What I Must Do From Now On

Playing that last game taught me something.

The true level of high school football.

It was even lower than I'd imagined.

And this wasn't even the mainland — this was Hawaii.

The overall talent pool runs a little thinner here.

Which meant the complex ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠schemes you'd see in college or NFL games were nearly impossible to run on this field — because my teammates couldn't execute them.

Time.

Effort.

Talent.

Whatever it was that had been missing, the lessons that first game taught me were serving me quite well today.

So here's what I chose.

Keep it as simple as possible.

16_1

"Green- 80!! HUT!!"

Taking the snap from Loto, I moved into the pocket and spent a moment scanning for somewhere to put the ball.

The line was locked in a ferocious battle.

It wouldn't be long before the defense closed in on me.

Neither the tight end nor the wide receivers had reached safe-enough positions to catch a pass.

No time to hesitate any longer.

So in the end, I—

I sprinted for the wide-open lane that had opened on the right.

One end latched onto me.

I shoved him away with a stiff arm and kept running.

Then, a few yards more—

Thud!

A tackle brought me to a stop.

First down, refreshed with ease.

My side ached a little where the tackle had landed, but that was nothing.

Chi-k.

The coach's voice crackled through my earpiece.

It probably sounds like gibberish.

But that right there is the offensive play call.

I-Glass is the base formation. Dummy-Double is the line's movement. Twist Attack is the method of attack.

Why call plays in such a roundabout way? Because there simply isn't much time.

Between one down and the next, a huddle gets 25 seconds — or 40, depending on how the previous play ended.

That's why, since long ago, teams have attached outlandish or downright silly names to complicated plays, making them easier to absorb at a glance.

It saves time, too.

Burn past the huddle clock, and the referee flags you instantly — a five-yard penalty handed straight to the defense.

Even now, I quickly stepped in front of my teammates.

And relayed the play, fast.

"I-Glass! Dummy-Double! Twist Attack!"

After repeating the coach's call word for word to the offense, I hurried into position under center.

What is under center?

Standing snugly behind the center who hands you the ball.

If you want to become an NFL quarterback, you have to be able to do this.

You might say that's the most basic of basics.

But surprisingly, plenty of quarterbacks can't.

Their fundamentals are just that shaky.

"HUT!!"

Back to the matter at hand.

The I-Formation is a running scheme.

The fullback and running back line up in a row behind the quarterback, and the goal is to hand the ball off down that chain and grind out yards.

With five linemen and one or two tight ends holding the front, the fullback plants himself headfirst as the decoy, while the running back wedges through the gaps between bodies.

Since the aim is usually two or three hard-earned yards, it's a tactic typically tried on first or second down.

We picked up three yards this time, too.

By any measure, that was a successful play.

"Start from Pistol! Trips Delta! X Rock!"

Improvised brilliance from the receivers, or freak athleticism from the running backs — I couldn't ask any of that of my teammates, so the best option was to stick strictly to the coach's instructions and never stray from what we'd drilled.

And honestly, that wasn't a bad thing for me either.

Discipline matters at this stage.

Normally, high school quarterbacks draw attention with raw physical tools and moonball long passes rather than executing play calls.

Meanwhile, a quarterback who can actually run a scheme properly is almost nonexistent.

Two or three a year, tops?

Just showing that to the scouts would have them drooling hard enough to worry about dehydration.

Back under center.

I checked the defense, then shouted.

Oh — that's right, actually.

I'd added a small twist to today's calls.

"Green-!"

The Green I just called is the go-light.

As in, greenlight.

As quarterback, if I read the defense from under center and judge there's no problem, I call Green.

Hearing that word, the offense knows there's nothing blocking them from running exactly what they got in the huddle.

The number after it is the degree of my conviction.

For the record, 80 is a perfect score.

In the first game I'd tried calling out the defense's movements as well, but watching the offense keep bugging the coaches every single time we switched sides of the ball, I gave up on that.

Ninety-five percent of the offense.

Hadn't understood the number I called.

Even though it was right there in the playbook.

It's not just quarterbacks, either — every position gets its own playbook tailored to their role.

Now do you get it?

Simple.

As simple as possible.

That's why I made the decision I did.

Repeating the word simple over and over in my head, I steadily executed the most basic offensive scheme in the book.

This play was the Pistol.

Named for the way the receivers advance in a shape resembling a shotgun — it's an offensive formation invented here in 1999, built on the shotgun.

While three wide receivers sprinting from either side pulled the defense with them, the tight end who'd been stationed near the line moved on his assigned path and settled into the middle of the field.

Improvising was off the table.

But our tight end could do exactly what we'd practiced.

"HUT!!"

After taking the snap, I step back and drop away.

First ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I faked looks toward the wide receivers on both sides to sell the defense, and then the tight end appearing at the far right edge of my vision settled into a comfortable spot.

I didn't miss it.

Thud-!

I let the pass go and was knocked sideways by the tackle.

And then — a roar rose from the stands.

Looks like the catch was good.

Springing back to my feet, I pointed at our tight end, who was celebrating after hauling in the pass.

In his second game as well, Dwayne Moi Stone laid his talent and potential fully on display.

If anything, he was steadier than in the first game.

There wasn't a single thing to criticize.

And above all—

"He might not just be a dual-threat."

"A gunslinger? A scrambler?"

"Now that throws the whole label off again."

A playing style that refused to fit any simple definition — Moi's game had the nation's college football establishment positively buzzing.

There had never been a high school quarterback like this.

Ninety-nine percent of them simply throw the ball where the play tells them to — and even then, half of it falls apart from poor understanding or weak passing.

The reason the high school scene is crawling with dual-threat types in the first place is that quarterbacks who can't run an offense get ordered by their coaches to just run.

But Moi felt like a professional quarterback.

While college staff who had worked their way toward Moi's family mid-quarter cleared their throats and rained business cards, Nick Saban once again sat quietly in his seat, gazing down at the field in silence.

The huddle of Dwayne Moi Stone.

Nick Saban was transfixed by it.

I have never once seen a high schooler direct an offense the way he does.

Today, from the moment Dwayne Moi Stone stepped onto the field, he did not glance back at the bench a single time before an offensive play.

He relayed only what came through his earpiece, verbatim, to his teammates — and even after the huddle broke, he kept reading the defense and calling out adjustments.

He even ran audibles.

Elite ones, at that.

Dwayne Moi Stone read exactly which defender was about to blitz, exactly which linebacker was keying on a particular receiver, and improvised his changes accordingly.

A few of those audibles went over his teammates' heads and killed the drive outright — but not a single scout or college coach in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that stadium would dream of blaming the quarterback for it.

First game, and now the second.

Today, too, Moi's game was—

So he truly is beyond the standard scale.

He had casually blown past anything you could reasonably expect from a quarterback just entering his freshman year.

"Say, Jacob."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's go hand out our cards too."

"Oh. Yes, sir. Of course. Absolutely."

Nick Saban — famous for watching at least ten games before recruiting any single player — was making his move after just two.

The sight of the NCAA's flagship coaching legend rising from his seat sent a ripple of tension through every other college staff present, and under a forest of staring eyes, Saban strode toward where Moi's family sat.

Then, removing his sunglasses, he put on the warm, kindly smile that had melted the hearts of so many students' parents, and extended his hand.

"A pleasure. I'm Nick Saban."

Once again, I didn't play in the fourth quarter.

I had no complaints about that, either.

The win had all but been decided.

After the final whistle, I walked out onto the field to greet the returning offense and told every one of them they'd been incredible.

Right on cue, the Fox Sports reporter came up to me.

And I waited for her to approach.

"Whoa-wow. What a game."

"The coach's play calls were great."

"A high schooler executing them at a hundred percent is what's impressive here, no?"

"Not a hundred. I'd say about ninety."

"That's an odd number for modesty, don't you think?"

"Haha."

Ever since I was little, I'd occasionally slipped up and said things that belonged to my past life.

In front of a camera, that absolutely could not happen — so I was being extra careful.

The interview itself was a while off, it seemed.

In the meantime, Shannan kept chatting me up.

She must be terribly curious about a lot of things.

"Will you commit in your freshman year?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Then, junior year?"

"Probably."

Some top prospects decide their college destination in their freshman year.

There are more of them than you'd think.

Most choose that way because it's their parents' or a relative's alma mater, or because they burn with a personal desire to play there.

Some commit simply because the school is close to home.

But in my case, none of my family's alma maters had a good football program.

And nowhere called to me especially.

Just — anywhere with real competitive pedigree would do.

Top ten nationally? Sure, that works.

Even a shade below that is fine.

Whichever team I join, I have the confidence to lift it into the ranks of the elite.

So I'll commit around junior year.

There's a lot I want to weigh carefully.

Especially the coach, and the teammates.

Blurting this out carelessly could easily have sounded like a dig at Kahuku's coach and my teammates, so I made myself clearer.

"Once I've learned everything I can here, I want to learn something new in college. So I hope there's a great head coach there — and since there's plenty to learn from your teammates too, I'd like to be surrounded by players who can really play."

"Learning is everything, they say."

"Exactly what I'm saying."

"Haha. Well then — ready?"

"Go ahead."

For the second straight week, I sat down with Fox Sports' flagship reporter for an interview.

This would carry real weight.

In more ways than one.

"Mom—!"

The moment the interview wrapped, I bolted straight for my family.

I hugged Mom first, then Grandma and Aunt Mel, and Uncle and Aunt embraced me happily in turn.

Next was Grandfather.

"Truly, it's as if you were born for the quarterback position."

"Haha. I'd like to believe so."

Because in truth, I was.

When I first realized I'd been reborn, I resolved to become a quarterback.

The me of my past life had wanted to be a quarterback too — but being a pure Asian man, he'd ended up a coach instead.

Common enough a story in the football world, I suppose.

You play through high school and college, hit the ceiling of your talent, bury yourself in the film and the books, get hired at the bottom of the staff ladder, climb through posts like quarterbacks coordinator, and finally become a head coach.

That was, in fact, the exact path I had walked.

I did a wider variety of things along the way, but still.

Anyway.

"This old man is very proud of you today."

"I…"

I hesitated for a beat.

What should I say?

Huamatu?

Stone?

Grandfather and Father had always wished for me to live by my own convictions — and so, shaking off the hesitation, I said this:

"I'm the grandson you can be proud of, Grandfather."

"That you are."

The truth is, I'd wanted to say Stone.

As I always had.

But if I had, it would have hurt Grandfather.

My creed is simple: never wound the people you love.

So I set my own pride aside.

"Father."

"Moi?"

"…"

"You could've done a little better in the second quarter."

"Haha. Yes — yes, you're right."

It would have been so nice to get a compliment.

My balloon deflated — but that's my dad for you.

Even back when I conquered my first monster wave as a kid, Father always said the next one would be bigger.

Praise from him is a rare commodity.

Which is why his praise became my yardstick.

He believes in my talent more than anyone else alive, so I know exactly how much it means when he says even this much.

If I didn't know that—

Maybe I'd have sulked. Maybe I'd have drifted a little off course…

No.

That's impossible.

Looking at Dad, at Grandfather, at my uncles—

Any urge to rebel just evaporates.

Like a soul getting cleansed, you know?

Strength lives much closer to home than recklessness does.

Not that I have any recklessness in me to begin with.

But then—

"Still."

"?"

"I'm proud of you too."

"!!"

Father had praised me.

I was happy.

Truly, deeply happy.

So I broke into a beaming smile, and Father told me to hurry down to the field — the team was waiting.

Eek.

Right, of course.

After every game, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we perform the haka once more.

Rushing to my teammates' side, I dropped to one knee.

And slowly pounded the earth with my fist.

Thud.

Thud.

Sioele, our captain, leads the chant.

After the haka ran its minute-plus course, I looked toward where my family stood — then let my gaze drift to where the Huamatus were gathered.

Nearly all of them wore faces like they'd chewed something rotten.

Serves them right.

If anyone had dared call me a Fake Samoan in this atmosphere, they'd have earned themselves some very unfriendly treatment from everyone else here.

Silencing the Huamatus with football of all things — for that alone, I wanted to give myself a perfect score today.

And in front of my family, no less.

A little.

No.

A whole lot proud.

"Moi. Let's go."

"Yeah."

A resounding victory in our second game.

Which meant that, from here on out, what I had to do was—

Raise my teammates up to my level.