This Is Exhilarating?
#. May 30, 2016
#-1. United States, Oahu, Hawaii
#-2. Honolulu, Kahuku CDP
#-3. Kahuku High School
#-4. The Football Field
The training time we'd been notified of, on a Saturday afternoon, was nine o'clock.
What I hadn't expected was for everyone to already be gathered like this.
The freshmen excluded, of course.
This was about the rest of the upperclassmen.
The seniors stood clustered in a circle at one end of the field, and from the center of that circle, a single voice rang out.
"Ko Wai Matou?"
(Who are we?)
At that, everyone remaining answered.
"Kaipāhua Kura."
(The Red Raiders.)
Ah.
So this is the Haka.
This must be the real welcoming ceremony for the newcomers.
And then, twice more.
The same verses repeated.
Then, on the third—
"KO! WAI! MATOU?!!"
The voices suddenly swelled.
And the answer with them.
"KAIPÃHUA! KURA-!!"
Now it was about to begin in earnest.
The seniors slowly turned to face backward.
The lead chanter called out first.
"EKE- AKE-!!"
(Awaken! Seize it!)
And again, the rest answered.
"HI!!"
(Yes!!)
That verse repeated another five times.
Next came the shouting, bodies moving in time with the prescribed motions.
Aggressive.
Warlike.
"KEI TE PAPA PAKANGA-!!"
"HE IWI KOTAHI!!"
"MO NGA IWI WHANUI!!"
"TANGATA KAIRAKAU!!"
By the time the roughly minute-long haka drew to a close, my classmates looked utterly overwhelmed.
But at the same time, they couldn't hide their excitement.
You could feel it radiating off them—a yearning to stand in that circle themselves.
To belong alongside them.
Truthfully, my own blood was stirring a little too.
I wanted to move my body, right this instant.
The Kahuku haka ends the way it began.
"Ko Wai Matou?"
"Kaipāhua Kura HI--!"
Who we are.
The battlefield.
What must be protected.
Our pride.
And how we must fight for it all. When the haka—packed to the brim with those themes—finally ended, a man with a thick mane of curly hair walked toward us.
I remember him.
Fuamatu.
The one who picked a fight with me back in March.
"From this moment!! You are Red Raiders!!"
"…."
"…."
"Acting like little girls—that ends today! If you plan on keeping it up, then keep it up. If not, turn around right now and crawl back into the hole you came from! Well? Anyone lacking the guts?"
Naturally, not a single person turned away.
Fuamatu stepped back, and four other men came forward, each carrying a plate of red dye.
The seniors who approached smeared that dye across our faces.
This, too, was a traditional Hawaiian ceremony.
The senior who painted mine looked me in the eye and said,
"You're one of us now."
"Oorah."
And so the intense initiation ceremony came to an end.
Then the head coach and the rest of the staff appeared.
"Welcome to the team!"
Introductions began.
We each stated our names in front of the seniors.
And soon enough, it was my turn.
"My name is Dwayne Moi Stone-! I'm from Paia, Maui, and my target position is quarterback! It's my first time on a football team, but as an islander, I'll get it done properly-!"
Fortunately, the atmosphere was far more welcoming than it had been back in March.
Not cutting me from the roster then must have paid off.
The actual training started with running.
First, we circled the field once.
A football field is a uniform 120 yards (about 109.7 meters) long and 53.3 yards (about 48.7 meters) wide. Since the endzones—where points are scored—occupy the 10 yards at each end, virtually every play unfolds across the 100 yards between them.
From above, it looks exactly like a barbecue grill, which is why fans—and we players—sometimes call the football field a gridiron.
So we crack jokes about getting grilled out there, too.
Not here, anyway. That was in my past life.
"Moi! Maiava! You two, follow me! Cam—you too."
The coach called me and two others aside, to one end of the field.
These three, apparently, would be this season's quarterbacks.
Hmm.
So, position drills right away?
That seems a bit early, though.
"Cam? Introduce yourself to the boys first."
"Hey. Nice to meet you all."
The one introducing himself, Cameron Renaud, was a quarterback about to become a senior with the new semester.
After the greetings, the coach handed each of us a thick binder.
Sol-Jay froze at the sight.
I broke into a bright smile.
Finally!
I'd received the Play Book.
"The faster you learn it, the faster our training will progress."
"Oorah."
The playbook is a notebook containing every offensive scheme the team runs.
A quarterback has to know all of it by heart.
It varies a bit from team to team, but in the NFL, you're looking at anywhere from seventy or eighty plays on the low end to around 130 on the high end.
A big number isn't inherently a good thing.
But a head coach with a thin playbook never lasted long.
And in my past life, I ran exactly 126.
It's no wonder the quarterbacks under me were dying out there.
Instead, though, they all achieved enormous success.
The quarterbacks who played for me on the New York Jets were always rated exceptionally high on the free-agent market.
One friend of mine, a mere backup, drew offers worth more than twenty million dollars a year, while Ryan Patton, my workhorse, hit the jackpot at fifty-five million a year.
That's how much expertise I had in managing quarterbacks.
So eighty-seven plays?
Memorizing this thing is nothing.
"Alright. Set those down for now and follow me again."
"Yes, sir."
And so serious training began.
Foundational position drills.
The content wasn't all that different from my past life.
John Morse, the coach in charge of the quarterbacks, assumed football was brand-new to me and tried to teach me from the very beginning.
I appreciated the consideration.
But I didn't want to go back.
So.
"Moi, throwing deep is important too, but—"
"Accuracy matters more, right?"
"Yes, exactly. Haha. But to throw accurately…"
"You can't let your head wobble."
"…How did you know that?"
"I studied ahead. A lo---t."
I played along like I already knew everything.
That's how you save time.
Hoping to reassure the slightly startled coach, I decided to say a little more.
"The quarterback is the position that creates points—but it's also the position that can hand the opponent a devastating counterattack. That's why some say protecting the ball matters even more than scoring touchdowns."
"…And why is not losing the ball important?"
"Because, well, the offensive team is on the field."
"Wow. Correct answer. You nailed it."
"See? Told you I studied."
The reason a steady head matters is the helmet.
Wearing one narrows your field of vision compared to normal, and in an already compromised state, a constantly bobbing head means you can't properly read the field.
Hesitate and take a sack, fumble the ball away, or toss a careless pass straight to the defense?
A quarterback's evaluation plummets instantly.
"Still, we do have to run drills, right?"
"Of course."
Everything they had me do on day one revolved around keeping my head locked in place.
Meanwhile, I had to grip the ball firmly in both hands at all times and follow several other rules as well.
Sol-Jay failed to keep them and got sent for push-ups beside us more than a few times.
As for me, I executed everything flawlessly.
Naturally—I used to have to demonstrate drills myself, back when I was a head coach.
This much is basic among basics.
Tweet—!
"That's it! Everyone gather up!"
Huh?
Already?
Two hundred minutes goes by this fast?
It didn't feel like we'd done anything all that special.
But training time was already over.
"Gotta grab the playbook."
"Oh, right."
After waiting a moment for Sol-Jay, who'd nearly forgotten the single most important thing, I headed with my friend toward the coach.
"Everyone paced themselves well and finished the first day strong."
"…."
"…."
"Make sure you put your equipment away properly. And Moi?"
"Oorah!"
"Haha. Come with me."
I quickly fell into step beside the coach as he walked off to one side.
Apparently my first day of training had been on his mind.
"So. How was the first day?"
"Enjoyable."
"…Last week, you were called to the storage shed, weren't you?"
"Yes. That was enjoyable in its own way, too."
"Nothing painful happen? Nothing unpleasant?"
Well, it could have turned into bullying.
If I hadn't had my past-life memories.
"Not at all."
At my breezy smile, the coach looked briefly flustered, then patted my shoulder with a word of relief.
"If anything comes up, you come tell me first. Understood?"
"I will. Well then, may I go?"
"Go on."
"Oorah!"
Back among the crowd, I looked around for my classmates.
Oh, there they are.
But then—
"Hey. You."
"Hm?"
Someone with roughly my build came up beside me.
One of the instigators I'd seen before.
So he's a Fuamatu too, then.
The second son?
The youngest?
What was certain was that the one who'd led the confrontation was the eldest.
He led the haka today, too.
"Change your clothes, then come around behind the storage shed."
"Sure. I'll do that."
"…."
What did he make of my cool response?
He seemed a little thrown off, actually.
Now I want to bet on the youngest.
Not that it really matters.
"Where are you going?"
"Go on ahead. I have somewhere to stop first."
"Yeah? Then see you tomorrow."
"Yeah!"
After parting with my classmates, I made my way around the back of the storage shed.
One, two, three, four, five…
About seventeen of them, give or take?
In the middle, I spotted a man seated on a chair.
Sioele, if I remembered right.
He seems to think he's the king around here.
A chair, no less.
"Hey. Fake Samoan."
"…."
Calling me a fake Samoan right out of the gate.
I'd noticed it before, but the sheer rudeness is remarkable.
For now, I brushed him off lightly.
One of Sioele's eyebrows arched up.
I ignored that too, naturally.
Meanwhile.
Aww, aren't they adorable.
What's with all the scowling?
Back in my past life, when I was in high school, the upperclassmen were flat-out terrifying—but now that I look at them, these ones are nothing but babies.
Sioele, puffing himself up with all his weight to flaunt his power at me, and the two brothers flanking him—to my eyes, they're just little kids trapped in a tiny world, mistaking it for everything.
Well, well.
How pitiful.
"What are you looking at?! Look at me!"
"…."
"Listen up. No matter how special you think you are, you're still a fake Samoan. That's never changing. Do you understand what that means?"
"Hmm, not really?"
"What?"
Apparently my nonchalant shrug was too much to stomach, because Sioele rose from his chair.
"Don't get cocky with me! You're a freshman!"
"And the team's starting quarterback."
"!"
At the words starting quarterback, Sioele flinched.
And I smiled, showing my teeth.
Never a smile of goodwill.
I'm well aware of that myself.
A beast baring its fangs.
I've said it before—
The quarterback is a privilege.
All the more so in your school days.
Which means they can't treat me carelessly, either.
"Feel free to call me a fake Samoan. But the fact that my own family considers themselves Samoan—there's nothing you can do about that. And by the way? This is genuinely pathetic. You gather a dozen-odd big guys and pull this stunt, thinking I'll get scared? If that's what you believed, you couldn't be more wrong. My name is Stone. Proudly Stone."
"…."
"I'd bet anything the ones gathered here are defensive linemen. Starters, at that. Am I right? Then, well—look forward to working with you. It's only because you hold the line that I and the rest of the offense get to shine. Nice meeting you. Later."
I turned to walk away on the spot—
and Sioele shouted at my back.
Ugh.
Seriously.
"Not everyone here is on the defensive line!"
"Excuse me?"
"Loto Fuamatu! My brother! He's offensive line! Center, at that! Do you understand what that means?"
I do.
It means he'll be protecting me too, doesn't it?
And?
Your point?
"Don't tell me you're planning to let yourself get through on purpose?"
"Why? You think I couldn't?"
"No, I'm sure you could. But here's the thing."
"?"
"If he gets beat at the divisional level we play, he's never making it to college. And if he gets beaten in a big game instead? Then he gets to listen to everyone call him soft. So go ahead—let yourself through or don't, whatever you like. Later. Aloha-"
He's definitely unraveling on the inside right now. A shame I couldn't see his face.
Still, this felt pretty satisfying as it was.
Calling me a fake Samoan?
How amusing.
Want to bet on when you'll come around to admitting otherwise?
I have no intention of bowing first and playing nice.
They're the defense, after all.
There was one piece of offense in the bunch, sure.
But whatever.
I've already thrown my stone properly.
"He's got a point, you know."
"Loto!"
"What? It's true, isn't it? Get beaten at the division level and no mainland college will take you. And I refuse to get beaten in the playoffs or nationals. Football's something you're supposed to do properly."
"Shut it!"
"…."
The stone I'd cast was bound to cause a clash of opinions.
What a waste of time that was.
From here on, it's study time.
I need to memorize those plays, fast.
Can I use the library right now?
It'd be better than home, at least.
Oh—there he is.
Tamati, the one who brought me pie yesterday.
"Excuse me!!"
"?"
And a little while later,
there was a library key in my hand.
#. June 3, 2016
#-1. United States, Oahu, Hawaii
#-2. Honolulu, Kahuku CDP
#-3. Kahuku High School
#-4. The Library
Before I knew it, Thursday had arrived.
The Fuamatus had kept quiet.
And my classmates and I were getting along well.
After training, we'd head to a hamburger joint near the school, eat together, chat a bit, and then part ways.
And after that, without fail, I made my way to the library.
Memorizing the playbook was just about finished.
Now I was at the stage of examining other things alongside it.
What I was reading now was the tactical notebook I'd kept after games.
It recorded how each score was produced.
Reading it, you also come to understand the team's tactical character.
Center-oriented offense, I'd call it.
Bold, maybe?
It might just be a product of the gap in competition level.
Within the Hawaii division, Kahuku High School stands in a class of its own.
A season without an undefeated run counts as a bad season.
At the national level, though, they top out around a Top 16 team.
Because the quarterback's limits had been clear.
Viewed that way, building a center-oriented offense makes sense.
Long passes to the sidelines must have felt like a gamble.
But the wide receivers must have been suffocating.
For reference, wide receivers (WR) are the positions fielded two or three at a time on offense.
They line up mainly at the far left and right, catch the passes the quarterback delivers, and push the attack down the field.
They're also the position that scores the most touchdowns—but to haul in fast, high-flying passes from far downfield, elite physical ability is a must.
During most of the game, they barely stand out. Then they score a touchdown and seize the entire spotlight in a single moment.
And the position that makes that possible is the quarterback.
That's why quarterbacks and wide receivers stay close.
Though on rare occasions, they're enemies.
Anyway.
Our team has good wide receivers.
Two of them, no less.
Hmm.
Wasting them doesn't sit right with me, either.
But the current playbook says…
"Tch. Nothing for it, I guess?"
A good quarterback diversifies the team's offense.
Unless he's a fool of a coach, no one buys a blade capable of cutting diamonds and uses it only to peel apples.
Which meant, in the end, that I would have to prove it.
That I could make this team better.
In my past life, unearthing talent no one else could see was one of the joys of being a head coach—but what I was feeling right now was far more stimulating than that.
This?
This is exhilarating.
[2016/17 Kahuku High School Academic Calendar Announcement]