Hey — You Run Back to Me
We had prepared like crazy for this championship game.
Everyone had memorized three or four additional plays.
Our core strategy package had grown from two or three sets to five.
Normally two or three was plenty, but Saint Louis played defense well, and with a shot at the National Championship on the line, everyone had begged for more ammo.
And in the end, it was exactly that which dragged us down.
Our entire offense had overloaded.
The first quarter somehow held together, but from the second quarter on, the wide receivers and tight stops stopped running the plays as drawn. The O-linemen's mistakes were especially fatal — opposing defensive ends and linebackers came crashing down on me far too easily.
I took five sacks in the first half alone.
Every single one of them happened because the line collapsed.
Coach wanted all of it fixed.
By stripping everything down to instinct.
# HALFTIME — Kahuku High School Locker Room
“This one's on me!”
“….”
“….”
“I wanted to show off too much, and I turned your heads into a mess! So I'm apologizing! But believe in me — you're already damn good players!”
When we'd come back to the bench with about three minutes left in the second quarter, back-to-back sacks grinding me down, Coach had come over to my side.
And at that moment, I had said:
“We made the mistakes, sir.”
And Coach had answered:
“Yeah. I think so too.”
This is the classic mistake football coaches make.
Believing their player is bigger than he is.
Granted, when that belief works positively, it's a beautiful thing — it forges the bond between coach and player.
But sometimes it cuts the other way.
Like today.
Because Coach and I communicated so effortlessly, he'd come to believe the whole team could keep up with this level of scheme.
But that was only because I'd once coached an NFL team in my past life. Everyone else here is just an ordinary high school kid.
I'd recognized it myself, plain as day — I'd sworn after our first game of the season to keep things simple — and then my screw loose spun loose again and the habit of trying something extra kicked in.
Like an idiot.
Things were going well, so I got arrogant.
“Second half, we run exactly three things.”
Shotgun.
I-Formation.
Single back.
All sets we'd leaned on all season. We compressed our blocking schemes down to two and simplified the strong-side call to a flat left/right.
“Moi? You call it more directly.”
“Oorah.”
“Good. Listen up, boys! One touchdown puts us right back in it! The D-line is playing out of their minds today, so the O-line has to give a little more! We can be champions! That's why we busted our asses for the last six months! Let's Go!”
Coach lit the room on fire.
And once again, I gathered the team around me at the center.
The second half has to be different.
“We come back swinging in the second half-! I start with myself! O-line, give me a little more push — D-line, just keep doing what you did in the first half! On one-two-three, Red Raiders! On four-five-six, State Champions! One, two, three!”
“RED RAIDERS!”
“FOUR-FIVE-SIX!”
“STATE CHAMPIONS!!”
Maybe I'd been scared.
Bishop Gorman never knew us, but Saint Louis knows us well.
Unlike mainland teams, that means they can dig into our weaknesses.
And in my mind, Kahuku's weakness was physical tools.
Just compare the perimeter — Saint Louis's wide receivers and cornerbacks stood more than 10cm taller than our kids.
And it gnawed at me the entire first half.
Which is why I couldn't complete a single deep ball.
Like an idiot.
No matter how much tactical knowledge I carry, I need at least a college roster to actually deploy it.
Sure, if the team around me levels up next year I could pull off what I attempted this first half — but ninety percent of what's in my head has to stay sealed away.
Then again, if you think about it.
This body is playing football for the first time too.
How far can the body my parents gave me actually go?
Finding that out alone was enough.
At the high school level.
So I made up my mind.
And my heart went quiet.
The score stood at 6 to 10.
26 minutes and 52 seconds remained.
Time was more than enough.
“Moi.”
“Yes sir.”
“Go flip this thing. For real.”
“Oorah.”
That's right.
Just like Coach said.
Time to flip it.
Sitting in front of my teammates, I ran the huddle fast.
“Screw it all — empty your heads and just run.”
“Goddamn! I missed the hell out of this!”
“Forget the complicated stuff. Listen up.”
Shotgun.
Right Bandit.
A-Dash.
Done.
No more number sequences.
No more cryptic code calls.
All of it got shoved into the trash can, and I barked out the play in a few clipped words.
“Green — 80!”
….
“HUT!”
Loto's snap hit my hands.
The system from the first half was gone, but our O-line protected me somehow.
Ah—
I hate it.
Not a single step of this drop is pretty.
But I was freer in the pocket than I'd been all day, and after enough time to set my feet, I could finally look to Royce Pao.
To the moment my friend would break on his A-Dash.
That's the window.
Which means.
Now.
The ball left my hand carrying the cleanest spiral of the day, floated up, and landed forty yards downfield right in Royce Pao's chest.
Saint Louis's No. 32 wobbled and went down.
That's the cornerback who'd been tormenting us all game.
Serves you right.
Sucker—!
“YEAH-!!”
“LET'S GO BABY!! LET'S GO!!”
“This is just the start, you know!”
“NOW that's football!!”
If I'd played this simple at the NCAA or NFL level?
I promise you, retaliation would've been immediate.
But in high school, this is allowed.
“You really thought that skyscraper was gonna cover me?”
“Damn, Royce. You caught that for real just now.”
“Great pass, brah.”
Maybe our first touchdown lit a fire under Saint Louis too, because their offense turned vicious.
Like an answer to ours, they punched in a touchdown on their very next drive.
But we weren't about to sit back and take it either.
We readied the counterstrike at once.
Our own fuse was lit now.
On offense — I was confident we could hang with anyone, anywhere.
St. Louis 0 · 10 · 13 — 23
Kahuku 3 · 3 · 14 — 20
A defensive grind had turned into a shootout in the blink of an eye.
And this situation had to sting them more than us.
After all, we're the team with the best offense in Hawaii.
And they're the team with the best defense in Hawaii.
This pace favored us.
Every one of my teammates was eating it up.
“Say, Coach.”
“Hm?”
“Did you ever bring up that thing?”
“…God Damn It. Fuck!”
“Want me to mention it?”
“No, Moi. Stay right here.”
Come to think of it, something had felt off for a while.
That makes twice I'd seen it.
During the last film session, I'd concluded that Saint Louis's left defensive tackle, No. 90, drew flags constantly.
His hands drifted up on instinct.
And kept smacking the O-linemen in the face.
Linemen are never supposed to touch a man's face or head. Unintentional contact can slide, but Saint Louis's No. 90 was pushing it.
If we'd quietly alerted the officials and put it on their radar first, couldn't we have baited out a few flags?
It stung that Coach John Morse had let it slip his mind, but there was still a fourth quarter left. We'd see how it played out.
And one more thing.
“Coup.”
“?”
“In the fourth — let's run some Jet.”
“Yeah. That I can do.”
“Good.”
Separate from keeping everything simple, I wanted a dash of seasoning.
Saint Louis would be adapting to us by now, after all.
It's called a Jet Sweep — a play where a receiver or back goes in motion horizontally before the snap.
It scrambles the defensive alignment, keeps them from setting their original positions, and raises the odds the offense succeeds.
This much should be fine.
It's not exactly rocket science.
And we'd run it plenty in practice together.
“Whew— let's do this….”
The final quarter.
I intended to pour out everything I had.
Saint Louis's quarterback, Tua Tagovailoa, had been showing his true colors since the third quarter.
Two touchdown passes.
And 62 yards on the ground.
The first half had been a little rocky, but he'd commanded the tricky slot-back scheme brilliantly, and in passing accuracy and decision-making he looked every bit the No. 1 dual-threat in the land.
But the quarterback on the other side of the field was no pushover either.
St. Louis 0 · 10 · 13 · 0 — 23
Kahuku 3 · 3 · 14 · 0 — 20
“He's good.”
“He's really fourteen?”
“I was 171cm at that age.”
Dwayne Moi Stone, who'd authored two stunning touchdowns on second-half deep balls, was quite literally carrying Kahuku's offense by himself.
He was wringing maximum output from wide receivers ten centimeters shorter than their coverage and tight ends who could do nothing but plod in straight lines.
And whenever Saint Louis's defense glanced outward, the shape of the line suddenly shifted on an audible, ripping the heart right out of the 4-3 front.
Of course, that wasn't Dwayne Moi Stone doing it.
The O-line did it.
Kahuku's head coach and offensive coordinator did it.
And the offensive line coach did too.
But for a high schooler — a freshman, no less — barely able to handle his own responsibilities, to read the entire field? That alone was proof he operated outside the rules of his species.
Tua Tagovailoa's head turned toward the stands, and the Saint Louis quarterback's eyes went searching for the NCAA scouts.
How would I be judged?
In that split second his focus wandered, Kahuku completed another pass and tightened the field to the 21-yard line.
The reason Saint Louis's defense was unraveling now was simple.
The speed gap with the first half.
Kahuku wasn't lingering in the huddle.
Gather, break, gone.
And then snap it fast again.
That was the whole trick.
When a quarterback both fully understands the play and has the ability to generate it himself, the offense's tempo skyrockets — and that tempo becomes a weight on the defensive line.
A collision.
Another collision.
Another one still.
Before the shock of the last play has even faded, they have to decide to crash into each other all over again.
And eventually, that pressure spilled over.
Twiiiiit—!
A yellow flag hit the turf.
A foul on the defense.
The referee keyed his mic and explained.
“Number 90, Saint Louis. Illegal use of the hands. Ten-yard penalty.”
The foul from the defensive tackle anchoring their entire defense detonated at the worst possible moment — the fourth quarter. On the very next play, Kahuku rode Elvis Vakapuna's legs to a rushing touchdown.
The lead had flipped at last.
Saint Louis's spirits sank —
and Tua Tagovailoa hauled them right back up.
“There's still plenty of game left! All we have to do is score!”
Hawaii's finest high school quarterback.
Tua Tagovailoa's eyes were burning.
St. Louis 0 · 10 · 13 · 7 — 30
Kahuku 3 · 3 · 14 · 7 — 27
We'd held up decently well through the middle stretch — but late, Tua Tagovailoa went berserk.
We couldn't stop the Saint Louis quarterback's legs, our right side of the defensive line caved in, and we conceded the fatal blow.
2 minutes and 31 seconds remained.
75 yards to travel.
“I don't care how, Moi. Just move the ball forward.”
“Oorah.”
After receiving Coach's order, I strapped my helmet on and jogged out.
This was the moment to take every means possible, exactly as he said.
I had to use the scheme that had paid us best all second half.
Because their defense still hadn't caught up to it.
“We're going Blue. Blue.”
“You're fully on fire today, huh?”
“If we win, I don't care if I burn to ash.”
“Kekeke.”
“Alright, let's go! Let's Go!”
Blue.
Meaning:
I'm running it myself.
On the field stood one fullback,
two tight ends,
and two wide receivers.
No complexity required. Everyone already knew what it took to get me moving.
We'd drilled it all season.
“Blue — 30! HUT!”
After the snap, I watched toward the wide receiver side while waiting for the fullback to join the line of scrimmage.
It was a fake, first and foremost.
But you never know when a window opens.
Unfortunately, though —
their safety was in great position.
When the last line of defense sits that pretty, what can you do?
I run it myself.
I cinched the ball tight against my ribs and took off, reading everything around me.
I thought I'd punched through the tangled scrum and escaped outside — but two linebackers came straight at me.
Thud!
Crack!
Damn, these guys.
Still got gas in the tank in the fourth quarter, apparently.
That tackle genuinely hurt.
“Ugh—!”
But after flinging out that one short yelp, I popped straight back up.
A hit like that was nothing — and I wanted to show everyone I was still standing.
Then I hurried to my teammates.
No time to dawdle. The clock never stops.
Before I knew it, only 2 minutes and 10 seconds were left.
“Blue, right wedge.”
We were running, but I had to get out of bounds whenever possible.
Only then does the clock stop.
We had one timeout left too, but saving it for the end was the right call.
“HUT!”
Eighteen yards gained in total — 57 still to go.
Coach kept the same personnel on the field.
He wanted me to keep carrying it, I figured.
But suddenly,
I felt like gambling.
“Does that make me crazy?”
“Moi. You were always crazy.”
“Fuck it. Fine. Not Blue this time. Shotgun. X-block, switch jam. Nothing complicated. Got it?”
“What do you take us for, idiots?”
“Close enough. Let's Go—!”
My plan this time was to run first.
But somewhere in the middle of it, I'd hand the ball off — no, deliver a pass.
During the setup, I flicked my back foot and sent Sekope flying from right to left.
Right as the Jet Sweep motion finished,
I spat out the snap word.
“HUT!”
The start was the same as always.
Take the ball, turn back, hand off to the fullback —
except not.
Arms extended as if to pass, I instead tucked the ball away and bolted right.
Saint Louis's left linebacker closed in.
I found Sekope fast.
He was —
Thud!
“Ack!”
— standing all alone.
By the time the tackle dumped me into the turf, the ball was already gone from my hands.
I clattered to the field alongside the linebacker, shoved the defender off, and scanned for what happened next.
Sekope had been tripped up by the tackle.
After grinding out roughly 35 yards.
Wild with excitement, I sprinted around swinging my fists.
“LET'S GO—!!!”
We were now inside field goal range.
Which meant, at worst,
we could try to tie it.
But obviously, that wasn't what I wanted.
We end this game
with a touchdown.
First down of our four chances. Let's push a little further first.
“Blue — X!”
Blue X.
Which is not Blue. When I shout this from the current formation, my teammates are supposed to know instinctively: we're driving on the ground.
“HUT!”
This time the ball genuinely went to the running back.
Elvis Vakapuna drove his compact frame forward.
Thanks to the O-line carving out a clean crease, Elvis stabbed right through the middle.
The Mike linebacker brought him down —
but five yards was five yards.
“Timeout.”
And with the timeout called, I sprinted straight to Coach.
“You absolute monster.”
“How do we attack it?”
In football, the final twenty yards before the end zone have a name:
the Red Zone.
The area where scoring probability peaks.
Here, wide receivers can operate with a little more freedom — and when the defense locks its eyes on them, a tight end can ambush his way into receiver territory and steal a touchdown.
Naturally, every team
keeps its own Red Zone playbook.
“Saint Louis's goal-line will be a man light because of the run threats.”
“Then we go passing?”
“Can you sell them a lie?”
“I've done nothing else all day.”
“Good. Last one's Tom and Jerry.”
“Yes sir.”
Tom and Jerry.
The name of a famous cartoon.
Watch the show and you'll see Tom loses to Jerry constantly — and the most common pattern is thinking he's finally got him, letting his guard down, and losing the mouse for good.
The Tom and Jerry play was born from exactly that.
Deceiving your opponent.
With Saint Louis hyper-alert to our run game, any run-flavored motion would pull the defense's attention straight to it.
This is the Red Zone.
One defensive mistake here means giving up points.
And this very possession would decide the game.
Exploiting the fact that every eye inevitably follows the receivers breaking into the end zone, we'd hand the final catch to the tight end emerging from the blind side.
The opponent — Tom — would believe he'd caught the receiver — Jerry — but the real Jerry would be the tight end who'd been blocking all along.
“Tom and Jerry.”
My teammates nodded immediately,
and I lined up right behind Loto.
This under-center look, too,
whispers run to the defense.
I could see a linebacker backpedal a step or two.
If that's the case, my read just worked.
“Green — 80!”
…
“HUT!”
The moment I took the snap and dropped back,
I saw the tangle forming downfield.
The wide receivers ran their assigned routes, and at least two defenders latched onto every single one of them.
As that brief gridlock held,
Sekope slipped quietly into the open space.
Our eyes locked —
and my arm whipped forward on pure reflex.
And, naturally enough —
Thud!
“Kgh—!”
I got planted.
Shoved sideways into the turf, my helmet cracked against the grass.
And through the shaking blur of my vision, Sekope —
“---!!!!”
“---!!!”
— was sprinting somewhere with all his might, ball held high overhead.
Hey. You run back to me.
Damn it.
We had just become
the champions of the state of Hawaii.