The Taste Isn't Nearly So Bitter

Not a word of a lie.

All hell had broken loose since last night.

Every sports outlet in the country led its broadcast with yesterday's incident, and my social media following exploded to fifty times its size overnight.

Today we rented the football field at nearby Clark High School for practice, but so many broadcast people showed up that we could barely run a normal session.

In the end, Coach had to chase the media off.

Swallowing his disappointment the whole while.

The man does have a soft spot for the spotlight, after all — I doubt he wanted to kick them out any more than we wanted them gone.

Anyway.

As practice was winding down, the people sent from the mayor's office arrived, just as promised the day before.

And I came here with the team.

Where, you ask?

Where do you think.

#. September 16, 2016

#-1. Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

#-2. In front of City Hall

The largest crowd I've seen in this life was gathered below the stage.

Seriously, what even is this.

Look, I understand a city wanting to hand out a commendation when a high schooler catches a robber. But with only the slightest exaggeration, this felt less like a certificate ceremony and more like a war hero coming home in triumph.

One thought struck me as I took in the scene before me.

Damn it.

This place is just as football-crazy as my past life was.

There is exactly one sport on Earth capable of generating this kind of explosive attention for a high school athlete, and it's football.

"Today."

"…."

"Today we have gathered here for one remarkable young man. He is a brave and proud citizen of the United States — and, at the same time, the most promising football player in the entire nation."

Cheers and whistles erupted once more.

I'd bet money on it.

The mayor was eating this up.

Caroline Goodman had been elected in 2011 and was currently serving her second term, or so I'd heard.

Why do I even know this?

Because they droned on about it the entire car ride over.

"From this boy's actions yesterday, we have all learned that age means nothing when it comes to doing what is right — and that courage without hesitation is what changes the world."

Excuse me, Madam Mayor.

Isn't that laying it on a little thick?

All I did was tackle a robber. What was that about

changing the world?

The real problem was that Americans are constitutionally incapable of resisting this kind of story.

A boy from a Hawaiian island comes to Las Vegas — the pleasure capital of the world — on a school trip, and tackles an eight-time offender trying to steal his luggage.

The American Dream.

Second chances.

I hadn't just struck the sentimental nerve at the root of American arrogance; I was also the most heralded football prospect in the country while doing it.

So even if the whole nation got drunk and woozy off an overdose of homegrown pride, nothing about it would be strange.

That said.

If you didn't know just how obsessed this country is with football, you might be tempted to think, isn't this all a bit much?

But this is Las ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Vegas, Nevada.

Tourist crowds aside.

It's one of the most football-frenzied cities in America.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce him!"

Finally!

After an address longer and duller than the principal's speech on enrollment day, my introduction had arrived at last.

"Dwayne Moi Stone—!"

The marching band stationed at one side of the stage struck up, and as I climbed the steps, another wave of thunderous cheering rolled over me.

The mayor stepped toward me, microphone in hand.

She was coming this way?

I'd braced for a handshake.

I had not braced for a hug.

"I am so very proud of you, young man."

"Uh… thank you."

What followed was American showmanship in its purest, most distilled form.

A gleaming plaque.

A bouquet of flowers.

They even draped a lei around my neck, in a valiant attempt at Hawaiian flavor.

A lei, for the record, is a flower garland worn around the neck.

And here's the fun part — the word lei itself means "to wear around the neck."

So when mainlanders say they're putting a lei around your neck…

it sounds exactly like putting a neck around your neck.

Hawaiian humor, you might call it.

"Uh…."

The public affairs officer I'd met the day before had texted me later, telling me to prepare a two-minute speech for the stage.

He'd offered to write it for me if that was easier.

I'd declined and said I'd do it myself.

I had no intention of being used as a political prop.

"My family was shocked and overjoyed. The first thing they asked was whether I'd been hurt, and I told them they'd given me a sturdy body, so I was fine. The truth is, I came here for a football game, and my school is off enjoying its trip. Las Vegas seems like a wonderful city, and I hope you'll keep welcoming us while we're here. I'm glad I could do something good for this city. Thank you."

As I finished and raised my hand, the marching band struck up yet again.

I hurried down from the stage, and the principal came up to me.

He'd hopped on a plane at the crack of dawn to get here.

"You keep saving our school in more ways than I can count."

"I was just protecting my own stuff, sir."

"I know. But don't say that. You understand what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes sir."

After being run ragged like this the moment practice ended, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠found myself aching for the bed in my hotel room.

But that wasn't happening anytime soon.

Because I still had interviews to do.

Whoa — hold on.

What is all this?

NBC?

CBS?

ESPN?

Every single logo jammed into those microphones was national-level.

More than a dozen cameras were visible from where I stood alone.

"How does it feel to be a national star at fourteen?"

"Hmm — I honestly couldn't say. Like I mentioned earlier, I came here for a football game, and my goal is to play well with my teammates and win tomorrow. It's not that today doesn't make me happy. But if we win tomorrow, that'll make me happier."

When would I finally get to lie down in that bed?

It looked like it was going to be a long while yet.

#. September 17, 2016

#-1. Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

#-2. Bishop Gorman High School

#-3. Football Field

The stands at an ordinary high school football game can be summed up in three words: parents, students, cheer squad.

And scattered among them.

A handful of scouts.

But today was nothing like any other day.

Over a hundred college-affiliated personnel.

A similar horde from the broadcast world.

In the end, Bishop Gorman had to scramble to pitch emergency tents just to cover the seating shortage.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"No. Not once."

Even filling an NCAA Division II stadium is no small feat these days.

Running out of seats at a high school game — one that wasn't even a national championship — was the stuff of dreams.

Which is exactly why the eyes of the veteran recruiter who'd flown in all the way from far-off Minnesota were brimming, absolutely brimming, with greed.

If he just keeps growing like this….

In the mind of Maurice Horn, recruiter for the Minnesota Golden Gophers — better known as MGG — a man who should have rewritten football history was flickering to life.

Johnny Manziel.

The man they called "Johnny Football."

The most star-studded quarterback in NCAA history.

So prodigiously gifted that his mere enrollment was expected to pull some seven hundred million dollars in donations into Texas A&M — that was the scale of expectation Manziel carried.

But a weak mentality and a catastrophic work ethic surfaced first, and then, decisively, drugs swallowed his career whole.

Photos of him drowning nightly in booze and nightclubs spread across the internet, and the Cleveland Browns — the team that had drafted him — were forced to admit they'd burned yet another failed first-round pick and cut him loose.

That was barely a year ago.

"This is genuinely insane."

"…."

The men from Auburn — who, in an unusual move, had sent one of the school's own trustees to Las Vegas alongside their recruiter — were scanning their surroundings with much the same feeling.

If he just keeps growing like this.

"Am I the only one who looks at him and sees thirty billion won minimum?"

"Not even close. I'm seeing the same thing."

"Right?"

American universities had always funded themselves through donations from alumni who went on to social and economic success.

And those figures shifted year to year — schools in the NCAA Division I SEC pulled in anywhere from two hundred million dollars on the low end to as much as eight hundred million on the high.

Alabama and Auburn had raised a combined three hundred eighty million dollars this year, and by their own standards, that was satisfying.

But if Dwayne Moi Stone grew the way everyone expected and simply set foot on Auburn's campus, they were looking at a billion dollars a year.

That was why the recruiters' hands had all started flying at once.

They wired the atmosphere on the ground back to their schools.

And while they did.

Both teams readied themselves for battle.

In the home locker room, head coach Kenneth Sanchez barked out his game plan with burning passion, while on the visiting side, head coach Gavin Travis acknowledged the caliber of the opposition and roared at his players to leave everything on the field.

The atmosphere was slowly catching fire.

And then, the players took the field.

With a touchdown conceded less than two minutes into the game, the bench was in a state of barely controlled panic.

"What the hell just happened out there?"

"Our defense got sliced open way too easily."

"Is that what this is? Are we just outclassed, period?"

"Hey! HEY!! Quiet down!!"

Our flustered coach shouted everyone silent and pulled the assistants into an emergency huddle — but if it had been me, that's not how I'd have handled it.

And the thing is, I didn't have to sit still.

Why?

Because I'm the quarterback.

I got up and stepped out in front of my teammates.

"We're fine! All we gotta do is put points on the board!"

"Let's Go—!"

"That's the spirit! Let's smash their defense to pieces!!"

"YEAH—!!"

After firing up the offensive line, I moved over to the receivers, who were stretching hard off to one side.

"Just find the open spot!!"

"Hoo!"

"I'll thread it to you the second you're there!!"

"COME ON!!"

Those brutal opening two minutes had made one thing crystal clear — this game would not be easy — and our offense hustled onto the field.

The drive would start with Bishop Gorman's kickoff.

For now, I waited on the sideline.

"Moi. Listen carefully."

"Yes sir."

Coach's voice was more charged than I'd ever heard it.

An early score given up to a powerhouse team.

It made sense that he'd be on edge.

"We're starting in spread. Don't get greedy all at once — grind out small gains and move the chains. You understand? This is a road game and the kids are rattled from that fast score. If we hand the ball right back, the momentum swings completely to their side."

"Yes sir."

"Good."

Just as the coach finished his instructions.

Bishop Gorman kicked off.

The ball sailed down to near the end line and landed snug in Elvis's arms.

From here, all he had to do was run his heart out.

Except.

"OH SHIT!!"

The coach swore out loud — because Elvis went down at the sixty-two's tackle, less than twenty yards from our own end zone.

We now had seventy-plus yards to travel.

Against a far stronger team.

I snapped my helmet on immediately.

Behind me came the assistant's voice calling in a substitution, and sprinting to the spot of the ball, I dropped to one knee and called the play.

"H-spread! 45 Alpha! Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Don't flinch. Let's Go!"

I broke the huddle and set up for the snap.

First, I tucked in tight behind Loto.

Spread formations default to the under-center look, after all.

I turned my eyes to the opposing line and studied it.

Hm.

Not a good feeling about this.

"Green— 30!! HUT!"

The instant the snap hit my hands I pivoted and handed the ball off to Harmon charging in.

He crashed into the line, fighting for a gap.

And gained nothing.

Not a single yard.

Coach wanted a run on second down too.

He'd swapped the formation out of the spread, though.

"We're going split! Z-double! X-block!"

The split back formation — also known as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the pro set — commits the tight end fully into the line and places two halfbacks behind the quarterback.

It blends passing and rushing half-and-half and gives the quarterback plenty of freedom, but right now, Coach wanted nothing but the run.

Which meant the deception had to be airtight.

With two halfbacks charging forward simultaneously, you could sell a fake to one side and use him as the bait.

Pull it off, and you've duped the defense entirely — a huge gain downfield is yours. Fail, and you're staring at another one-yard clunker just like the last play.

"Green— 50!! HUT!!"

Keeping the ball and turning, I thrust my hands out to both sides.

A shell game, in cleats.

So — which hand did the ball go to?

Mid-collision, with the lines crashing into each other, reading which direction the quarterback handed off is brutally difficult.

And yet.

Thud!

"Fuck!"

This time, too, Bishop Gorman's defense smothered our attack.

Two plays combined: one yard gained.

Third down.

Realistically, this was our last chance.

Fourth down means a punt — and with our own end zone this close, if the odds of converting a first down are slim, punting the ball deep is the right call.

『"Not bad. Split, Delta 45 this time."』

Not bad?

Coach!

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Were you watching the same thing I was?

I wanted to scream it, but the earpiece only ran one way.

So I called the huddle again.

"Split, Delta 45."

"…."

"…."

Nervous eyes all around the circle.

So I made the call.

"Let's run the double decoy."

"What?"

"You're serious?"

"Dead serious. Split double decoy. Delta 45. When I look at the line and shout Blue, I'm keeping it — so block like hell for me."

"Alright. Let's do it."

"Let's Go!"

The same play wasn't going to crack that line.

So I bent the call — just slightly.

A quarterback can twist or scrap the bench's play anytime things aren't working, and the coaches already knew I audibled fluidly on my own.

If it failed, the blame landed squarely on me.

But I wasn't afraid of that.

Behind Loto again.

I studied the defensive line.

Nothing looked different from before.

They'd all crash into the line again.

Which meant — there might be a window.

"Blue— 80!! Quick S!!"

That final call — Quick S — was aimed at Royce Pao, my wide receiver on the right: a route that runs straight before cutting toward the middle. I said it hoping the corner and safety would both collapse toward him.

"HUT!!"

I took the snap and turned, just like before.

Except this time I extended only my left hand.

The two halfbacks swept past me, and in the split second that more than ten hulking bodies collided at the line of scrimmage, I spun left from my turned stance and started running.

The moment I'd fully squared toward the attack direction, I saw it — open field, a startling amount of it, straight ahead.

Let's go.

I kicked into a full sprint, and Bishop Gorman's left linebacker — realizing he'd been fooled — gave chase.

Number 74 went down low, diving for my legs.

So I leapt.

"?!"

Something grazed my fingertips at the height of the jump, but my balance held and the landing was clean.

By the time I'd clawed back the acceleration the jump had stolen, the safety who'd been glued to Royce Pao was launching himself at me.

I tucked the ball deep into my chest to protect it.

And hunched low, braced for the hit.

Thud!

The instant the impact landed —

I spun right, wheeling with the momentum.

My center of gravity collapsed.

Left palm slapped the turf.

The ball was still safe, tucked in my arm.

So I kept running.

Ahead, Bishop Gorman's cornerback came into view.

Meet him head-on and I go down.

Could I shed another tackle like I just did?

Didn't look likely.

Right side.

There was a gap between the defender and the sideline.

There.

I'll take that one.

Just as I gained a few more yards, the tackle came in anyway.

I fought to stay upright, but in the end I was driven out of bounds.

Still — I was fine with that.

I'd just run more than sixty yards.

The bench and the stands erupted.

My teammates came charging at me.

I jumped with everything I had and crashed into them midair.

Then I shouted.

"Too slow!! You're all too slow!!"

To drag my teammates' morale up by the collar.

And I didn't stop there.

"They're no different from us!! They're just high schoolers, same as us!!"

A swaggering push early in the first quarter.

But then.

【"TOUCHDOWN!!"】

I knew exactly where we stood now.

And I knew how far I could carry this team.

I decided to be satisfied with an answer that confirmed both.

Our first loss in high school.

But.

"You're the real deal, you know that?"

"Forget it — just transfer here. Come run with us."

"Can I follow you?"

The taste wasn't nearly so bitter after all.