It Was Well Worth Enjoying

"Here, I brought you some fruit. Eat up."

Urrp.

Whoops. A burp slipped out before I could stop it.

My stomach felt like it might burst at any second. Right — it was Saturday, and I was at my grandmother's house. Aunt Mel had headed out earlier, saying she had errands to run. Figuring I should let the food settle, I gathered up the empty dishes from the table and carried them to the sink, then started on the washing right away.

"Aren't you a good one."

"It's nothing, really."

"Nothing, he says. If the other kids would learn a thing or two from watching you, I'd be a happy woman. Do you know a single cousin in Paia besides you who does dishes?"

"Nope. Not one."

"See what I mean?"

Everyone rinsed their own plates and utensils, sure. But when it came to actually doing the dishes, I was the only one who ever did. That was why my grandmother loved me best.

"Here you go."

"Did you happen to rob the market on your way home, Grandma?"

"Hoho. What a joker."

I'd assumed she'd bring out some washed berries, but a full fruit platter landed in front of me. Well, that would keep me fed for a good while. Looked like I'd need to get some running in this evening.

"You said this weekend is an important game?"

"Yes. It's the championship final."

"And the opponent? A good team?"

"The best in Hawaii. But this time, we're going to win. Saint Louis is a great team, but we've grown a lot too."

"Oh — Saint Louis. That's a fine school."

The truth was, my grandmother had hoped I'd go to Saint Louis. The environment was excellent, and above all, I could have commuted from home. That part of it still left me feeling a little guilty. From my very first day at Kahuku until now, she had sent me a message without missing a single one. Had I eaten properly? Was anything hurting? Aunt Mel surely kept her updated on my life every day, yet come ten o'clock — her bedtime — she never failed to ask after me herself. Some nights I was so exhausted I crashed early and couldn't reply. When I checked her message the next morning and called before school, she'd say hearing my voice first thing made her whole day.

True Love.

And at the same time, Unconditional Love.

My grandmother was also an extraordinarily diligent woman. The wellspring of her toughness, you might say. See for yourself — right now, this very moment:

"So it was 1989 the first time Kahuku and Saint Louis met in a final."

Seated on the couch, she was deftly searching her phone for the Kahuku–Saint Louis head-to-head record. And as she'd just said, the two schools' first championship meeting had indeed been in 1989.

Back then, the Oahu high school football league's title game was called the Prep Bowl. Saint Louis had climbed to the summit of the Prep Bowl a full fourteen times since its founding in 1973, with Waianae winning it four times and a school called KS-Oahu three.

Our Kahuku, on the other hand—

"Zero wins and five losses, I see."

"Yep. Five runner-up finishes, that's all."

Back in the Prep Bowl era, when Saint Louis had blown us out five separate times, the man coaching them then was Cal Lee too. Which meant that old coot had really been at this for a very, very long time.

At any rate, once the Prep Bowl disappeared and the high school football league was properly reorganized into a division system, the years Kahuku took the title grew far more frequent. From our first championship in 2000 through last season, we'd reached the summit eight times in all. Last year's undefeated run in particular had surprised absolutely no one less than everyone, and Coach Gavin Travis's leadership had been widely praised for it.

And this year — under the newly reformed Open Division system — we were gunning for the inaugural crown.

"Whew—!"

I stepped outside and stretched toward the sky. November in Hawaii averaged a pleasant 77 degrees — downright cool by island standards. But the rainy season was beginning, which meant everything felt damp and the showers came often. The mercy of it was that Saturday, the day of the final, was forecast to be clear. Football in the rain had its own charm, sure — but mostly it turned into a mud-crawling dogfight. You slipped every time you tried to cut, and the ball kept squirting out of your hands.

"Moi?"

"Yeah?"

A familiar voice from beside me made me turn. There was Aunt Mel, walking up the path. The people with her — friends of hers, maybe? Women I didn't recognize. Something was drifting over.

"What do I do, that's really Dwayne Moi Stone."

"Oh. My. God. He's real? Can we get an autograph?"

They were talking loud enough for me to hear every word, which made pretending not to notice feel like a cruel sport. So instead, I put on the most nonchalant face I could manage and waited for my aunt.

"My friends say they're your fans."

"Really? Hi there."

One look told me these weren't longtime acquaintances of my aunt's. I'd heard she'd been going to some kind of club lately — presumably she'd met them there. I took photos with the group, click, and signed autographs on top of that. Once they'd turned to leave, I walked with my aunt toward the front door.

"Who were they?"

"Some friends I've made recently. Good people. Glenn there on the right has two kids, and Joey got married last year."

"Oh yeah? Let's get inside."

It was about to pour.

Shhhhaaaaa—

"See that?"

"That's incredible. How do you and Grandma always know when rain is coming?"

"We're island folk, that's all."

"So am I, you know."

While Aunt Mel went off to shower, I fetched my ukulele and settled in by the window. Ever since I was little, when the rain fell, my father would play it for me like this. And I had watched, and learned, at his side.

From grandfather to father. From father to me.

Would the day come when I, too, passed down the tradition of the Stone family? It felt like a thing belonging to a far-off future — but I plucked the strings with practiced fingers anyway, and my voice rose to meet them.

Between the rain drumming its perfect counterpoint ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and the ukulele, my voice began to fill the house. At some point my grandmother and my aunt had appeared with beers in hand, settling in beside me. We swayed gently side to side, and all of us sang together.

"E hauʻoli nā ʻōpio o Hawaiʻi nei~"

"E hauʻoli nā ʻōpio o Hawaiʻi nei~"

O eternal youth of Hawaii. O Hawaii. Aloha.

Right now I was utterly at peace — and happier still than that.

Fortunately, the rain had stopped by Sunday afternoon, so the field was in decent shape. After the final drill of practice wrapped up, we all dropped to one knee in front of Coach.

"This Saturday!"

"…."

"We have a very important game! The day Hawaii's champion is decided! And for that day, we have! Been sweating buckets since summer!"

Coach kept going — about what the championship final meant, and about what we were playing for. About camaraderie, and things like that, too.

"Everyone in this state wants us to win this final! But nobody wants it more than the seniors! Because — maybe! — this Saturday could be the last football game of their high school lives! So carve this into your memory! We will stand in Aloha Stadium as a team! And we will fight as a team! If you understand me, then answer me like Red Raiders!"

"OORAH-!!"

"OORAH!"

The huge response seemed to please him; Coach nodded and called the practice to a close. Now it was my turn.

"Good. Hit the showers and finish up. Moi?"

"Yes Sir."

The guys gathered around me, and I raised my right fist above my head.

"We played our asses off today, and tomorrow we're gonna play a little harder. You know what I mean? We'll meet up at nine thirty in the weight room. And when I count one, two, three, you yell Red Raiders. On four, five, six, you yell State Champions. Got it?"

"Damn, nigga! That's fire!"

"Damn right it is. Here we go. One, two, three!"

"RED RAIDERS!!"

"Four, five, six!"

"STATE CHAMPIONS!!"

"LET'S GO-!!"

The night before, after riding the bus back to the dorms, I'd sat at my desk turning things over in my head. We were on the doorstep of a championship final, and we needed a new rallying cry to fire ourselves up. So I'd built one. And to my delight, it had landed well.

"Let's keep the weight training to Wednesday this week."

"Saving ourselves for Saturday, huh?"

"Yeah. Rest matters too."

"Not a bad call."

"Right. See you later, then."

After parting with Harmon, I headed straight for the quarterbacks' room. The others were free to enjoy their personal time now — but I still had work of my own to do.

"Sorry I'm late."

"Don't worry about it, we just got here ourselves."

"Good. Then let's start."

"Yeah."

Click.

The lights went out, and the projector threw its image onto the wall — footage from today's practice, shot just hours ago. The O-line's blocks, in particular.

"That's them coming out in a 4-3, right?"

"Yeah."

"Nice. That one's genuinely usable."

"I put the work in."

Football's defensive formations come in three broad families: the 4-3, the 3-4, and the Nickel. Every defensive scheme ever drawn up is built on one of those three bases, and Saint Louis ran the 4-3 as its foundation.

"What should we do with the halfbacks? One? Two?"

"They blitz a lot, Coach."

"Then we'd better keep both in."

"Send them out as one and five. That'll line up nicely with the blocking, too."

The first day of breaking down Saint Louis's full personnel had been full of hand-wringing over how our offense should attack — but once again, our hard work wasn't betraying us. We'd added a few new wrinkles to the team's existing offensive scheme, and something genuinely respectable was taking shape. There was still plenty of time to think, too. We'd keep refining it right up to the whistle.

"Good. Let's call it here for today."

"Yes sir. Thanks for your work."

"You too."

"Oh, by the way."

"?"

"How's the defensive side coming along?"

"Whew — that's the rough part."

"Figured as much, huh?"

"Slotbacks aren't exactly a common look."

"Old school, right?"

I'd said it before, but Saint Louis head coach Cal Lee had been coaching football for an astonishingly long time. He was practically a living fossil of the modern game, and he'd surely experienced every kind of scheme there was. This time, he'd dug a relic out of the past — one built to squeeze one hundred percent out of the strengths of an exceptional quarterback named Tua Tagovailoa.

The slotback. Also known as the A-back.

In modern football, you line a tight end up at the end of the offensive line. But in the old days, players called slotbacks were stationed in the slot between the O-line and the wide receivers. They seal off linebackers trying to reach the quarterback — and sometimes they run forward alongside ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the wideouts. When that happens, cornerbacks and safeties alone can't stop the attack. You can even end up pressed into using your linebackers as coverage defenders, of all things.

Saint Louis would surely be hunting for exactly that this time. To keep from getting burned, our defense would have to bring everything it had.

Leaving the quarterbacks' room, I made my way to the defense's meeting spot and paused at the door to peek inside. Billy Burt, our defensive coordinator, was mid-lecture in front of the screen.

"The ends have to become true pass rushers!"

"…."

"You hear me?! Pass! Rushers!"

Just like against Bishop Gorman, we'd have to brace to give up thirty points or so. How much we shaved off that number would decide whether the defense succeeded or failed — and on the flip side, our offense had to play every snap with one thought: score on every chance we get.

Even so, there was no question about it — the defense's side of the chessboard was the more migraine-inducing one. The tactical demands were far heavier. Compared to the D-line's job, the O-line's was simple. The quarterback, of course, was the exception. I had to know not only our own offensive scheme but the opponent's defensive scheme as well — and the latter changed every single week. Some weeks you could get away with just running what you'd prepared, opponent be damned. But against a powerhouse like Saint Louis, with a state championship on the line? Different story entirely.

Which was why I was here.

"Ngh—cha."

Sitting down to study. Every spare minute, I had the file of the defense our team had broken down from Saint Louis's film open in front of me. Across the notebook spread beside it, my pen had been working overtime too — O's and X's standing in for offense and defense, lines drawn and redrawn as I tried this and that.

The most important thing at times like these is imagination. One of the fundamental qualities of a quarterback.

"Hoo."

Coldly speaking, our win probability was generous at 49 percent. Something in the mid-thirties felt like the honest number. Those odds came purely from the sheer count of good players on the other side — but even that much was reason enough to hold out hope. Back in my past life, when I'd won a championship with the Jets, the odds had been a whole 1.9 percent.

"If it goes the way I'm thinking…"

If it went the way I was thinking, we could win.

But the very fact that I framed it that way was itself an admission of disadvantage. Weak thoughts only attract more weak thoughts, though — so as always, I refused to give the bad ones a seat beside me. It was mine to give, after all. And just as easily mine to withhold.

Then—

"Oh, shit!"

Wrapped up in the work, I'd lost track of time completely — it was already 9:27. I'd have to sprint flat-out to the gym. If I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was late, the punishment was five penalty exercises — pushups included — performed in nothing but my underwear in front of the entire team. I'd be dead on my feet before the actual game even arrived. Above all, the guys would never let me hear the end of it.

No way that was happening.

"I'm not late!"

"Goddammit! He had sixteen seconds left!"

"Woo—hoo!!"

At the sight of the guys who'd bet money on me being late groaning in despair, I let out a cheer absolutely overflowing with joy — then immediately peeled off my shirt. There was no time for dithering. I bellowed at the top of my lungs:

"ALL MUSCLERS!!"

"…."

"DIG IT!!"

Dig it. God, I loved it.

I knew better than anyone how brutally hard the work we did every night was — which was exactly why I always opened with that cry.

Soon, the gym was thick with sweat and the sounds of men in agony.

"LET'S GO!!!"

"You soft bastard! Lift!! MORE!!"

"COME ON!! You've got it!!"

Ah — belting out songs with a ukulele in my hands was nice.

But this wasn't so bad either.

"Twenty!! That's it, right there!!"

"You see that?! Did you SEE that?! How about THAT!!"

No — scratch that.

It was very much worth enjoying.

Even if.

Even if the whole place was filled with the grunting of sweaty men.