I Am No Saint

The victory over Bingham was both our revenge for the humiliating 0-27 loss of 2007 and the first time Kahuku had ever beaten a nationally ranked mainland team.

After that day, we grew wings.

#. September 30, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu CDP

#-3. Aina Haina

It was the first Saturday after midterm exams finally wrapped up, so I invited the guys over to Grandma's house — everyone except the few who couldn't make it because of prior commitments. Which is how all thirty-seven of my teammates ended up packed into the front yard.

Sssss—

"Sausages done yet?"

"Yup. How many you want?"

"Two. No—three."

"Take as many as you like. We've got plenty, so eat up."

After transferring three nicely browned sausages onto Zion's plate, I kept flipping away at the grill. Every kind of meat imaginable was sizzling away up there — sausages and patties, fresh fish we'd hauled in from the market, all manner of vegetables. There was nothing you couldn't find. In fact, four grills now stood across the yard, because feeding thirty-seven football players until they were full on one or two was a flat-out joke.

And it wasn't just the guys who'd shown up, either. The ones with girlfriends had brought them along. We'd scrounged up a few big folding tables from around the neighborhood, and the neighbors had been more than happy to lend theirs. As a thank-you, I gave them signed jerseys and things like that. Don't get the wrong idea — they asked for them.

Once I'd filled the plates of the guys who came up, I laid more ingredients over the flames. Ssssss. Music and laughter drifted over from one side of the yard, so I lifted my head and scanned the crowd. Everyone seemed satisfied, thankfully. That was when Kana'i wandered over to my side.

"Great vibe here."

"Right?"

"Man, you're something else, you know that?"

"In what way?"

"Every way."

I wanted to toss that compliment right back at him. Two months into the season, and we still hadn't allowed a single touchdown to another team in Hawaii. Our new defensive coordinator and position coaches deserved most of the credit, sure, but Kana'i's share was nothing to sneeze at — he'd run that defense beautifully through some complicated schemes. He was a genuinely good defender.

The only problem was injuries. Because he played so violently, some part of his body was always banged up. You could call it a football player's lot in life, but I figured it was partly a habit thing, too.

Anyway — Kana'i. Did he want something?

"So, USC called me."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Yesterday. Right after the game."

"Dam-! They want you to visit?"

"They said it'd be good to check out campus over the winter."

"Hell yeah!! That's huge, man!!"

I'd completely forgotten I was still holding the tongs, and I yanked Kana'i into a bear hug. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He flinched a little when the tongs swung up in front of his face.

So — USC meant the SEC. The Washington Huskies offer he'd gotten before, and the other schools he hadn't mentioned to anyone, were surely attractive in their own right, but throwing away a chance to play in the SEC would be a dumb move. Not that I planned to make his decision for him. Either way, my friend's offer made me as happy as if it were my own.

Kana'i looked positively electric.

"So I'm gonna play even harder the rest of the season."

"Harder than this? You kidding me?"

"Haha. The motivation's just bubbling up, you know?"

"You're getting rewarded for your ability, Kana'i. That's all this is."

"Thanks for saying that."

"Please. We're brothers, aren't we?"

"Yeah. We are."

We hugged once more, and then I told Kana'i to hang around a minute. I flipped open the top lid of the two-tier grill, planning to hand him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the beautifully smoked pork sitting in there.

"SEC players need SEC-grade food."

"Whoa-oh. That looks insanely good."

"Of course it does. Grandma's secret sauce is on it."

"Dam- now that's what I'm talking about."

With the team doing this well lately, good news kept rolling in from all directions. Friends who'd been ignored by colleges all this time were suddenly fielding scholarship offers from D1 schools. Just yesterday, a Virginia recruiter went straight to our head coach and said he wanted to take three of our guys at once.

The one sad part? All three were defensive players. The offense had gotten a little stagnant lately — the mainland game had tripped us up. It wasn't that we were bad; our limits had simply been exposed. Enoch and Sekope, who'd drawn attention early on, along with the O-line, had been hearing that they'd fallen off a bit since the Bingham game. Only Loto still looked like a real D1 possibility. The rest might not make it.

Which was exactly why I wanted to do something — anything — about it. I was the quarterback. The offense was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my responsibility. It was on me to make those guys shine.

The reason I'd held back on scrambles in the games since coming home to Hawaii was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for the same reason: to make my teammates look better. My D1 spot was already locked in anyway. Skipping a touchdown or two wouldn't change a thing.

"Mo—i!"

"?"

My aunt came walking out of the house, waving her hand high in the air, so I passed the tongs to Marcus beside me with one instruction.

"Don't burn them."

"Who do you take me for, bro?"

"An idiot, or a moron?"

"Ha-! Screw you."

"Anyway. Flip them often."

Clapping the dust off my palms, I jogged over to my aunt.

"What's up?"

"You got a phone call."

"A call? From who?"

"Sports Hawaii. They want to do a phone interview with you."

"…."

Interview requests did come in from time to time, but on a Saturday afternoon? That reporter had no manners at all. Then again — expecting courtesy from a journalist? That breed didn't have any to begin with. Some of them were decent people, sure. But calling on a Saturday told me everything I needed to know without even watching.

I slipped off my shoes, stepped inside, spotted the phone sitting on the kitchen table, and snatched it up.

"Hello?"

—Dwayne Moi Stone?

"Yup. What can I do for you?"

—This is Alu Ikekika from Sports Hawaii. If you have a moment, I'd like to talk about your recruiting….

The moment the word recruiting hit my ear, I recited a few pre-loaded sentences like a machine.

"Nothing has been decided yet. It won't change anytime soon, either. How about you spend less time on me and more on my teammates instead? If you write articles about them, more of our guys will make it to D1. Anyway. Nothing's been decided."

Click.

I spat out the word-bundle like a firing squad, hung up, and turned around to find my aunt leaning against the doorframe.

"You know I said the exact same thing to them a minute ago?"

"They're relentless, aren't they."

"Haha. Hold on — I made some punch. Take it out to the guys."

"You're not coming to hang out with us?"

"I have plans."

"Hmm- really?"

"Why would you say it like that?"

"No reason. Nothing at all."

Lately, my aunt had been acting suspicious. Her cell phone rang constantly, and she was almost never home on Saturdays. She'd come back around nine at night, sure, but I couldn't remember the last time we'd spent real time together like we used to.

Of course, I had a pretty good guess as to why. She must've met a man. For now, I planned to just watch carefully. Was he a good guy? Or was he someone who'd get hit with one of my tackles, and then get chewed out by Dad and flattened by Grandpa? What's that — the back half sounds harsh? Well, yeah. Obviously.

"You know I'm always right here beside you, right?"

"I know. That's why I feel so secure."

"Good enough. Here?"

"Yeah."

After telling her to have fun and get home safe, I carried the punch bowl outside. As it happened, the guys were apparently craving something to drink, too.

"Drinks here, you primitive cavemen!"

Ever since witnessing the beast-like scene at the Salt Lake City zoo, I'd taken to calling my friends primitives now and then. The sad part? None of them were hurt by it in the slightest. And here I was, trying to tease them. Teasing only counts when it gets a reaction.

"Hand over the tongs."

"What's that?"

"Punch. No alcohol in it. Go get some."

"Oh-!"

Marcus lit up and trotted off toward the punch bowl, and I picked the tongs back up and raised my head. It had gotten a little noisy overhead. In the blue Hawaiian sky, a plane was visible. It wasn't taking off — looked like it was arriving here. Whatever. Happens every day. I dropped my head again, indifferent, and laid a few more patties on the empty spot of the grill.

Ssssss.

#. October 2, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu CDP

#-3. Aina Haina

About a year ago, a man had moved in across the street from the home of Mina Stone, a well-known local matriarch of the neighborhood. His name was Jerry Floyd — a man whose defining features were an ingrained warmth and an easy, friendly smile — and he'd introduced himself to everyone around as a novelist of no particular fame.

People had been wary of the unfamiliar mainlander at first, but only recently had they finally confirmed he was harmless and accepted him as a neighbor. And it was to this Jerry Floyd's house that a visitor now came, almost as soon as he'd arrived.

"How's it going?"

"Smoothly."

"Good to hear."

The man sipping the coffee he'd been served was Jamar Armstrong, the well-known recruiter for the Florida Gators. And Jerry Floyd — no, Josh Lewis — reported on the progress so far.

"At this point I've even been invited over for meals."

"Only now? It's been a whole year."

"Don't even get me started. That's just the kind of neighborhood this is."

Hawaiians are endlessly kind to tourists, but toward people trying to put down new roots here, they show exactly the opposite: wariness and exclusion. The geography of an island layered on top of Polynesian culture had built a high fence separating those who belonged from those who didn't. To truly fit in here, you first had to prove — over a long stretch of time — that you were a good person.

That was exactly what Josh Lewis had spent the past year doing. Showing he was a good man.

"Still, a couple of days ago I actually got to talk with Moi directly."

"That's welcome news."

"I'm planning to mention being from Florida soon, too."

"Born there? Or college?"

"College. I've already got the backstory prepared."

Josh Lewis's objective was the recruitment of Dwayne Moi Stone, a mission handed to him directly by the president of the University of Florida. And because it was something that could never be allowed to surface, not a soul knew about it. If Dwayne Moi Stone accepted Josh Lewis's covert pitch, Jamar Armstrong would step in and deliver the final contract.

"To start, I'll go in playing up the connections angle — like I know people at Florida."

Opening with the claim that he had contacts within the Gators, Josh Lewis intended to enter into a covert deal. He was prepared to promise close to ten million dollars, and if the kid wanted women, he'd provide as many as he liked. He could go further than that, too.

"My original plan was to work through the aunt."

"Melicia?"

"Yes. But she's got her guard up even higher. I keep wondering if I made some mistake somewhere. And lately it seems she's seeing someone on the side. Anyway — it's not going the way I envisioned, but there's no question things are moving along smoothly."

"Then I'll look forward to it."

"Huh? You're leaving already?"

Jamar Armstrong had come to Oahu today for one purpose: to recruit Kahuku High School's offensive center. Loto Fuamatu. A 3-Star Player. His odds of reaching the NFL were practically zero, and even at the college level he'd have to start on the practice squad — but Armstrong had judged he could be developed into a long snapper for special teams.

"Of course, I could find a better player."

"I'm sure you could."

The Florida Gators' current recruiting board listed fifteen candidates for the long snapper position. Loto Fuamatu ranked around thirteenth. Twelve better options sat above him. And yet Armstrong was willing to invest a scholarship slot on him anyway — because Loto Fuamatu was Dwayne Moi Stone's friend.

"They became friends by overcoming a feud between their family clans."

"That could prove useful when we go after Moi."

"If he doesn't commit to a school by next year, this budget goes to waste. Still."

"You're going to try anyway?"

"Obviously. Good coffee, by the way."

When Jamar Armstrong stepped outside and climbed into his parked car, Josh Lewis followed him out — and felt eyes on him from across the street. Neighbors walking by were staring straight at the house. Josh Lewis waved with a smile, and only then did people paste on friendly expressions and move along. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Someone, certainly, was watching him from behind a curtain in one of the houses nearby.

God, this place is suffocatingly tight.

If this were anywhere but Hawaii, he could have approached Dwayne Moi Stone far, far sooner. The covert offer would already have been made. Some kind of conclusion would have been reached one way or another. That was what made the current situation so frustrating — but Josh Lewis chose to think positively. At the very least, things were moving forward now.

Josh Lewis, disguised as an ordinary neighbor. No — Jerry Floyd, returned under a fake identity, re-equipped his face with that kind, warm smile. Because Mina Stone had just come out across the street. He hurried over, held the trash bin open for her, and kept up his sales pitch as a good man, starting with small talk about the weather.

Meanwhile, Jamar Armstrong headed for Kahuku. Under normal circumstances, he would never have come out in person for the sake of landing a mere special-teams long snapper. But right now, this kind of gesture was necessary. A show of good faith.

The Gators were truly desperate for Dwayne Moi Stone, and if they wanted to drag the program back from its slide into mediocrity, they needed that quarterback above all else. Since signing two 5-Star prospects in 2015, the Gators had failed to land a single 5-Star for two consecutive years. Even in the media's recruiting rankings, they sat outside the top ten across the board.

At least the on-field results held up, relatively speaking — last year they'd won the SEC East and saved some face. But their last national championship and conference title had come back in 2008. Nearly ten years ago now.

A decade of stagnation. Because of it, the university's endowment contributions had lingered at disappointing levels year after year. And the alumni who held real sway over the school had issued one unified demand: "Make the football team strong again." Only then, they said, would they open their wallets.

In NCAA D1, where the football program's success was the university's success, the pressure from socially successful alumni landed squarely on the shoulders of the school's top recruiter as well. Lately — that was why Jamar Armstrong was smoking more and more.

Whew—

The Florida Gators, desperate to their core. For Moi, they were ready to do anything. Anything at all.

#. October 4, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu, Kahuku CDP

#-3. Kahuku High School

#-4. Football Field, Quarterbacks Room

The Campbell game had closed out our regular season. Seven wins, no losses in league play. Eight wins, no losses overall. And now, hoping to add five more victories, we were preparing for the playoffs starting on the thirteenth.

"You want to run a screen pass?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, though?"

"Because it's guaranteed to work."

"…."

I'd been heavily involved in the team's newly overhauled offensive scheme this year. A normal high schooler would have had his hands full just memorizing and understanding the plays the offensive staff drew up. But me? I was, well, me. A former head coach who'd hung four Super Bowls around the Jets' necks.

I stood up from my seat and walked to the whiteboard, marker in hand. This particular scheme was an offensive concept I'd used and loved to death in my past life.

"Line up in shotgun, and send Enoch out to the side."

"…."

"The ball comes out instantly, so five on the line is plenty."

"No tight ends?"

"We use them as slot receivers. Put Peter out split on the weak side, one slot on each side of the line. Then everyone — including the strong-side wideout — gets involved in blocking."

"Hmm—"

If the play unfolded the way it was drawn, we could rip off ten-plus yards on a single rushing attempt. The conventional wisdom is that a running back's carry is a success if he picks up three yards, so a play with a high probability of guaranteeing far more than that could even be deployed as a red-zone package. In my past life, I'd used it in the red zone far more often, in fact. It left opposing defenses with their souls hanging out of their mouths.

"Moi."

"Yes, Sir?"

"How on earth do you come up with things like this?"

"Do you like it?"

"That's not the point… I've never seen a fifteen-year-old like you in my life."

"Come on, Coach. You should be used to it by now."

"Ha!"

I shot a wink at Coach John Morse, who just looked hollowed out by it all.

This play was for Enoch. It existed to get him to a university. You might say I was thinking of my teammates to an unhealthy degree, but honestly, this was for me, too. A quarterback's evaluation doesn't climb on game film alone — the external stuff weighs enormously as well. Quarterbacks tagged as talented but terrible teammates have a way of washing out of D1 programs and learning how to be human again at D2 schools or junior colleges. That's how they earn the right to lead a team.

What I was doing here would also live on as an anecdote proving to the outside world that I was a player with leadership. Self-serving, you say? Of course. I am no saint.

I'd try to be a good man for the family I love — but anything I could use, I would use, and anything I could enjoy, I would enjoy.

"Alright. Let's give it a shot."

"An excellent choice, Sir."

I'd thrown down the rough sketch. The coaches would paint in the colors and finish it from here. I'd explained it thoroughly enough that even a fool could complete the play, so I didn't foresee any problems.

"Then I'll head to the gym."

"Working out again today?"

"Yep. Playoffs are coming, after all. Three times a week this week."

"Love to see it. Be careful, don't get hurt."

"Keep your worries on a leash, Coach."

I slipped out of the quarterbacks room and headed for the gym. I was a little tired, but I figured a good workout would buy me a night of deep sleep.

After dropping that message into the Muscle Men group chat, I turned on some music and started moving my feet to the rhythm.

What the fuck, though —

Where the love go?

Ah— yes. This one. Today's workout was getting this track on repeat.