The Georgia Bulldog Tears Even Gators Apart (5)

Last season, Joe Burrow, the quarterback at LSU, put together a season so ridiculous it bordered on fiction.

Over fifteen games, he piled up an astonishing 5,671 passing yards and threw 60 touchdown passes, shattering the single-season record Colt Brennan had set at Hawaii back in 2006.

On the strength of that campaign, Burrow swept every major award given to the best player in NCAA football — and then, just as inevitably, heard his name called first overall by the Cincinnati Bengals.

Which is why some people began to mutter, "Is Trevor Lawrence really all that great a quarterback?" — claiming that Clemson's 2018 national championship had simply been an exercise in overhyping their signal-caller.

Of course.

That was nonsense.

Lawrence had been magnificent as a freshman, steering Clemson all the way to a national championship win over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Alabama. The questions clinging to him were of a different flavor entirely.

He simply hadn't been dominant the way Burrow was. He had never once thrown for 4,000 yards in a season. And above all, his touchdown rate on passes into the red zone sat squarely at the NCAA average.

Two quarterbacks were circling those question marks like sharks.

Mac Jones of Alabama.

Kyle Trask of Florida.

Both had torched opposing defenses from the opening weeks of the season, sneering at Lawrence across the conference divide: You don't compete where we do — you play in the ACC, not the SEC.

And then a freshman quarterback at Georgia had broken Mac Jones first.

It was a defeat so complete that no excuse could survive it.

People acknowledged as much.

For ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Mac Jones, with a first-round NFL draft slot riding on this season, the damage was severe.

Kyle Trask, leader of the Gators, had no intention of sharing that fate.

After reclaiming the lead at 42–37, Florida had immediately tacked on a field goal on their very next possession.

Then our following drive had come up empty, and Florida had answered with a touchdown. Right now we were all standing around waiting on the extra point.

The more I thought about it, the more that penalty stung.

We had marched all the way down to the 38-yard line, driving beautifully — and then a foul had wiped out fifteen yards of it.

That was ultimately why we had come up six yards short of a first down, and why we were in this mess now.

"Get ready to score! Get ready to score!"

I'd been shouting it ever since Florida had crossed into the red zone. The way their offense had moved the ball all afternoon, a score felt all but certain.

While both special teams units took the field, I pulled Coach Monken aside.

"Listen carefully."

"Yes, Sir."

"We've got one timeout left — don't burn it carelessly. I'll give you the base concept. You look at it, and you build the rest around it. But if you judge something needs to change, change it — I'll trust your read. You understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

Football has its own version of clutch time.

It's generally defined as the final two minutes of a game, with the margin inside eight points — because eight is the maximum a single drive can produce.

And this kind of clutch time, everyone agrees, belongs to the quarterback.

The clock is mercilessly short, so every element has to be controlled to perfection; there is no room to let the attack wander.

The extra point split the uprights, and the score became 42–47.

Right now the clock stood frozen, but from here on, as long as we stayed in bounds, it would bleed away without mercy.

The play clock didn't matter. We had to go fast, no matter what — even the time spent forming a huddle was time we couldn't afford to waste.

The base concept, at its core, was simple.

"McDonald! McDonald!"

This was the final drive of the game, starting from our own 25 — and I had to make it work. The play I'd chosen was a short-passing attack: run one running back on a Jet Sweep in a 2-1 PG, read how the defense reacted, then decide who would carry the ball.

I called the play.

The dice were thrown.

I stared upfield for a moment, asking myself a single question — was I ready to accept whatever came back?

The answer came far too easily.

It had always been the same, from the very beginning. From the instant I was reborn into this life.

My mind hardened into steel, and I sent the hand signal.

James Cook, lined up behind the left side Kitty, jetted across to the opposite side — and not a single defender chased him.

Which meant the blindside defender was blitzing. Having already read Florida's defensive movement, I pointed and called the tackle direction.

"No. 01!! Laura!!"

No. 01 was Brent Cox's jersey number. Laura meant left.

That much was enough.

The wide receivers would have to freelance the rest.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

The blitz would come from the left. James Cook was already over on the right.

McDonald was a running play for the running back — but the original script was already dead. From here on out, half of everything was fluid.

Not just the quarterback — all eleven men on the field had to understand the play and the call inside and out, because the situation would keep shifting by the second, and every head had to stay screwed on straight.

Case in point: on the original call, McDonald was supposed to run toward the tight end's side. Zamir understood exactly what his job actually was.

Zamir tore off to the right, and James Cook threw his lead block.

The instant Florida's left linebacker failed to bring Zamir down, the first down was all but sealed — the only question left was how many more yards we could steal.

In the end, though, we settled for the minimum. Florida's safety reacted beautifully, defending far closer to the line than I'd expected.

Our own 36-yard line.

No reason to be disappointed. I raised my voice fast — first, let's get to the 40.

"Left Trip!! Halo!!"

Florida's defenders were hearing every word I said.

Didn't matter.

"Black 22!!"

Because I could change it whenever I wanted — exactly like this.

Just as before, I checked the defensive alignment and the defenders' posture, dangled Halo Left Trip out as bait, and then, on the Black 22 call, tucked the ball myself and ran.

I pushed past five yards and stepped out of bounds.

Finally — the clock stopped.

Our own 41. Midfield at last.

One minute, twenty-nine seconds remaining.

"From midfield we're running Squall the rest of the way — I'm only designating the routes, so listen up. Blocks are standard Brad Stick. Buy me one second. Got it? Let's go!"

Clap!

Crossing into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enemy territory, the lineup shifted to a 1-2 PG — and fittingly, the play had changed from Halo to Squall.

Kitty and Darnell were about to earn their keep.

One wide receiver on each side — though that, too, bent to my will whenever I chose.

"Shake!! Shake!!"

The more meticulous the coach or quarterback, the more they kept a separate set of calls reserved for the two-minute drill. The Shake I'd just barked was one of them — a signal for the Z-receiver to run a Shallow route.

These designations changed from game to game. The receivers only had to memorize their own.

I had to own all of them.

"Red 80!! Turbo, set!!"

I took the snap, turned to set up, ran the handoff fake — play action — then, without a heartbeat of hesitation, locked my eyes on the path where the Z-receiver KJ would be running.

When Jermaine Burton runs the Z-receiver Shallow, he pushes three steps upfield before circling back behind the line of scrimmage. KJ, on the other hand, fakes almost in place and breaks immediately, so his route sits far shallower.

And that wasn't all — I knew every one of my receivers' route habits. Any quarterback worth the title does.

The quick throw reached KJ's chest, and he ground out eight yards.

No time to savor it. Next play.

We were effectively at midfield now. I called the next play.

"Pink Ribbon!! Pink Ribbon!!"

Pink Ribbon — the Hello Kitty concept. The reason for the quick call was obvious if you thought it through: the moment I made the call, Darnell would flow into the slot on his own, and I intended to use him as a blocker to spring Kitty upfield.

"45 Ralph!! 45 Ralph!!"

45 Ralph carried two meanings folded into one.

First, Ralph is the opposite of Laura — the right tackle side, the direction of our right-swing plays.

And the 45 marks the spot between defensive linemen where the receiver will run: after the O-line shoves Florida's front to the right, the gap on Brent Cox's right side becomes point 45. Truthfully it runs a layer deeper still — the number encodes both Darnell's tackle direction and the path Kitty will take.

The clock kept bleeding. I raised my voice.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

Shifting the snap timing like this had one purpose: hoping the defense would flinch. If even one man jumped offside, we'd pocket five free yards.

In a clutch situation like this, stealing or gaining yards through penalties could decide the entire game — grinding out extra yardage by any means necessary mattered enormously.

Bodies tangled savagely at the line of scrimmage.

I watched the left-side Kitty. A short throw.

Perhaps anticipating exactly this kind of attack, Brent Cox stayed home this time instead of blitzing — but Darnell wedged his body in and shoved Florida's linebacker far downfield.

And Kitty was running.

First down.

The clock had dropped under a minute. And this time we hadn't gained an inch — mercifully we hadn't lost ground, but choosing to run had been a poor decision.

Second and 10. Ball at our own 36.

I briefly considered running Hello Kitty again, but judging by the defense's last look, the blitzing was finished for good.

Then the concept had to change.

"…Omelet!! Omelet!!"

That call described the shape of the blocking: hard-boiled egg — form the pocket in the shape of a boiled egg. To actually move the ball, though, I needed a different call.

Maybe that was why Trey Hill turned and looked back at me.

But I had a plan.

"Go, Go, Go!"

The moment I shouted to press the attack, Trey Hill resettled into his snap stance, and I lifted my right leg and barked the play.

"Ready-!! Hut!!"

A long snap. A feigned handoff to Zamir right beside me — and I held onto the ball until the very last instant.

Zamir knew on his own that it was a fake. He hid the ball as deep as he could and sprinted to the left, and in that same instant the middle of the line of scrimmage split open, carving out a lane for me to stab into.

And I dove into it.

After calling timeout and sprinting toward the sideline, I lifted my head to the scoreboard. Forty-six seconds left.

Coach Smart was walking my way.

"Going straight for it?"

"I think we can pick up a little more first."

"…How about shotgun with a Euro step?"

"Perfect."

"And the last call?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Then if we get inside the 10, give me a 1-1 PG."

"Got it. Go."

"Yes, Sir."

I flipped my helmet back on and sprinted toward my teammates. The huddle was already formed, and I delivered the play from in front of it.

"Shotgun. Euro step. Left swing, Y-rock."

Clap!

The Euro step was a running back's weapon, borrowed straight from a famous NBA move. I'd designated the tackle direction to the left, so after taking the handoff, the back had to sell a run to the left and then cut the other way — not toward the sideline, but the direction of his stride as he pressed forward.

Sixteen yards. Six more and we'd done it.

"Red- 80!!"

…

"Ready-!!"

…

"Hut!!"

Take the snap — hand it straight to Zamir. He ran the play exactly as designed and went down just past the 10-yard line. Everything unfolded on script.

"That's exactly it, Dawg-!!"

I thumped Zamir's helmet in celebration, then turned toward the bench. Coach had set the 1-1 PG just as I'd asked.

The leading number in a personnel group always refers to running backs and tight ends. The O-line and quarterback — six men — were fixed, so of the remaining five, whatever wasn't RB or TE was wide receiver.

Which meant three wide receivers on the field right now.

We'd already covered how the O-line would protect me. The tight end would run a slip — go through the motions of blocking, then release into the end zone.

If Florida favored aggressive defense, they might try a blitz or a pass rush, but from midfield on down, they'd played passive the whole way. And now, with the game on the line, protecting the end zone was non-negotiable for them.

So if Kitty dove into the end zone, the defense would collapse every backside defender to the right.

Which would naturally peel the left side wide open.

That was the whole reason behind the route call.

"8!!! 3!!! 5!!! 835!!!"

I'd decided on my final receiver the moment I asked Coach for the 1-1 PG.

If not him, then no one.

Jermaine Burton. Pure catching, the best on the team.

So I'd deliberately stationed two receivers on the right side — where Kitty would dive — planning to isolate Jermaine on a one-on-one. In situations like that, the receiver usually wins.

In football, cornerbacks are forever playing reactive.

Everything was ready. All that remained was to attempt it.

"Red 80-!!!"

And once more—

"Ready-!!"

I was about to do something.

"Hut!!"

From the shotgun, I took the snap, faked the handoff to Zamir, and the running back carried out his assignment and became my lead blocker. Kitty slipped free exactly as designed, and the receivers ran their routes.

I stepped forward a pace or two—

and leapt straight up from where I stood.

This. This was it.

Exactly what I'd set out to do.

Why this, you ask?

Well.

From the moment someone had first riled me up with talk of "the second coming of Tim Tebow," I had sworn to myself that when Florida came around, I would score a touchdown exactly like this.

And now I'd pulled it off at the most critical moment imaginable, and I felt something I simply could not contain. I clenched both fists with every fiber of my body and roared — though honestly, I couldn't even tell what I was shouting.

Just—

Joy.

Exhilaration.

Euphoria.

I had lived two lifetimes — sixty years in all — and still I had no words for what I felt in this moment. Only one thing could be stated with certainty.

I loved football.

I loved this brutally, mercilessly hard sport — more than anything.

97_1

<The Final Score>