Really."

I was bruised and it ached, sure — but nothing was broken. My hip felt a little twisted, maybe, but that too was manageable. It was just that if I kept playing like this through the second half, I couldn't promise anything. Something might genuinely give out.

"EVERYBODY LISTEN UP!!"

The head coach raised his voice as he stepped inside, and we all turned to see him standing at the center of the locker room. For just a moment, our eyes met.

"WE'RE FUCKED!!"

…

…

"I'm not joking — we are well and truly fucked!! When I look at the fear carved into your heads and staring out of your eyes, the only thought I get is that we're fucked!! They're out there running their asses off to destroy you, and all you're doing is cowering and running away!! Defense!! What in God's name is your problem?! They fight for every single inch, and you half-ass your tackles and just sit around waiting for them to fall over on their own!! That one goddamn inch cost us fourteen points!!"

It was true. Not an inch, exactly — it was a single yard we'd failed to stop, and that yard cost us fourteen. When Florida's running back Dameon Pierce clawed tooth and nail for every extra scrap of ground, our defenders had thrown limp, half-hearted tackles. It felt as though they were afraid of hurting the man across from them — while the one actually getting hurt was our own teammate. Whatever else happened, the second half could not look like that.

And then next, the coach pointed a finger straight at me.

"Look there!! That's our quarterback!!"

…

…

"That kid throws for 350 yards a game — and today he managed a grand total of 62 in the entire first half!! So how did we still put up 21 points?! Because our starting quarterback threw his body around doing the job of you sorry-ass receivers, that's how!! This is complete and utter bullshit!! If Moi goes down, what exactly is the plan?! Do you believe we could still make a run at the National Championship without him?! Maybe!! But those odds drop off a cliff!! So get your heads out of your asses, you goddamn receivers, and start helping your quarterback!!"

A heavy silence settled under the coach's roar. Everyone wore the expression of a man doing penance; they looked lost in thought, too. When a normally gentle man gets angry, it is several times more terrifying than anyone else's fury.

"I love this game!! I love this field and I love football, both of them!! So quit shitting the bed and get the damn job done!! I mean stop smearing shit all over the football you claim to love!! That means you dish out pain — to them, and to yourselves!! Endure the pain!! And put an end to that fear!! Then we walk back out there as Bulldogs and tear the Gators apart!! DO IT RIGHT!!"

Damn.

How is anyone supposed to sit still after hearing that? My teammates' heads were lifting again. If I were the coach, what came next would be the encouragement — and of course Kirby Smart would do exactly that, because the man has ability to burn.

"Out there in the second half, it's time to show the world who we are! I believe in you — all you have to do is believe in yourselves! I Love Y'all! Let's Go!"

Everyone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clapped. Everyone raised their voice. The coach's speech today was so good I wanted to record it forever and show it to people for the rest of my life — and that was no polite exaggeration. I meant every word.

Jermaine Burton came over to me as the clapping died down.

"How you feeling?"

"I'm good. Just getting checked out."

"'Good,' huh…"

Coach Monken grumbled and shuffled aside to make room, and KJ and Zamir gathered around me as well.

"Coach is right."

"You've been doing our jobs for us."

"We're a team, aren't we? We help each other out when things get hard."

"In the second half, we're gonna wreck them for real."

A little ways off, Kitty had gathered the tight ends and was saying something with real conviction. The offensive linemen had their own huddle, and the defense had formed theirs — everyone showing they intended to give everything they had to make this team better in the second half.

Whether the team would truly change after halftime, nobody could say. Florida would be pushing harder too. But the way we'd looked early in the first half — when we were whole, we were far, far better than them. The only question was whether we could carry that wholeness onto the field.

I bet boldly on YES. I trusted the coach's speech.

Once we were ready to head back out, I gathered my teammates' hands into one circle.

"The embarrassment ended with the first half!! Don't you dare let them devour us!! We came to Jacksonville undefeated — and we are leaving Jacksonville undefeated!! One, two, three — WIN!!"

"WIN!!"

"WIN!!"

The locker room burned white-hot. I wanted to carry that heat straight onto the field.

.

.

▷ 3Q — 04:48

Just before the second half kicked off, Florida head coach Dan Mullen had inserted one of the defenders who'd been disciplined over last game's locker-room incident: Zachary Carter.

Last season Carter had racked up 31 tackles, 7 tackles for loss, and 4.5 sacks, rocketing up the depth chart to become one of Florida's key defensive linemen. The evaluation said that with a little more polish, he had plenty of NFL potential, and coming into this game he'd been counted on to shore up the right side of the defense that had been so conspicuously thin in the first half.

And sure enough, Zachary Carter had pressured the quarterback efficiently as a pass rusher — but Georgia's quarterback answered with astonishing focus and skill from the pocket all at once. Even in situations where the pocket wasn't adequately protected, he calmly shed the rush and, while backpedaling, delivered pinpoint passes anyway.

The sight of it felt like a mobile version of Kyle Trask — and it called the second quarter to mind. That was the quarter in which Georgia's receivers had been too shaken to play; Moi had simply run like Tim Tebow. He'd thrown the D-line into confusion with a whole toolbox of handoff fakes, imposed his overwhelming physicality on the ground, and in the red zone he'd even taken off himself, sprinting 14 yards for a touchdown. And then, abruptly, in the third quarter he'd turned back into a flawless, prototypical quarterback, spraying fast, precise passes all over the field.

Freak.

Watching Moi unfold a completely different brand of football every quarter, Dan Mullen offered a short internal review — and found himself wondering whether defending the man was even possible.

"We're mixing the blitzes back in."

"Whatever it takes, we break their momentum."

"Got it. We'll give it everything."

Florida's defensive coordinator Todd Grantham set about strangling the opposing offense's surge. In the meantime, Georgia's extra point sailed through, and the score became 35-30.

It was a one-possession game, so the margin itself wasn't the problem — the problem was that the defense had exerted no control whatsoever, which meant the offense now labored under the burden of having to score every single drive.

Of course, Georgia's backend had been gutted by injuries too, and Kyle Trask — risen to the best quarterback in the NCAA — was plenty trustworthy himself.

But now, at the left edge spot in the third quarter, number 52, Khari Coleman, was becoming a variable. That side of the field was starting to nag at Mullen as well.

"Ready!"

A drive starting from Florida's own 27. Florida's offense unfolded. The offensive blocking line looked almost identical every single play — a design built to protect the pocket at all costs. Give Kyle Trask two or three seconds on every snap, and he would carry the team down the field. This time was no different.

Eleven yards. Seven. Thirteen again. In the blink of an eye Florida's offense crossed midfield, and Georgia simply could not manage to put pressure on Kyle Trask.

Come to think of it, the reason they'd been turned over in the third quarter at all was that Florida had gotten only five offensive possessions in the first half. Dwayne Moi Stone's exquisite sense of pacing and play distribution had broken the first-half version of Florida's offense — and then seized the entire flow of the game for Georgia.

So there was no reason to panic. Florida's offense was NCAA-elite; score once, and the momentum swings right back. One stop. Just one clean stop from the defense — that was all it would take. Then the game would flip again.

Florida, advancing at will, converted a decisive third down and marched into the red zone — and on the very next snap, Kyle Trask's precise pass settled into a receiver's arms.

In that instant, Florida's bench came roaring back to life.

▷ END OF 3Q

Out on the field, a video review was underway.

On the final play of the third quarter, Florida's number 1 had spun out of a tackle in gorgeous fashion and come charging straight at me. That number 1 — the man who had tormented me more than anyone all game — was Brenton Cox Jr., a once-golden linebacker our Georgia had recruited with tremendous effort back in 2018.

He really had started as a freshman, and on the field he'd looked genuinely good. But after the season ended, in April of 2019, marijuana was found in his possession on campus, earning him a first strike — and only days later, he was caught red-handed holding even more of it, this time by the head coach himself. A first offense for possession ordinarily means a one-game suspension, but something serious must have surfaced in the internal investigation, because he was dismissed from the program outright that May. Even so, there was no shortage of teams willing to take on a talented linebacker with baggage, and Florida was the one that took Brenton Cox in.

Anyway. The original plan had been to launch a deep shot — but with Brenton Cox barreling in at me, I'd scrambled out of the pocket instead. The down and distance stayed alive either way, so there was no need to force anything; I only meant to pick up a few extra yards. As it happened, space opened up, and I ran through the first-down marker before stepping out of bounds along the sideline.

But the instant I crossed the sideline, a heavy impact slammed into my back — Florida's number 11 had shoved me late with his hand. I lost my balance and tumbled on the far side of the white line, and my teammates immediately surrounded number 11.

In the ugly mood that settled over the pile, a few players shoved one another and traded curses — but fortunately the coaches and the officials waded in fast, and it never spiraled into anything worse.

Still.

All day long, we had been the ones bleeding yards to penalties. Offsides had cropped up constantly on both sides of the ball. We'd been flagged for face masks twice. There had even been a rare tripping call — a moment when we nearly took over possession that instead became their first down — so this time around, I could only hope the whistle finally blew in our favor.

Before long, the referee finished the review and walked back onto the field.

I had crossed out of bounds at around the 36-yard line, so the fourth quarter would begin just shy of the red zone.

Coach Monken, having confirmed the ruling, summoned the entire offensive unit that would take the field, and preached bringing back the option play that had paid off so handsomely against Alabama. The thinking was that focus tends to loosen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a touch at the start of a quarter — and that Florida had just shown blitz.

"We're running 1-2 PG."

"Yes, sir."

"Remember — a field goal takes the lead back. There's no need to force a touchdown. If we go that route, I'll signal it in from the bench. On these two tries, let your creativity run wild."

"Yes, sir."

Beyond ordering the option play, Coach Monken gave no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠instruction at all. He'd done nothing more than designate the personnel grouping. Then he pulled the O-linemen off to one side, and in the meantime I spread the Play Book open and started picking the offense I wanted to run.

Hello Kitty caught my eye first. But they were going to blitz. Considering that Brenton Cox Jr. had still knife'd his way through even with the tight ends actively chipping into protection, it looked awfully likely I'd end up eating a sack.

Come on. Come on, brain. Work with me here. What's the best call?

As I kept turning pages, one diagram stopped my hand.

1-2 PG. Linebackers who charge no matter what. And a shaky, exposed backend. All of it churned together in my head, spinning itself into a picture — and a scene worth betting on took shape.

"Carousel."

"You're serious?"

"I am. Listen up. Under center. Carousel. Left swing. H-grip. YZ double. Turbo on first. Got it?"

Snap!

The slugfest was proceeding exactly as everyone expected — and it would probably keep going that way until the final whistle. But if we could put points on the board within two minutes of the first play of the fourth quarter, then assuming the trading-blowers pattern held, we'd be the ones managing the clock at the end of the game. So instead of grinding out yards and inching patiently toward the end zone, I'd chosen a red-zone strike, right out of the gate.

Twenty-one yards out. Or twenty. Just as we'd failed to stop a single yard and paid for it in points, Florida — with the red zone not yet in play for either side — might well be sleeping on us.

I couldn't guarantee the result. But hey. You run it and see.

Thankfully, my teammates had gotten their heads back on straight, and it was already clear the second quarter's sacrifice had been worth the price.

Under center. I scanned Florida's defense.

Brenton was practically vibrating with eagerness. His mouth kept spitting out "I'll kill you!! I'm gonna kill you!!" — I brushed it off lightly, took one more look around, and called Jordan over from the right side.

Carousel. Depending on which way the tackle breaks, the receiver standing opposite is supposed to move as though circling back behind the quarterback. Then, once I take the snap, he whirls around and returns to his original spot. At the same time, plays like the H-grip and YZ double shove every other receiver across to the far side — and if you can drag the defense's eyes over there, you empty out the opposite half of the field entirely. The defenders charging at me, the O-linemen and fullback Zamir would wall off on their own.

If they miss? Then I've got nothing to say. We failed, and they played well.

"RED 80—!!"

…

"TURBO, SET!!"

I took the snap and pivoted my back to the line — and a flag came flying in. But if you're a football player, you block all of that out and finish the damn play first. A handoff fake, as though delivering the ball. Then the play action. As I whirled my body to the left, Kearis Jackson flashed into view — and I snapped my arm through, sending the pass on its way.

At almost the same instant a tackle crashed into my left flank. My vision shuddered, and I hit the field shoulder-first.

THUD!

Eyes squeezed shut against the impact, I forced them back open and locked onto KJ running downfield. Florida's left defense — utterly, completely empty. KJ strolled into the end zone untouched.

.