Title: Southern Pitch: Jared Curtis Makes the Call
Under a sky glazed with the gold of a Georgia evening, Jared Curtis stepped off the practice field, sweat glistening on his brow and turf still clinging to his cleats. The Georgia Bulldogs’ five-star quarterback commit had just finished torching the secondary in another scrimmage—but his mind wasn’t on the playbook anymore. It was on Jackson Cantwell, a 6’8″, 300-pound offensive line phenom from Missouri—still uncommitted, but leaning toward the Oregon Ducks.
Kirby Smart had said it casually in the quarterback room earlier that week: “Curtis, we’re not just building a team—we’re building a legacy. And we need Cantwell to anchor that line.”
Curtis knew what that meant. It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a request either.
He pulled out his phone, tapped open his contacts, and stared at the name: Jackson “Stonewall” Cantwell. They’d traded messages during Elite 11 camps, bonded over film breakdowns and a shared addiction to Raising Cane’s. But this—this was different.
Curtis sent the text:
“Yo Stonewall—got time to talk? Real talk. Dawgs talk.”
Ten minutes later, they were on FaceTime. Cantwell’s face filled the screen—chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and the look of someone who bench-pressed Ford F-150s for breakfast.
“What’s good, JC?” Cantwell asked.
“You,” Curtis said with a grin. “But not if you’re wasting that frame in Eugene.”
Cantwell laughed. “Man, Oregon’s legit. Tempo, style, NIL—hard to say no to all that.”
Curtis leaned closer to the screen, voice low but intense. “You want style, or you want substance? Oregon’s pretty, but you and me—we could be historic. SEC titles. Natty runs. Pancake blocks on Saturday, first-round calls on Thursday.”
Cantwell hesitated. He wasn’t used to being recruited like this—peer to peer, warrior to warrior.
Curtis didn’t let up. “Look, they’ll fly you in, throw jerseys on you, flash neon lights. But at Georgia, you’d be protecting the No. 1 quarterback in the country, in front of 92,000 in Sanford, where it means something. You walk down the streets of Athens, people know your name. You win here? You’re immortal.”
There was silence for a beat. Then Cantwell said, “You really think we could run it back? Go all the way?”
Curtis stared through the screen like he was looking through defenders. “I don’t think. I know.”
That night, Cantwell didn’t sleep much. Visions of black jerseys, red lights, and Saturday night roars pulsed through his head. He’d been drawn to the Ducks’ flash—but Curtis had given him fire.
Three days later, a photo hit Instagram: Jackson Cantwell, standing in Georgia’s weight room, wearing a black “G” hoodie, captioned simply:
“Big Dawgs eat.”
Curtis saw it as he walked to class, smiled, and whispered, “Welcome to the hunt.”
The legacy had begun.
