If Anyone Understands That Feeling Better Than You, Will You Trust Me?

Last weekend had been anything but quiet.

A parade of college coaches and athletic officials made the pilgrimage to Grandma's house, and the news vans lining the street filmed every visitor the moment they stepped through the gate.

Each arrival was live-streamed to the world through their social media feeds.

Meanwhile, reporters fanned out across Maui and Oahu, interviewing anyone who had ever known me.

He's like this, they said.

No, he's like that, they insisted.

Even the most mundane anecdotes—that I'd been a bright, polite child who greeted everyone warmly—were being splashed across the national news as headline material. America, at this moment, was completely obsessed with me.

But?

"And what exactly is it you want to do?"

I don't care.

I had something far more important to focus on.

And that was—

"Training."

"What kind of training?"

"Oh, this and that. I was wondering if I could work out with some of the guys—not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the seniors, the others."

"…."

Coach John Morse was looking up at me.

He was the team's quarterback coach.

In the NFL, and even at the NCAA level, you'd find dedicated specialists—passing game coordinators, offensive coordinators, quarterback gurus of every flavor—but at the high school level, one QB coach is more than enough.

What more could he possibly do?

I wouldn't understand it anyway.

But I was that what more.

"Outside of official team practice hours, you mean?"

"Yes—just taking three or four guys aside, that's all."

"Hmm—"

"Would that count as a rules violation?"

As I'd mentioned before, the National Federation of State High School Associations caps training at two hours per day, fourteen hours per week, maximum.

Cross that line, and the cheapest penalty you'll pay ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is a fine.

Running roughly a quarter of a school's annual budget, give or take.

Which is why some schools, caught in violation, skip the fine entirely, throw away their season, and start rebuilding from scratch.

So what I was worried about was whether what I wanted to do might brush up against NFHS regulations.

"Moi!"

"?"

When practice ended, Coach Morse came back with an answer to the question I'd asked him before training.

"If there are no coaches on the field, it's allowed."

"Really?"

"Yes. But you'd better double-check everything. Got it?"

"Oorah-"

That settled it.

I could do what I wanted to do.

Which meant—

The thing I was best at.

In my past life, I was known not only as a head coach who developed quarterbacks, but as a coach with a gift for drawing out each player's strengths.

And this was something I'd been doing my entire life.

Turning away from Coach Morse, I walked over to the teammates I'd agonized over choosing all weekend.

The seniors were off the table for now.

I was looking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at next year.

And the year after that.

"ST!"

"?"

"Got a minute to talk?"

"Sure."

ST.

Sitaleki Tongi.

A junior wide receiver.

The team currently carried fourteen wideouts, and outside of our starter Royce Pao, he was the only one worth anything.

For the rest of them, high school would be the final chapter of their football careers.

Their skills were just that hopeless.

"You want me to train with you?"

"Yeah. Oh, and I checked with Coach—apparently it doesn't violate any regulations."

"…."

Tongi mulled it over for a moment, then shook his head.

He said he simply didn't have the time.

I'd anticipated as much, so I couldn't say I was crushed.

Tongi knew perfectly well that his skill level wouldn't carry him to college football, which was exactly why he was pouring himself into SAT prep instead.

That's the smart way to play your senior year.

Fine. I'd take the long view.

I moved on to the next target.

The team's junior tight end.

Sekope Latu.

This one burned with ambition for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the game.

"Love it. When do we start?"

"Tomorrow."

"Great. Consider me in."

Just as I'd predicted, he accepted on the spot.

A guy like Sekope could realistically make an NJCAA roster.

But he'd surely be gunning for the NCAA.

The difference between junior college and the real thing was heaven and earth.

It could change his entire future.

And beyond that, the tight end position itself is one of the most valuable a team and a quarterback can have.

Tier-one tactical importance.

I needed Sekope—but just as much, he needed to use me to advertise his worth.

Next up—

"No way!"

"I'll get you the number of any girl you want."

"Seriously? Then what are we waiting for!"

It was the sophomores' turn.

Marcus was, predictably, the easiest sell.

A girl's phone number and he was in.

Sol-Jay also agreed to join.

He was planning to switch positions next year—to become one of the receivers.

Staying at quarterback meant staying buried as a backup, and transferring schools wasn't exactly a smooth option either.

So he was preparing for a position change.

I thought it was the wise move.

Which left—

"I need you as a safety."

"…Do you actually need me?"

"That's what I just said. So let's do this together."

Kaonohi's confidence had taken a nosedive lately.

It was the curse of the utility player, I suppose.

You only see real improvement when you commit to one position and grind it out—but getting shuffled here, there, and everywhere as needed, the kid had started to feel like nothing more than a shuttle for other people's drills.

I believed safety was where Kaonohi belonged.

And it happened to be the team's most vulnerable position, too.

"Good. That should just about do it…."

Back at my dorm, I sat at my desk and sketched out the training plan.

Three phases, roughly.

Monday and Tuesday for recovery and conditioning. Wednesday and Thursday for fundamental tactics.

And if my friends could just keep up with me, I might even be able to propose what we practiced to Head Coach himself.

One of a quarterback's privileges.

Click.

With the notes wrapped up to my satisfaction, I stepped outside to wash up before diving into more film study.

I headed for the bathroom-slash-shower.

Even the path there had transformed since the old days.

Tamati had built a walkway connecting it to my cabin, then added a simple roof and side walls, giving the whole thing a proper sense of privacy.

Thanks to him, I could shower in peace.

Click.

Ssshhh—

Humming a tune, I let the cold water run over me.

Dark blue bruises bloomed all over my body.

High school level or not, tackles still hurt.

Click.

Click.

Tucking the basket of shampoo and body wash under my arm, I walked back toward the cabin, still humming the song I'd been carrying all day.

Classes were satisfying. My friendships were satisfying.

And football was off to a flying start.

The school paper was even saying that this year, at long last, we could take down Saint Louis and claim the division title.

Not that I needed convincing.

That was the plan all along.

"Huh?"

A basket was sitting in front of my door.

Tamati again?

Oh, right.

Tamati had brought me pecan pie again today.

I couldn't just keep taking, taking, taking like this.

I'd been trying to give back in my own way.

Like any high school, this place had its share of rotten apples, but even the worst of them hadn't dared cause trouble around the freshmen—not with me watching.

Same as in elementary school, same as now in high school.

Consider me the neighborhood watch.

"Whoa— dang, that smell."

Pressing my palms together, I offered up a short grace, then dug the fork I'd brought into a corner of the pie.

"Oh, God. This is the one."

Maybe he should just sell this instead?

Hmm—

One of these days, I'd have to pitch it to him.

But for now—

"Oh, God."

That is insanely good.

Marvelling could wait until after I'd gotten this heavenly pie into my stomach. Priorities.

Tuesday.

A visitor arrived at Kahuku High School.

"And you want to do what, exactly?"

"Put Moi's jersey on the shelves of every store we operate nationwide."

"…."

John Haggerty, principal of Kahuku, could not immediately process the words of the man who had introduced himself as Charlie Foster.

Charlie Foster was the Marketing & Sales Director at Under Armour—the kit sponsor of Kahuku's football team.

In the end, Haggerty had to ask again.

"And you want to do what, exactly?"

"Haha. I understand the shock."

"Shock aside—are you serious?"

"Completely. For Kahuku, this is an enormous opportunity."

"Oh, it's an opportunity, all right…."

For schools in the NCAA Top 25, their football programs generated upward of a hundred million dollars a year.

College teams. Not professional ones.

Alabama alone had pulled in $115 million last year.

That kind of revenue came from ticket sales, merchandise, and broadcasting rights—while the reality for a high school team was that it brought in less than a hundredth of that.

And Kahuku was in Hawaii, no less.

The average football program there cleared barely $100,000 a year.

Except—Kahuku had already blown far past that figure.

Thanks to the broadcasting fees Fox Sports was paying.

And now, yet another windfall had come rolling in on the vine.

"First, this is the marketing proposal."

John Haggerty took the documents with trembling hands.

And Charlie Foster kept talking.

"We are confident that through Moi's jersey, we can deliver Kahuku no less than five million dollars in revenue every year."

"W-wait just a moment. Five million dollars?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, my God…."

Over the past five years, Kahuku High's annual revenue—from tuition and the like—had hovered around seven to eight million dollars.

Add the state of Hawaii's budget allocation and it crept just past ten million, and after covering the cost of running the school, the roughly four million remaining was what paid every teacher's salary.

Including, naturally, his own—and the salaries of the football head coach and his staff.

And now—

Under Armour had just guaranteed five million dollars.

"As a matter of fact, the production line is already running."

"Already?"

"Indeed."

"Oh—good Lord."

"The groundwork was finished the moment the first Fox broadcast ended. We at Under Armour have been watching closely to see whether the heat around Moi is sustainable. And we concluded that it is—amply."

"Still. Five million dollars."

"Haha. That figure is merely the floor."

If five million in genuine net revenue landed in Kahuku High's lap, everything going forward could change.

The quality of education would rise first.

Facility upgrades would become possible, too.

And by binding the school tightly to the community, they could build Kahuku into the finest high school not just on Oahu, but in all of Hawaii.

There was one catch, of course—this revenue had a time limit.

It would last only as long as Moi was at Kahuku.

"I'll consult our attorney and contact you right away."

"Of course. I'll be staying about two days."

"Will you observe the football team?"

"That would be my hope."

"One moment."

John Haggerty picked up the phone and called Gavin Travis, and before long the head coach appeared, whereupon Haggerty introduced him to Charlie Foster.

"Moi's jersey?"

Gavin Travis was equally stunned, but since this was fundamentally a matter of the school's operation, he listened to the gist and gave a loose nod.

Soon the two men left the principal's office.

Left alone, John Haggerty snatched up the receiver again.

"Call an executive meeting. Now!"

The board members of Kahuku High School, the president of the parent association, the school's attorney—

All of them would converge on the principal's office shortly.

But John Haggerty felt no anxiety whatsoever.

Whatever conclusion the meeting reached, the outcome would not change.

"A minimum of five million. Oh, my goodness."

As he tilted his head back and clicked his tongue at the ceiling, the deep smile on John Haggerty's lips refused to fade.

The notion that athletes don't need to study holds absolutely no water in football.

If anything, it's the reverse.

"We're leaning on the running game far too much."

"We don't have much choice."

"I know. I do. But—"

A quarterback is a very busy man.

Practice to run.

Playbooks to memorize.

And strategy meetings like this one to attend.

It's why every football team carves out a dedicated space for the quarterback—though at the moment, this room belonged to Head Coach and Coach Morse.

And I kept pressing my case.

"At the very least, let's finish building the shotgun package. You've seen the numbers, right? We've already thrown six passing touchdowns in our first two games. Last year the whole season, we managed barely ten."

"…."

"…."

Watching the two of them sit in silence, I decided to push a little harder.

"The run alone won't beat Saint Louis."

"Hmm—"

"Give me a chance. I've got ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

At Head Coach's question, I rummaged through the bag I'd brought and pulled out a notebook I'd set aside.

It was one of the four practice notebooks the team had handed out at the start of training—normally used for reviewing schemes or jotting down ideas.

This one held ideas.

"We've got one usable running back and one usable tight end."

"That's right."

"Which doesn't mean we can just leave the rest of the guys on the bench."

"No, it doesn't?"

"Right. So—"

Decoy.

Or—

Dummy.

Either way, the word means the same thing: bait.

In football, though, "decoy" gets far more mileage than "dummy."

"The idea is to mix in some decoys."

"We already have plays like that."

"We do. And every last one of them is at least three years old."

Three years is more than enough time for an opponent to finish dissecting a scheme.

In fact, I'd confirmed it on the field myself.

Remember last week, when I couldn't find anywhere to throw and had to run for my life?

What we'd used back there was a decoy.

And the defense had countered it perfectly.

If even Ieia—a team sitting at the very bottom of the national rankings—could do that, then Saint Louis, the best team in Hawaii, would eat our decoys off a plate.

"Page sixteen has the decoy concepts I came up with."

"…."

"I'm not asking to run them tomorrow. Just read them through."

"I will. But, Moi."

"Yes?"

"How on earth did you come up with all of this? I mean—you'd never played football before. That's right, isn't it? And it's only been three months."

Every time I let a piece of my past life slip out,

people looked at me like this.

"I'm just… amazed, I guess."

"I'm obsessed with football."

"Plenty of kids are. But not one of them produces anything like this. I've only glanced at it, but even at a glance, the quality is obvious."

"So… will you consider it?"

"I will. You have my word."

Satisfied with Head Coach's final words, I smiled, said I'd take my leave, and headed for the door.

Out in the hallway, walking along, I spotted him up ahead.

"Kop!!"

"?"

Kop was Sekope's nickname, and after training together since Tuesday, the two of us had gotten a lot closer.

"Just came from the meeting?"

"Yeah."

"Bet that was brutal."

Walking side by side, we kept chatting.

Sekope genuinely liked the extra training.

And he absorbed it astonishingly fast, too.

"So it's the loose sack releasing, and after the switch jam, the tight end bends back toward the middle, right?"

"Exactly."

Loose sack. Switch jam.

The two concepts we were drilling intensively—strategies aimed at converting first downs through the tight end.

If things went well, we'd deploy them against Campbell on the second of next month, or away at Radford on the sixth.

Radford gave us a bit more runway to prepare.

Partly the schedule.

But mostly because they were the weakest team in the state.

"Man. Lately football is insane amounts of fun."

"See? Told you."

"Either way—that's on you, bro."

"Anytime."

Sekope had a remedial class, so he headed back into the school building, while I—the proud holder of perfect scores on every subject quiz—made my way to the library.

Not that studying was the point this time.

My goal was—

"Warrup, ST."

"…You really don't give up, do you."

"The name Stone means patience. I can study right here in front of you, can't I?"

"Haah— do whatever you want."

"Haha. Thanks."

Breezily, I took a seat across from ST.

Probably right after midterms, I figured—

that would be when he joined us.

If the plays Sekope and I drilled paid off beautifully in the Radford game, ST would surely come around too.

"Wham double is… when the receiver…."

At the quiet muttering under my breath, ST rolled his eyes upward and kept sneaking glances my way.

He had earbuds in, but I'd bet my manhood that no song was actually playing out of them.

Call it what you will—

this kid loved football too.

It was just that his talent, sadly, had its limits.

That feeling.

If I understood it better than anyone else alive—would you believe me?

Swallowing the words I could never say out loud, I went back to the work of tempting ST.