The Foreign Boy on the Gridiron
Wichita North High School was, by most measures, an unremarkable place. A solid curriculum, a decently sized campus, and enough history behind its name to earn the label of "prestigious" among the locals.
In the world of school sports, volleyball and cross-country reigned supreme. A football team existed too, but it had never managed to make much of a splash.
There was a time when the team had ranked among the upper echelon of Kansas's 6A division, but a string of losing seasons in recent years had eroded that standing. This year, everyone involved was gritting their teeth, determined to finally turn things around.
And Tyrone—head coach and coach of that football team—found himself staring at a small Asian kid brought in for the practice game.
"You're joking, right?"
At Tyrone's low mutter, James, the team's second-string center, scratched his head awkwardly.
"What are we supposed to do with a shrimp like that?"
"He's, uh, probably around 5'8" or so, if you look at him a certain way..."
"So you dragged in some wobbly little thing that'll get folded in half the moment somebody leans on him. We cleaning up a corpse today or what?"
Tyrone rubbed his temples, wondering what on earth to do with the center standing in front of him—good body, sure, but fidgeting and barely able to string a sentence together.
The physical talent seemed to be there. It was the backbone that was missing.
"Haah. Where'd you even find him? There'd better be a reason. Surely you didn't just grab some random kid off the street."
"I got him from the track team. They say he's their ace."
"Track ace? Oh!"
Only then did Tyrone remember. The rumors he'd heard about that little Asian kid— rumors about a brat with a massive ego who didn't bother getting along with anyone, whose competitive streak burned like a wildfire.
So that's him.
He knew Derek, the track coach, and stories had made their way over more than once. The kid's personality was a dumpster fire, but his times were every bit as fiery as that personality.
"He just ran the 100 meters in 10.33 seconds. Isn't that insane? I'm dying to see his 40-yard time. Haha."
"Look, no matter how you slice it, this is insane. What happens in a practice game when the boys don't exactly treat him gently?"
"Uh..."
James's face went pale. So he hadn't thought that far. The moment that little Asian kid stepped onto the field, it was obvious—both the opposing team and his own teammates would freeze him out.
We brought him in as a running back, and the second he carries the ball, nobody's going to throw a single block for him.
In a word: he'd have no protection. A running back who catches the ball and runs needs lead blocking—people to shield him. Would his own teammates lift a finger? Knowing this bunch, they probably wouldn't even hand him the ball in the first place...
"When do we start? You're the coach, right?"
The kid, finished warming up, strolled over and asked. Tyrone wiped his brow once and spoke.
"Kid, just go home. I think we made a mistake calling you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Do you even know what football is?"
"I heard you just run with the ball until you reach the end."
"Yeah. You don't know."
Tyrone's eyes cut toward James. James, playing dumb, sidled away toward his teammates.
"Listen up. Football is nothing like track. Have you ever been hit by a car doing fifty an hour?"
"No."
"Football is the game where that car keeps hitting you. Over and over. See those guys over there? They didn't build their bodies like that for fun. Unless you're built like that, you can't survive this sport. That's what football is."
Tyrone was trying, as patiently as he could, to talk sense into the kid.
But Jaehyuk wasn't listening to a word of it, too busy surveying the field.
"It's short."
"What?"
"From end to end. Looks like it'd take no time at all."
It was exactly as track coach Derek had described. This tiny little Asian brat had absolutely no interest in what anyone else had to say.
"Coach! When do we start? I'm done warming up. Huh? Wait, is this the guy who came in for Ronnie?"
A varsity player sauntered over and gave Jaehyuk a once-over. Then he snorted.
"Looks like somebody made a bad purchase. Time to ship the defective product back."
"Haha."
Jaehyuk laughed and looked his critic over. The varsity player was a Black athlete with coiled, densely packed muscle—a wild, untamed energy radiating off his entire body.
"You a runner too?"
"What?"
"The, uh, what's it called? Running back? That you?"
"I'm a wide receiver. And hey, aren't you scared? I'm not kidding. You could genuinely get crushed to death out there."
When the player flashed a grin, his teeth were blindingly white. Jaehyuk smiled right back.
"I'd bet on me, actually..."
"What?"
"Hey, Coach. How about we just put me in for one game instead of arguing? It's not like I'm going to die in a single game."
Tyrone had been about to refuse—even after that.
But the varsity player spoke up first.
"Come on, we'll go easy on him. That's fine, right, Coach? You really think we'd try to kill him? I mean, look at the kid. He looks like he'd shatter if we poked him—the boys will probably be extra careful around him."
It was true the kid looked like he'd keel over at a single touch, so the players would likely watch themselves without being told. And besides, these weren't the kind of guys who'd throw themselves into a life-or-death scrum over a hired gun brought in for one practice game.
"Haah. Fine. But go tell the boys to be careful—no accidents. He's an outside hire. If he gets hurt, every last one of you is suspended."
"You got it, Coach!"
The varsity player gave a playful salute, thumped Jaehyuk on the shoulder, and headed off toward the others.
"I'll get you suited up. Trust me—wearing this gear is a whole different universe from just running."
"Whoa."
Seeing football pads for the first time, Jaehyuk nodded and let the coach help him into the equipment.
"Not bad."
The football gear was bulky—unlike anything he'd worn before—but it didn't feel all that heavy.
I train in a weighted vest half the time anyway. This is nothing.
"Haha. You're actually in!"
James greeted him warmly. The rest of the players, though, just looked at him, snickered among themselves, and went on chatting like he wasn't there.
He hadn't come here to make friends, so it didn't bother him. What he wanted—what he needed—was to start this game and see what his Gift could do.
"Okay, so the running back lines up here. This guy's our team's quarterback—think of him as the field general, basically. You stand behind him."
Honestly, I have no idea what any of that means.
The player James pointed to was tall, Hispanic, his face mostly hidden by the helmet.
"So he's the one who gets the ball first. Then he decides—do I throw a pass, or do I hand it off to the running back and let him run?"
"Mm. Got it."
"He'll probably signal whether you're getting the ball before the play starts. But even if you don't get the handoff—just run. Nobody's expecting to block for you anyway."
So what you're telling me is, unless that Hispanic guy hands me the ball, none of this matters?
As he stood there tilting his head, a low murmur of voices drifted over.
"Why the hell did they bring in some fragile Asian kid?"
"He's never getting the ball, so just pretend he doesn't exist."
The voices came from both sides—his own team and the opposing one alike. There was not a single soul here on his side.
For a moment, he wondered if this had been a mistake.
And here I thought you just grab the ball and run.
"Ignore those idiots. Just follow the ball. Haha."
The moment James's awkward laugh faded, the quarterback bellowed.
"Hurry up! We're starting!"
Everything had a haphazard, thrown-together feeling to it. Jaehyuk stood dully where James had told him to stand.
"Red Left 43 Y Stick!"
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
The quarterback spouted what sounded like a wizard's incantation, and suddenly his own teammates snapped into perfect unison. Jaehyuk just stood still and watched.
The supposed field general didn't spare him so much as a glance. It was pretty clear no ball was coming his way.
"Purple! Purple!"
Some kind of code call, apparently. Wait—the varsity squad's on the same team as us. They use different code calls than the second-stringers?
Hut!
The quarterback, tucked right behind James the center, took the snap. In an instant the play exploded to life and the two lines slammed together.
CRACK—!!
"!!"
The dull, sickening sound of bone striking bone hammered into his ears. The roar of slabs of meat and muscle colliding head-on.
This was nothing like track. It couldn't have been more different. This was a battlefield where your body could break at any moment.
It's chaos out here.
The whole thing unfolded faster and more violently than he'd imagined. And here, the only thing he could do was run.
Tap!
So he ran. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the quarterback scanning left and right, hemmed inside the pocket his own big bodies had formed.
He's scared.
He could feel it—the trembling uncertainty in the guy's gaze. In that gap, Jaehyuk darted out into the middle of the defense.
But the line didn't appear.
"Hngh."
He slipped past a reaching hand by a hair. It had been a shoving motion—pushing him away rather than grabbing—and looking around now, he realized the other defenders were the same: none of them grabbing or pulling, only pushing.
Can you only tackle the ball carrier?
It felt like ages had passed, but only about three seconds had gone by. And in those three seconds, their Hispanic quarterback got ragdolled to the turf by the opposing team.
WHAM!
"Uuurgh!"
So the quarterback, in the end, never got the pass off. He did manage to hold onto the ball, though.
"Is this how it always is?"
"Hey. You!"
"Hm?"
Someone called out, and when he turned, it was the guy who'd tried to shove him. And what a build on this one too.
"Next time, I'll flatten you into a pancake."
"..."
What is this, third-rate villain dialogue?
Jaehyuk ignored him and walked back to his spot. And the game began again.
Thud! WHAM! CRACK! Screech!
"Change of possession."
"Goddammit. What even is this."
Their team accomplished absolutely nothing, and the ball changed hands.
"Haah. Told you. We can't hang with the varsity squad."
"The O-line is getting bulldozed everywhere except center. What do you want me to do about it? Try blocking somebody for once."
"You have to get the ball OUT, that's how anything happens—you're just standing there hugging it!"
"So this is my fault now?"
The mood was sour.
Naturally, Jaehyuk's mood wasn't great either.
They haven't given me the ball a single time. Not once.
Son of a bitch. This is not why I've been weaving around between all these giant meatheads.
"Hey, James."
"Yeah?"
"Do I absolutely have to receive the ball from the quarterback to be allowed to run?"
"Technically no, but basically yes. Oh—unless somebody's carrying the ball and drops it. That's called a fumble, and either team can pick it up and run with it."
Oh. Well, well.
He turned the information over in his mind as he watched the ongoing game.
Football teams fielded separate offensive and defensive units—when his side attacked, the defenders rested on the bench, and vice versa.
"Ohhh!"
"Hey! That—"
A spiraling ball sailed through the air and arrived in perfect rhythm with a runner's route, dropping straight into his hands. The receiver was the Black varsity player he'd seen earlier—powerful thighs churning as he brushed right past the defender in his way.
"Touchdown!"
"Ah..."
Unlike their sad showing, the varsity offense scored in no time at all.
"That's Mark for you. Honestly, that insane passing arm is wasted on our school's football team."
"What about Willie at receiver, though?"
The opposing offense mixed and matched their plays, methodically eating away at the turf yard by yard, then finished it off with a single strike—a touchdown pass.
The score was 7 to 0.
A touchdown was worth 6 points, and the extra point—a kick through the goalposts after the touchdown—added 1 more. That seemed to be how it worked.
All you have to do is carry the ball to the end of the field. Why do they insist on making it this complicated?
Still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all, he finally watched the sides switch again. But nothing changed after the swap.
Screech—!
The passes sailed wide, over and over. On the rare lucky completion, the receiver was swallowed up by defenders almost immediately.
A few rounds of that, and possession changed again.
What are they even trying to do? What am I supposed to be doing?
Was this really what his position was for? It couldn't be. He was just about ready to march over and grab that quarterback by the collar when—somehow—the game had already reached its final stretch: the fourth quarter.
Slap!
"Hey! You even touched the ball yet?"
The opposing offense streamed toward the bench, and one of them gave Jaehyuk's shoulder a thump as he passed. The Black receiver from the varsity squad. Willie.
"I'm about to."
"Haha. Sure, sure. Knock yourself out. Hey, at least you're still breathing instead of flattened into the turf. I'll call that a win."
Willie gave his shoulder a friendly double-tap and moved on. Jaehyuk watched him go for a moment, then took his position.
Behind the quarterback.
He opened up his field of vision wide, taking the whole field in at a glance.
Once again, the quarterback hollered his mysterious incantation of nonsense syllables.
Shout all you want. Throw the damn ball first, then we'll talk about progress.
Or hand it to me.
Hut!
The play began. He watched the quarterback turn to receive the snap from James.
And this time, just as he'd planned, instead of blindly bursting forward, Jaehyuk ran laterally—straight toward the quarterback's side.
"Hah—hah—"
The quarterback's panicked breathing carried all the way to him. He could see the man's darting, terrified eyes. And he could see the defenders charging in with merciless, murderous intent.
"Hey. Quarterback."
"?!"
Jaehyuk had appeared at his side without him even noticing, and spoke.
"The ball. Hand it over."
The quarterback—mid-scan for an open receiver—snapped his eyes to Jaehyuk.
"Or should I just take it myself? I heard it doesn't matter if I pick up a dropped ball."
The moment the words left his mouth, the quarterback thrust the ball at him with trembling hands. Jaehyuk snatched it clean away in an instant and looked up.
And then—
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
Across the vast 120-yard field, crimson lines were writhing like living things.