Right Here, Right Now, I Want to Shout That I'm Alive
August 31, 2016 — Oahu, Hawaii, United States — Honolulu, Kahuku CDP — Kahuku High School
"Stephanie did what?"
"Exactly what you heard, ma'am."
"Oh—for heaven's sake…."
Macy Young clutched her head as if a migraine had struck her on the spot.
Macy Young is our school's AAA.
Athletic Academic Advisor.
Her job is to make sure none of the school's athlete-students ever fall below the grade threshold and get barred from competing. At the same time, she serves as our line of communication—bridging the gap between the athletes and the school, and between the school and the athletic program.
"Haah… Moi? I'll take care of this myself."
"You'll make sure she can't come near me, right?"
"Of course. She might even get kicked off the cheerleading squad for this."
"That much is fine."
"Will you really be okay?"
There are guys on the team who get fired up just looking at Stephanie. On a cheerleading squad made up almost entirely of dark-skinned, black-haired girls straight out of a Hawaiian postcard, a fair-skinned blonde stands out like a flare.
And she's barely even in high school yet.
I didn't want her to take a wound any deeper than necessary—regardless of how I'd felt yesterday. As long as she never came near me again, that was enough for me.
Macy thanked me for it.
She said it was a merciful decision.
"Anyway. Did you turn in all your essays?"
"Every last one."
"Good boy. If only everyone were like you."
"Then you might've been out of a job, ma'am."
"Ha! Fair point."
"So—am I free to get up now?"
"Go on. I'll handle the Stephanie situation properly."
I rose from the sofa and stepped outside, where my friends were waiting in force.
"Did you submit your essay?"
"Damn, bro. I didn't even know that was a thing."
"Then I hate to break it to you, but you're screwed."
"Aw, hell."
A lot of football and basketball recruits believe that if they're just good enough at their sport, their whole life will change. But I can promise you this—
It absolutely won't.
Right now, over a million high school football players are playing at 15,810 schools across America. Of those, only about 81,000 are guaranteed an NCAA scholarship. And every year, 32 NFL teams field 53-man rosters—which works out to 1,696 players.
In other words—
The odds of a high school football player making the NFL are barely above 0.1%.
"You seriously need to study."
"Making it to college should be good enough."
"And after that?"
"What are you, my mom?"
"Screw off. Worrying about you is a waste of breath anyway."
"Heh heh heh. See you out there."
It's a shame how they neglect their studies, but I suppose that's just the ordinary, everyday life of teenage football recruits.
My assignments and essays were all finished. The Stephanie mess was resolved. My teammates' grades were now Macy's problem, so I set off to find Aunt Mel with a light step.
Today was our scheduled lunch together. We have this little ritual about once a week.
Knock, knock.
"Ms. Macy?"
"Nobody's in here."
"Haha. Mel, let's go eat!"
"Sure. Just a sec."
Aunt Mel had adapted to the school exactly as I'd expected. The student body held her in high regard—even among the freshmen. She'd worried at first that being my aunt would earn her unfair prejudice, but she silenced every whisper with pure skill and sincerity.
I couldn't be prouder of her.
"Good grief! Stephanie did that?"
"Yeah. That's what happened."
"Did you tell the school?"
"Mm. I told Ms. Macy. They said she'd get kicked off the cheer squad, so I said that much was fine."
"A mature decision. As always."
Aunt Mel gave a small nod and started packing up her lunch. I helped from beside her.
"Any afternoon classes?"
"Nope. Heading straight to the field."
"Good. Be careful out there, don't get hurt."
"I will. Call you later."
After parting with my aunt, I made my way to the field. Today was our final practice before the game. There was plenty of time before the 2:30 team gathering, so I decided to go find the coach.
He wasn't hard to find. I knew exactly where he'd be.
The quarterback room.
Knock, knock.
"Hm? Moi?"
"No classes, sir. Mind if I come in?"
"Of course. Did you eat?"
"Yes. Dang! What on earth is that you're eating, Coach?"
I asked because the plate in front of Coach John Morse was entirely, aggressively green.
"My cholesterol went bad."
"So your wife started packing you lunches like this?"
"That's right."
"Which is exactly why I told you to cut back on the drinking."
"Please. I get enough nagging from my wife as it is."
"Could stand to get a little more, sir."
"Why you—!"
I reached over, plucked a roasted asparagus from the plate, and chewed on it thoughtfully as I pulled my notebook out of my bag.
Every offensive scheme this team runs is already stored in my head. What I'm searching for now is a way to make it all easier for the others to absorb.
Even now, half of every practice is spent getting chewed out.
Not me.
My teammates.
"What do you think the head coach will run next game?"
"Hm—only Gavin knows the answer to that."
"We've got two good running backs, though. Right?"
"We do."
"Then why don't we have a double option?"
"Because Gavin doesn't like it."
"Hoo. Right. That is the problem."
This team has two division-competitive running backs in Harmon Brown and Elvis Vakapuna—men capable of ten-plus touchdowns a season. On all of Hawaii, no team outside of Saint Louis can boast a backfield of that caliber.
And yet the head coach refuses to run any scheme that uses two or more backs together.
That's been quietly frustrating me lately.
Option plays would suit us perfectly.
"Moi. I know you've got the talent for it, but…"
"Yes, yes—the team comes first. I know."
"Haha. Good man."
It stings a little, I won't pretend otherwise. But I know how to be satisfied with reality.
Coach John Morse watched me reopen my notebook and settle back into study with a warm, fond look. Then he set a freshly washed bunch of grapes down in front of me, telling me to eat while I worked.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it. Well then—see you this afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
Once Coach Morse was gone and I was alone in the room, I picked up my pen and buried myself in the notebook again.
"Left Spread, X Block…"
The life of a quarterback—
Is one you can never separate from studying.
September 2, 2016 — Oahu, Hawaii, United States — Honolulu, Kahuku CDP — Kahuku High School — Football Field
00 00 00 00 – 00 : KAHUKU
00 00 00 00 – 00 : CAMPBELL
Football is a profoundly masculine sport.
I'm not trying to make a point about gender here—it's just true of this ball game.
Look no further than those guys over there. The defensive unit. What are they doing right now?
"Stomp 'em and tear 'em apart!!"
"Stomp 'em and tear 'em apart!!"
"Stomp 'em and tear 'em apart!!"
They're hammering those two words over and over, whipping their fighting spirit into a froth, fully intending to stomp and tear apart Campbell's offense that's come to visit us today.
The defense certainly has that raw charm to it. The offense, on the other hand…
"I'm the best running back in the state."
"Catch. Touchdown. Boom—stamped straight into the NCAA scouts' notebooks!"
They seem like a gathering of slightly selfish men.
Wide receivers. Running backs. All they ever think about is scoring themselves.
But in football, that's the right attitude. Guys like that genuinely do play well.
The offensive lines are the more civilized bunch, comparatively. Mostly cheerful types—though they can look a touch ADHD at times. They'll pull some ridiculous prank, snap into total seriousness a second later, then start rattling on about blasting open the opponent's defensive line, and you're left wondering which of their two gears you're supposed to match.
And then there's us quarterbacks.
"Thread it into the open space. Firmly."
"Identify the weak link."
"Run the play. Got it? Run the play."
We keep giving orders right up to the final moment. Because while teenage boys around us are transforming into beasts, we have to keep our composure until the very end.
"K! A! H! U!…"
It's a home game, so the stands behind us are roaring with the cheer section in full voice. Stephanie, for her part, has been ignoring me completely these days.
Thank God for small mercies.
It's exactly what I wanted.
During a break, I turned around and scanned the stands for my family.
Oh. There they are.
I could see Grandma and Grandpa sitting beside Aunt Mel. I threw both arms up and waved high.
Dad couldn't make it because of work. He'd sent an apologetic text, and I understood—bank tellers don't exactly get to burn a day of leave every single week.
Cheering me on. That one thing is enough.
"Alright, everybody huddle up!!"
Once each position group had finished its own little ritual, I called the whole team together. Sioele is our captain, but as quarterback, I can do this too—because the QB is the only position capable of binding all those violent egos into one.
I thrust my fist above my head.
"Today's gotta be an easy win! Everyone's got family in those stands—so we are NOT getting embarrassed by Campbell! Lock in! When the ball's loose, you dive on it and you never let go! On three—Red Raiders! One, two, three!"
"RED RAIDERS!!"
"RED RAIDERS!!"
The teammates with our hands stacked together roared, stoking the fire even hotter, and between the cheering crowd and the blaring music I could faintly make out the cheerleaders' chants.
The linemen stepped forward and shook hands with the opposing line, and soon the coin toss took place at midfield.
"Hey, Moi."
"?"
"Set me up a few today, will ya?"
"You serious, bro?"
"Dead serious."
I looked at Sekope, practically vibrating out of his skin, and told him I'd give the signal mid-play—so stay ready.
And that moment arrived fast.
First quarter, 12:46.
Twenty-four yards from the end zone. Second down.
"Shotgun, Right Spread, G-Delta 45."
"Listen up! Shotgun, Right Spread, G-Delta 45."
"…"
"Got it? Let's Go! Let's put points on the board!"
Shotgun formation—our bread and butter. I stationed two wide receivers to the right. They'd burst off the line in two diverging routes the instant the snap came, and "Spread" is honestly the perfect word for it.
G-Delta 45 is the offensive line alignment. In other words—it's the scheme for protecting my pocket.
"Green—50!!"
…
"Switch Jam!! HUT!!"
Most of my teammates had probably never heard the words "Switch Jam" before in their lives. But quarterbacks sometimes spout meaningless gibberish just to confuse the defense, so I knew they'd be keyed in only on the "Green 50" I'd called just before.
And that was exactly what I wanted.
Because "Switch Jam," from the very start—
Peeeet!
"TOUCHDOWN!!"
"YEAH-!!"
—was a call made for one man, and one man only: Sekope.
We had just scored a touchdown on a play we'd drilled barely days ago. From far downfield, Sekope came charging back toward me at full sprint.
"ALL DAY!! ALL DAY!!"
I crashed into him mid-air with a satisfying thump, and having scored, we jogged back to the bench with our chests out. From here, it was the defense's turn.
"Hey, Moi."
"Yes, Sir."
"What was that just now?"
"It was the head coach's scheme, Coach. Shotgun with right spread. Before the snap, I watched their backer and safety alignment—they looked like they'd crash right. Sekope happened to be sitting in the perfect spot, and I figured a pass there would get us six."
"…Right. Good job."
Oorah.
The truth is, Coach was simply stunned by Sekope's movement. The kid scored exactly zero touchdowns last year.
Kahuku's scheme is built around the run, and that alone carries us deep enough into the playoffs. But the moment we reach the Open Division Tournament and beyond, we hit a wall—fast. Which means no passing game means no future. And for the passing game to live, the tight ends and wide receivers have to produce.
Sekope was sitting on the bench right now, beaming from ear to ear. I walked over to him.
"I heard you yelling 'Switch Jam' just now."
"How's it feel, Coach?! Huh?!"
"Damn—!! You've got the itch now!"
Barely had we banked the quick 7–0 lead when Sioele burst through the opponent's offensive line and delivered a monstrous hit on Campbell's quarterback. The opposing QB went fluttering to the turf like a deflated balloon doll, and Kesi Ah-Hoy scooped up the loose ball and sprinted straight into the end zone.
Once again—
Touchdown.
"THAT'S IT-!!!"
"IT'S LIT!! IT'S LIT!!"
"Damn!! What is even happening right now?"
"That Sioele tackle was beautiful. Killed it."
"That kid's got real skill, doesn't he."
If it weren't for the tangled history with the Huamatu clan, Sioele and I would have been friends. He's a defensive line talent with the goods to reach the NCAA.
But now is the time to focus on reality. I shouted across to our offense again.
"What kind of sense does it make that defense scored the same kind of touchdown we did?! Let's show them they don't get to share the spotlight with us!! Let's Go!!"
Second quarter, 4:25, the score having climbed rapidly to 17–0.
I had my second touchdown in my sights.
"I-Zone West Coast, X Block."
"We're keeping it simple. I-Zone West Coast, X Block."
"Let's blow it open!"
"Now you're talking. Let's Go!"
Ever since a receiver's drop forced us to settle for a field goal instead of six, I'd been needling the offense by hammering the point that the defense had matched us touchdown for touchdown.
Get the timing right, and you can hold a team's focus at a razor's edge.
This drive was built to exploit the short field—just five yards from the end zone. The running back's charge would sow chaos in the defense, and a quick, short pass would finish the job.
Otherwise known as the West Coast Offense—one of the cornerstones of modern football's attack.
"23!! Blue 40!!"
The "23" I barked out was a report of the defense's look. Campbell had lined up in a 2-3 shell. The offensive line up front was too close to the fight and too locked in on blocking to see the defense's shape—so it fell to the quarterback to relay it.
The "Blue" I called next—
"HUT!!"
—was the signal that I, the quarterback, might run it myself. Another read made off the defense.
Whump.
The collision of the two lines cracked across the line of scrimmage, and the instant the decoy running back charged forward, I spotted their linebacker bearing down from the right.
The pocket was no longer safe. Somewhere to throw it?
Not a chance.
Campbell's corner and safety had our receivers locked down tight—one more pass would get batted or fall incomplete.
So without a second's hesitation, I took off.
Just like I'd promised with "Blue." Thanks to the X Block sealing the front, the middle was crowded but the edges were loose—and with defenders closing from my right, running left was the only answer.
Ball at the five. I dropped back three yards or so.
My sprint, started from roughly the eight, closed the distance to the end zone in a heartbeat. When I saw the defenders abandoning their coverage and lunging for me, I wrapped the ball in both arms—
—and dove straight into the end zone.
Crunch!
Crack!
Whenever you collide with a defense on a football field, something always, always snaps. I know it's just my pads making the noise, but sometimes I imagine that had I taken that hit bare-bodied, bone would have certainly broken.
But—
I'm built like most linemen. Cornerbacks and safeties cannot stop me. Even now, two of them hit me at the same time, and I powered through both and carried the ball across the goal line.
Touchdown.
"THIS is what I was talking about!! THIS is what I meant!!"
"You see that?! THAT'S Dwayne Moi Stone!!"
Watching my giddy teammates introduce me by name to the opposing team unasked, I shook myself off lightly, stood, and dusted the dirt from my shoulder. Then I looked down at the defender sprawled beneath me.
"Light."
"?!"
An unmistakable provocation. The kid on the ground was now seriously riled up. So I sealed the deal with a wink, turned away, and bellowed—
"EKE- AKE-!!"
Wake up. Hunt.
And my teammates answered:
"HI!!"
We hear you.
Wound tight by the team's Haka, the offense and I sprinted back toward the bench, grinning like idiots.
Ah—this. This is it.
This is when I—
"I really do feel alive, you know."
"Heh heh heh heh."
Right here, right now—I want to shout it to the world: I am alive.
Snap: The action by which the quarterback first receives the ball on an offensive play.