Whatever It Takes

Last Friday, we climbed to the top of the OIA BLUE, just like it was inevitable.

And now the final tournament is right in front of us.

The Open Division Tournament.

The four teams with the best records across Hawaii's three divisions would face off to decide the state's ultimate champion.

Our opponent on the eleventh of next month would be Kapolei High School out of Honolulu.

An OIA Division 2 school, and the weakest of the tournament field.

An easy win was expected.

So instead of preparing for Kapolei, our first-round opponent, we were already studying for the final — Saint Louis.

"This is the guy we need to watch out for!"

"…."

"Tua Tagovailoa. They call him TT."

TT.

Tua Tagovailoa — the best quarterback in Hawaii.

He hailed from Ewa, just outside Honolulu, and his grandfather was Seu Tagovailoa, a man deeply revered throughout the local Samoan community.

Something like the elder of Ewa, I suppose?

That was roughly the vibe.

Except Seu Tagovailoa was no longer of this world. He'd passed away from a chronic illness two years ago.

Anyway — the point was, the kid was a huge name in Honolulu.

As a football player, sure.

And as a family name too.

And —

As if to prove the "best QB in Hawaii" label no exaggeration, TT was putting on a very impressive show on the screen.

"He's good."

"Told you."

"The throwing arm, obviously…."

"And he's fast, right?"

"Moi."

"Yes, Sir."

"What do you see?"

Truth be told, the ones who really needed to wrack their brains right now were the defensive line.

But still.

The coach wanted to hear my read.

I watched the film for a moment, then checked the stat sheet.

Started all nine games. Twenty-one touchdown passes. 2,208 passing yards.

Eighty-nine rushing attempts. 597 yards and six rushing touchdowns.

On paper, a textbook dual-threat.

And yet.

What I saw told a different story.

"In my opinion, TT is a pocket passer."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, Sir. But he doesn't seem to like throwing deep. Weak arm, maybe. Something like that."

"Hmm. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Anyone else have a thought?"

"…."

"…."

Naturally (?), my teammates stayed silent.

After a moment, the coach nodded.

"Moi called it right away."

Just as we dominated our division, Saint Louis dominated theirs.

Which meant that when all you saw was highlight film, the truth could get cleverly hidden.

On screen, Saint Louis's quarterback looked like an elite runner — but his movement wasn't nearly as explosive as it appeared.

There was fear of the tackle, too.

Before contact even came.

He threw himself to the turf first.

No way a guy like that was a dual-threat.

A young lord wrapped in the protection of his O-line.

A pocket passer — that was TT's true nature.

Our D-line needed to exploit exactly that.

Now that the weakness was on the table.

Partway through the meeting, I turned my head toward the D-line side of the room.

Sioele was already looking this way.

What are you looking at, punk?

Like you could even do it.

"Alright. That's it for today."

The team meeting wrapped up after about forty minutes.

Tension was written across my teammates' faces as we filed out.

That was how strong Saint Louis was.

And not just because of TT.

Their overall level was clearly above ours.

"Damn it. I'm losing my confidence here."

"You forgot what I told you before?"

"Huh?"

"They're high schoolers. Same as us."

"High schoolers who are better at football than us. You saw the film just now, didn't you?"

As the days passed, the confidence we'd built against Gorman Bishop seemed to be draining away, and it pained me to watch.

A shame, but nothing to be done.

That's what ordinary high school kids are.

Expecting pro-level composure was asking too much.

But because of that —

Our mission going forward had never been clearer.

Preparation was one thing, sure.

But we needed to lift their confidence, too.

At the end of the day, it came down to training.

The only thing an athlete could believe in.

Sweat.

That one thing was everything.

"Moi."

"Yeah?"

I'd just left the locker room and was heading for the dorms when someone called my name.

I turned to find a familiar face.

The team's starting linebacker.

Christopher Tuiloloa.

"What's up?"

"Got a minute to talk?"

"If it's Sioele picking another fight, I'll pass."

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

Christopher tilted his head toward the hallway.

Follow me, it meant.

Whenever the D-line guys had "something to discuss in private," it was always Sioele wanting to start something.

So I hesitated for a beat — but this time, going felt like the right call.

And if Sioele did start something?

I'd handle it the usual way.

A little sarcasm, a little dismissal.

And the full display of a quarterback's power.

Christopher stopped at a room set aside for D-line meetings.

"Come in."

"…."

Unafraid, shoulders square.

I walked in.

Christopher followed, the door clicking shut behind us. He brushed past me, walked toward the others, then turned to face me.

"We want in too."

"…In on what?"

"What you and the other guys are doing. Weight training, meetings, all of it. We want you to include us from now on."

Including them wasn't exactly hard.

But wasn't there one little thing to sort out first?

"Sioele doesn't matter."

"You mean that?"

"The Saint Louis game is everything to us. More than half the guys in this room are seniors. If we beat Saint Louis ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and take the state title, some of us might get D1 scholarship offers."

I'd known from the start, of course.

Sioele's grip on the team was flimsy.

Kaluna and Loto siding with us was proof enough.

He couldn't control the team.

Couldn't even control his own family.

His skill as a center was respectable, no question — but failing to command the D-line meant there was a fatal flaw in him.

NCAA Division 1 was probably within reach.

But he'd have to grind once he got to college.

Otherwise, the mask would come off.

This was exactly why NCAA recruiting was so treacherous.

The NFL draft was no different.

Football's gap between levels was wider than in any other sport — so it was everyday business for a can't-miss prospect to vanish without a trace at the college or pro level.

Anyway.

"Alright. Let's do it together."

"For real?"

"Yeah."

For me, there wasn't a single reason to turn it down.

The team getting stronger — that was the whole point.

With one condition.

"Remember one thing."

"What's that?"

"If you fall behind, it's a two-hundred-dollar fine."

"Haha!"

Christopher laughed at that, then bellowed out — without even turning around.

"You all heard it?! Fall behind and you owe two hundred bucks!"

"OORAH!!"

"OORAH!!"

Watching that, I had a pretty good idea who the real leader of the D-line was.

The coach had picked wrong.

But I couldn't blame him, because this, too, was simply part of high school football.

Football.

Academics.

Players weren't only evaluated on the field —

Who they were as students counted too.

Sioele had two brothers on the team's offensive line and pulled a 3.3 GPA — a B+, better than Christopher's B-.

What was done was done.

I had no intention of litigating it at length.

The present was what mattered.

"See you later, then."

"Nine thirty, right?"

"Yup!"

I slipped out of the D-line meeting room, and after walking a little further down the hall, ran straight into Sioele — who sputtered, flustered, demanding to know what I was doing here.

So I fed him an absurd excuse.

"I got lost."

"What?"

"Got lost in thought for a second. Anyway, I'll get out of your hair."

"…."

My plan — fluster him so badly he couldn't even get his jabs out — landed perfectly.

Mouth hanging half open, face frozen in a daze.

I moved away from Sioele quickly.

Once I rounded the corner, I pulled out my phone.

And left a message on the Muscle Men's Snapchat.

Ding.

The guys would leave their replies once they saw it.

And right now, I had somewhere else to be.

Knock, knock.

"You called for me, Coach?"

"Oh, yes. Moi. Have a seat."

"Yes, Sir."

Coach John Morse wanted to go over the offensive scheme for the Saint Louis game with me.

Before long, the offensive coordinator wandered in.

And a little after that, the head coach showed his face too.

Not again.

This is turning into a real meeting now, isn't it?

And sure enough, it did.

Good grief.

When exactly am I supposed to eat dinner?

Looks like.

An hour isn't going to cut it.

After the day's practice ended, Sioele Huamatu came looking for Gavin Travis's office.

Sioele was, after all, the team captain.

So Gavin welcomed him in without hesitation.

And then —

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because I'm the captain."

"…."

"Bringing the entire D-line with you? That crossed a line."

Kahuku High School's head coach realized his team captain was throwing a tantrum little better than childish whining.

He let out a small sigh.

"Whew—"

He'd heard the news a while back: the Muscle Men who lifted three times a week had suddenly more than doubled in number.

And the newcomers this time were the team's D-line. Considering the Saint Louis game, that change could only inject fresh life into the whole squad.

Something any head coach would welcome with open arms —

And the team captain was trying to slam the brakes on it.

Gavin Travis knew why.

Which was exactly what made it so disappointing.

"I think you're taking this personally. Because you don't like Moi. His grandfather was cast out of the Huamatu family, so you treat the boy like some Fake Samoan."

"…."

"What you're doing right now doesn't help this team one bit. You're not respecting the guys busting their asses to take down Saint Louis, either. So how about you spend your energy on something productive instead of wasting it on this nonsense?"

Gavin had long known the family history behind the Huamatu clan — but he hadn't expected it to bleed into things like this.

All season long.

Sioele had pushed himself like a man terrified of being outshone by Moi.

It had a positive effect, to a point.

But —

What a quarterback needed to do and what a center needed to do were two entirely different things.

That much was blindingly obvious.

Worse, in certain situations Sioele had committed flat-out selfish play. The talent gap was so wide it never became a real problem on the field — but the defensive players all knew.

And as it repeated —

Sioele's leadership drained away, naturally, inevitably.

And Moi absorbed every drop of it.

Next year has to be completely different.

The most important game of the season still lay ahead, but this whole affair had settled Gavin Travis's recruiting strategy for next year.

Of the Moi. By the Moi. For the Moi.

Hawaii's best talent had been bleeding out to Saint Louis for years — from now on, he intended to play aggressive and bring the elite players to Kahuku.

Above all, the one decisive reason they'd always lost the recruiting war to Saint Louis was gone for good.

Money.

Just recently, Kahuku's principal John Haggerty had promised that a steady share of the revenue from Moi's jersey sales would go straight into the football program.

Right now it was going toward facility upgrades and a new team bus, but the next wave of funds — and the one after that — would be funneled into recruiting.

If Kahuku could match private-school Saint Louis dollar for dollar, there wasn't a single reason the Red Raiders would lose a recruiting battle.

If anything —

They had one enormous advantage: Dwayne Moi Stone.

And that advantage would be decisive at season's end.

Gavin Travis could guarantee it.

If Kahuku won it all this year —

Everyone will know.

The greatest talent in the history of football.

And the plays that proved it.

The change a generational high school phenom was working across the entire school — there was still so much more of it to come.

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

These days, more and more kids were shuffling around school like penguins.

No need to guess why.

The night training.

Our Kahuku linemen were big boys who blew past 100kg without blinking — but most of that bulk was soft padding, a far cry from the chiseled muscle of the college and pro level.

Truthfully, the guards and tackles had struggled the most to keep up.

The linebackers, quick on their feet, managed fine.

Even now, I'm watching.

Another friend waddling along like his hips are sewn shut.

Well — what choice do I have?

"He—y!!"

"GWAAK!!"

I sprint up from behind and hop onto Silva's back.

He slaps a hand against the wall in a panic and barely holds us both up.

Then, through gritted teeth:

"Moi. Get off. Right now."

"Just missed you, is all."

"You're a demon."

"Kekeke. What did I tell you? You're just the current, Silva."

"Screw you! Get off me right now!"

No sense poking the bear any further.

I hopped down immediately.

The friend in front of me shakes his head.

"You goddamn bastard."

"You called me pretty? Aw~ got it."

"I said screw you!"

"Already cursed at you. Nothing left to curse, buddy."

"Jesus. I swear, talking to you is a mistake every single time."

"What's that supposed to mean~? I'm your favorite, aren't I?"

"You're not."

"I am though, right? Right~?"

Silva reaches out to grab me —

But on those legs? Not a chance.

Saying he "hatched" an egg would be putting it mildly.

Anyway.

Silva Toelupe was an offensive lineman on the team — his position, guard (OG).

Simply put:

Meat shields for the quarterback and running back.

Guards lined up on either side of the center, and their first job was colliding with the opposing defensive line — opening running lanes for the back on certain plays, or keeping the interior defenders from burying the quarterback on others.

If these guys failed?

It didn't matter how good the quarterback was.

Didn't matter how well the running back ran.

Nobody was reaching the end zone.

"Damn it. I don't think I can make afternoon practice."

"You can."

"How?"

How?

You just do it. That's how?

"Damn. Forgot for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a second."

"Forgot what? That I'm a demon?"

"No. That everything you say sounds exactly like our tyrant."

"You mean Coach Jamarion, right?"

"Yeah."

Coach Jamarion Russell, the man in charge of our offensive linemen, had a catchphrase he carried around like a badge.

Think you can't? I'll prove you wrong. Just do it!

One of the linemen's drills was sprinting the length of the field until they were one step from puking — and every time a kid looked ready to quit, Coach Jamarion would roar that into his ear.

Really, genuinely loud.

"Beats me. Tell them to roast me tonight."

"Roasting you feels a bit much."

"?"

"I'll tell them to boil you instead."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?! Get lost!"

Whenever I ran into these guys in the hallway —

Unfailingly, I'd pounce and give them hell.

Right up until they were this close to genuinely losing their temper.

But the reason I did it this way was simple: I knew exactly how boring and miserable high-intensity weight training truly was.

To get them to show up of their own free will —

Either throw out a joke.

Or light a fire under them.

Whatever it takes. That's the right way to do things.

And there, up ahead, one more guy was limping along right now.

Not from the running.

His inner thighs had seized up — that was all.

So again, I tore down the hallway.

And jumped.

"Where do you think you're going—!!"

"FUCK! Moi!!"

"Haha! You'll never catch me!"

"Fuck, Moi! If you get caught tonight, you're dead!"

"Guess we'll find out!!"

Honestly, with this many guys in the room, training was actually fun.

And the best part was, every single one of them had a reason to be there.

To beat Saint Louis and become champions.

To make the National Championship.

When I looked around a weight room packed to the walls with that kind of will, I wanted, more than anything, to haul this team up to the highest place there was.

But.

The opponent was Saint Louis.

The strongest in Hawaii.