I Will Become the Greatest Quarterback!
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Yeah."
"More importantly, who are you?"
"Call me whatever you like. Though you humans do have a name for me. God. Even though I don't actually exist. You're just trying to pin the blame on me for your own convenience."
"...Kid, I think you've hit your head."
"Haha. That's funny. Think whatever you want."
Snap.
When the little girl before me snapped her fingers, a vicious pain flooded into my chest.
It wasn't physical. It was the kind of pain that comes from being so, so terribly sad that it hurts.
I had felt this sensation before.
"You humans number far too many."
Snap.
"Khhk—ugh!"
"There aren't enough of us to process the karma and merits of every single human being. So we create avatars like this."
Snap.
The girl snapped her fingers a third time, and identical copies of her filled the space around us. Then she snapped her fingers once more.
Snap.
Now only one remained.
What on earth is this? A dream?
"A dream? No. We decide a great deal about human affairs. But every so often, my avatars make mistakes. Every human in this world is meant to live bearing a reasonable measure of hardship and adversity. You, however, got far too much of it. That's the mistake I mentioned. I apologize. Forgive me."
Forgive her, my ass.
I can't even speak, you know? It hurts like hell!
"The pain you feel right now is all the suffering and sorrow you experienced in your past life. You're having to absorb it all in the span of a single minute, which is why it's so hard. But don't worry. It's actually a blessing."
A blessing? This? Don't make me laugh.
"Really. Anyway, you're going to live a new life now, carrying most of your memories with you. And that will be an enormous help in your new life. There is one condition, though. Everything is an equivalent exchange."
True enough, the pain was fading, little by little. So I managed to force out a question.
"Hahh. Hahk. A condition? Whew—"
"The thing you cherished most."
"...Sophia."
"Yes. I'm taking every memory connected to her. In exchange, you won't have to feel this pain in your next life. When you open your eyes again, you may notice gaps in your memories of your previous life, as if pieces were missing. But it won't strike you as strange."
Wait a second!
You're taking Sophia's memories? Then what reason do I even have to go on living—
"Rest assured. The world you'll live in is completely different from before. Everything is the same, and at the same time, everything is different. Understand? Remember these words well. Everything is the same, and everything is different. Well then."
Having unilaterally wrapped up the conversation, the girl snapped her fingers again.
Snap.
At that very instant, the world spun, and sleep swallowed me whole.
You're seriously telling me a tiny girl like you governs everything?
"Yep. That's right."
As I listened to her words, I drifted further and further from the ground. I could almost bring myself to believe it now. No—I'd believe she was God if only to say what I was about to say. Damn you.
If someone like you really did exist—
"You shouldn't have taken Sophia away from me."
Squeezing out every last ounce of strength, I barely pushed the words past my lips. From beyond my fading consciousness, the girl's voice reached me.
"I'm sorry. Sophia is gone now."
"..."
I don't know why, but I knew her apology was sincere.
More importantly... who was Sophia?
The Super Bowl. The largest single sporting event in the entire world. In America, at least, the Super Bowl commands more attention than even the World Cup final.
Just how big is it? On this one day, economic activity in the American market surges by an average of 17.3 percent, and only the Thanksgiving season ever posts higher numbers. So every year, when the period known as 'Super Sunday' rolls around, Americans abandon everything else to watch football.
If an enemy nation were to invade, they'd say, "I'm watching the Super Bowl right now—can the war wait?" It's a joke, of course, but Americans' devotion to the Super Bowl is serious enough that you'd genuinely catch yourself thinking, "Yeah... that could actually happen."
And this place—cut off from the mainland—was no exception.
Hawaii was no exception either.
United States, Hawaii
Maui Island
Restaurant Aloha
"GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!!"
"YEAH-!!!"
"COME ON!!"
The Philadelphia Eagles' tight end—the one they called 'Little John'—scored the first touchdown of the game. Immediately, the half of the restaurant dressed in navy blue erupted into cheers that bordered on war cries.
And just like that, a war broke out inside the restaurant.
"I told you! New England's about to get steamrolled!"
"You're the one getting steamrolled! Shut up and watch the game!"
"Like hell!"
"Screw you!!"
"Screw YOU!!"
Seeing normally kind, serious adults squabble like a pack of bratty kids is a sight you only get during the Super Bowl. And honestly, it's not much different here either.
Ah—right.
That's correct. I am currently living my second life. With most of my first life's memories intact.
Whenever someone claiming past-life memories showed up on TV, I used to think, "That scam's got to be at least halfway convincing." Now that I've actually become one, all I can say is—it's a strange feeling.
Anyway. In my last life, I was a football team's head coach. I won four championships and earned a place among the game's greats.
But I apparently wasn't much of a husband. I got divorced four times, after all.
That part is a bit hazy, though. You could tell me it wasn't really me and I'd have no comeback. Remembering a past life feels something like having memorized an entire novel word for word—I know for certain that the person is me, and yet it doesn't feel like me at all. It's complicated like that.
"What's going on, kiddo? You said New England was going to win."
"They will. Just watch."
"Whew—I'm putting my faith in you. I've got seven hundred dollars riding on this."
"Seven hundred? With that kind of money, you could pay off your tab."
"I said I'll pay it off if I win today!"
"...You promise?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll even bring you back a tip."
Having extracted a promise from the stubborn old man in front of me, I quietly kept my eyes on the TV amid the ruckus.
Second quarter, one minute and ten seconds. New England finally got on the board, and the restaurant boiled over all over again. Wide receiver David Givens hauled in a short four-yard pass from Tom Brady—the man hailed as the league's best quarterback—and crossed into the end zone. When the placekicker converted, the score evened out at 7-7.
Hmm, now then. There truly isn't a single person I recognize here.
Ever since I'd regained control of this body, I'd come to understand that my second life was taking place in a world completely different from my first. Presidents. Celebrities. Sports stars. Not one of them matched my memories. History, too, had subtly diverged in countless places. Sports went without saying—everything differed from my previous life.
In my old world, the NFL's greatest franchise was Cleveland, and the New York Jets I'd coached were a storied powerhouse that had made the playoffs consistently since the eighties. But here, the Cleveland Browns were the worst team in league history—the one whose owner infamously fled in the dead of night—while the New York Jets, though not the worst, were a hopeless outfit at best, second worst at that.
Same with the players. Tom Brady? No matter how far back I searched, the name Tom Brady simply did not exist in my head.
When I first realized I'd been reborn, I'd briefly toyed with the idea of making money off lottery numbers or sports betting. These days I don't even dream of it. Bottom line: I'm living a second life, but in practical terms it's not one bit different from the first. Of course—
It's still true that I'm in a better position than anyone else.
"YEAH!!"
"THAT'S IT!!"
Third quarter, eleven minutes. I watched New England's go-ahead second touchdown while serving Mom's cooking to the customers. I held out my hand to the cheering patron.
"Hm?"
"You owe me a tip."
"Ah. Right, of course."
"The bill's fifteen dollars, so that's at least two for me."
"Heh heh. You're right. Who could ever get the better of you?"
Whatever tips I collected with that shrewd little hand of mine went into my personal tip jar at the back of the restaurant. After a cold-eyed assessment of our family's finances, I'd concluded that if I didn't start saving from a young age, I'd struggle once college came around.
I had every confidence in earning a scholarship as an athlete, sure—but my past life had taught me that you need a certain amount of cash on hand to weather the unexpected.
Sizzle—!
Mmm. What a delicious smell. I absolutely love my mom's cooking.
"Moi. Are you hungry?"
"A little."
"Then wait just a bit. I'll make you something tasty real soon. I can't tell you how much it means that you're helping me out on a day this busy."
"We're family. It's only natural."
"Moi! Did you just say something to melt your mother's heart?"
"Hehe. Love you, Mom."
Wearing an expression that looked ready to melt on the spot, Mom went around bragging to the other aunties nearby—my son is the best—over and over. This warm, loving family experience I never once had in my first life... I'd fallen head over heels for it long ago.
Even if late, I was finally learning what a family's love felt like. Learning it through a thick skull, maybe. But hey, it counts.
For the record, Mom is a second-generation immigrant, born to first-generation Korean grandparents. As you can see, she runs a restaurant here in Hawaii now, and thankfully the reviews are outstanding—the islanders and tourists alike have made it one of their favorite spots.
And Dad was born to a Samoan grandfather and a Korean grandmother—a mixed-race man who works at a bank in Honolulu.
One amusing thing about Dad: anyone meeting him for the first time always asks the same question—"What sport do you play?" He stands 201 centimeters tall and weighs 118 kilograms, and it's not fat, either. His body is muscle compressed solid, which is where all that weight comes from. I once saw him play in an islander football tournament, and he was nothing short of a beast prowling the field. Even when three guys in their early twenties—supposedly the strongest in the neighborhood—ganged up on him, he didn't budge an inch.
And I inherited that bloodline. At five years old, I stand 125 centimeters and weigh a full 30 kilograms. I'm bigger than most seven-year-olds. Which is why serving tables isn't exactly hard for me.
Child labor exploitation? Please. This is Hawaii. Not that there's no such thing here—it's just that nobody considers it a problem.
A little dutiful son helping his mother. That's how the regulars see me.
"Dwayne, how old are you this year?"
"Five."
"Day-um! Look at this rascal. You hear that? Kid's this big and he's only five?"
I was, without question, bigger and healthier than the other kids my age. So naturally, I became the neighborhood leader. Not that I won the position without a fight—I rolled around in the dirt all at once with three eight-year-old Samoan kids, the ones known around town for their strength. It was one against three.
But I had something they didn't. Experience.
"Mo-i! Time to eat!"
"Coming, Mom!"
I made a lap of the dining hall, scooping up as many empty plates and glasses as my arms could carry, then stepped into the kitchen. On the table sat my favorite loco moco and garlic shrimp, the scent of butter and garlic stinging my nose. Both were dishes Mom took pride in. I pressed my palms together at once.
"Thank you for the food—!"
Between mouthfuls, I took charge of the heavy plates and kept serving. And every time I did, macaroni salad or kalua pork somehow found its way onto my own plate, so a meal I'd planned to finish in ten minutes didn't wrap up until nearly twenty.
I carried two empty plates toward the dishwashing station. That's where Uncle Iwai from Japan works. From what I could gather, he'd gotten tangled up in something unpleasant back in Japan and come to Hawaii because of it—but he's not a bad person, so the islanders look after him and keep him safe.
That's just the kind of place this is.
"Oh! Moi. I do it."
"Daijo-bu."
"Haha. Moi. Learn Japanese. Fast."
"Honto~? Arigato~~"
Maybe it's because I'm living my second life, but I've become the neighborhood's famous little prodigy. My parents stay quiet about it, but everyone else is dying to know what I'll become. One person told me to be president; another said a face like mine belonged in Hollywood sweeping up every woman in sight—and got a smack on the backside from Mom for his trouble.
Hmm. To be fair, as long as I don't rot my features away, it's true I've got a promising face. One look at my parents makes that easy to picture.
Anyway. No matter what everyone around me says, the career I've chosen for this life was decided the moment I was born. And that is—
"Moi."
"What?"
"Moi. When you grow up. What you going be. Really going play fuddball?"
"Yeah! Of course!"
The football knowledge I gained in my first life, and the physical gifts I was given in my second. If I blend those two together just right—
"I'm going to be the greatest quarterback of all time!"
"Kwaddaback?"
"Yeah!"
The biggest star in all of American sports. Becoming a quarterback—a national hero, all but worshipped by the entire country—would be no problem at all.