Stepping Into the Second Stage

I had taken my second step.

Paia, on the island of Maui where my family and I lived, was a small, modest town of just over 2,400 people.

The neighborhood had around 850 houses, about a third of them white households and another third Asian. After that came Hispanics and Latinos, then native Hawaiians, in roughly that order.

The reason such a tiny town could get along reasonably happily was that quite a few tourism-centered businesses had taken root here.

A small shopping center.

A grocery store.

Cafes.

Restaurants.

There was even a fairly respectable art gallery and a park big enough for every resident in town to hold a field day in it.

But when it came to Paia, above all else—

"Here it comes!!"

"Moi!"

"Yes, Dad!"

You couldn't leave out surfing.

This place was called the windsurfing capital of the world.

A surfer's paradise.

The best waves crashed onto its beaches.

Paddling hard on the surfboard I'd received as a birthday present last year, I timed my moment, pushed myself upright, and rose onto the wave.

Goosebumps broke out across my whole body.

"Whooooaaaa-!!!"

#. September 6, 2010

#-1. United States, Hawaii, Maui

#-2. Paia

#-3. Baldwin Beach

"You saw that, right?! That's a new record!"

"Haha! But, son."

"?"

"Next time, I'd bet anything you'll be aiming for an even bigger one."

"Yes, sir!!"

Sunday morning.

After church, Dad and I had come out to the beach together.

Dad, who had watched over me since I was little, was a diligent man who always strove to be a good husband, a good father, and a fine member of the community.

Naturally, I had come to want to become someone like him.

"Feeling a bit peckish?"

"Fish burger! Let's go get fish burgers!"

"Sounds good to me. Go grab your things."

We tidied up the spot where we'd been and stood to leave.

Before heading off, we paused for a moment of quiet reflection, facing the sea.

Our family, following the island's traditions, believed that every blessing in the lives Hawaiians enjoyed came from nature itself.

So we were always grateful—and always a little sorry, too.

The quiet moment we shared now carried that same meaning.

"Your swimming has really come along."

"I've been practicing hard."

"Give it a few years and you'll beat me."

"Someday I'll beat you for sure, Dad."

"I'll look forward to that day with pleasure."

In my first life, I couldn't swim.

In fact, I'd been terrified of water.

Because whenever the man called my father came home drunk, he would without fail throw me into the bathtub.

Right up until I almost died, he would press down hard on my chest.

And after that, the beating would begin.

Back then, I'd thought it would be better to just die.

"Moi?"

"Yes?"

"Lost in your imagination again?"

"Oh—yes! That wave totally killed it earlier!"

"Haaah—your way of talking. It wasn't from hanging around Mel after all."

"But Aunt Mel is really fun, though."

Dad wagged a finger at me lightly and walked on ahead.

And I kept following behind him.

Anyway.

Back when I lived my first life, I had frequent nightmares, and once I'd grown up, I hated even being reminded of my childhood.

And yet now, I could talk about it with ease.

It didn't even stir up any unpleasant feelings.

At first, that had struck me as utterly strange.

Following the thought further, I realized what I'd mentioned before: I remembered everything from my first life the way one remembers the contents of a novel.

It was something I'd experienced, yet something I hadn't experienced.

It had been a wound, yet it wasn't a wound.

I figured that was why.

It was probably the same reason that I, actually forty-eight years old, could live with the emotions and instincts of an eight-year-old.

Whenever I dug into deep thoughts like this, surprisingly mature words and actions would slip out of me now and then, and I made fewer mistakes than other kids my age and somewhat better choices too.

It was proof that, in some way or another, the experiences of my past life were helping me.

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

Ding-a-ling-

"Welcome to—... Moi!"

"Hi, Angela. Two fish burger combos, please."

"Uh, um! Coming right up."

"Oh—Angela. You've grown so much."

The place Dad and I had come to was a restaurant called 'Paia Fish Market,' sitting just off Baldwin Beach.

It was famous for its emerald-green exterior that made you think of Hawaii's seas and the big clock hanging over the entrance, and it served the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠most delicious fish burger on the island.

The taste even Mom endorsed, you could say.

I liked this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠place's fish burgers too.

And Angela, who'd greeted us, had been my friend since I was little.

She was three years older than me.

Tap.

"Did you go surfing today too?"

"Yeah. I rode a really huge wave today, I'm telling you."

"Let's go surfing together sometime."

"Would you be okay? Your leg's still..."

"It's fine. It'll be all healed by next week."

"Well, all right then. Let's do that."

After Angela, who had promised to go surfing with me, headed off, Dad folded up the newspaper he'd been reading and suggested we eat right away.

Even without placing any special orders, exactly the same spread always appeared on our table.

Dad got fries/bacon/beer.

I got steamed potatoes/hot wings/milkshake.

Fish burgers were, of course, two each.

Once again, the tray was loaded with protein.

"Moi."

"Yes?"

"Isn't it about time you started thinking about your second sport?"

"Ah... yes."

"What will it be? Javelin? Shot put?"

"Neither. Baseball."

"Baseball? Don't tell me..."

"No! Never that, Dad."

Dad looked briefly startled, then relieved, and said he approved—as long as I wasn't straying off the path.

Dad wanted me to become an NFL player.

Also, for the record, Dad was a die-hard NFL fan.

His team was the Oakland Raiders.

In my past life they'd been so dismal that they'd nearly been forced out of their home city more than once—a weak team, indeed—but in this life they were competing in the division as a fairly strong club.

That said, at the moment they were stuck under a jinx known as the 'Curse of Jon Gruden,' which had kept them out of the playoffs since 2002.

It grieved Dad deeply.

"I'm going to be a quarterback no matter what."

"Then baseball suits you fine."

"Really?"

"Yes. We'll find a good place for you to play."

If track and field helped with base conditioning, core strength, and flexible muscle development for injury prevention, then baseball was the perfect sport for learning 'how to throw.'

Javelin and shot put helped with distance, but for a quarterback, baseball was the better fit by far.

"Um, here, this is..."

"Hm?"

"Take it home and eat it. I made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it myself."

"Oh, thank you! I'll be sure to eat it when we get home."

"Mm... and also."

"?"

"Could next week's surfing be just the two of us?"

"..."

That's right.

As you could see, Angela liked me.

Before Dad finished paying and stepped out of the restaurant, Angela had caught my arm and suggested a date.

A simple eight-year-old might have missed the hint entirely, but to me it had been obvious from the very start.

Still, I calmly looked up at Dad.

And put on an innocent expression that said I knew nothing at all.

Before long, Dad let out a hearty laugh.

"Heh heh. All right, Angela. You two go ahead."

"Really? You mean it?"

The moment she heard Dad's answer, Angela's face lit up instantly.

Looking down at me with a warm smile, Dad added this:

"Moi? Be a gentleman and escort the lady."

"Yes, sir."

Once outside, I caught my reflection in the glass of the restaurant's entrance.

No matter where you looked, I didn't look eight.

I was taller than most twelve-year-old boys, and the thickness of my torso and forearms was beyond anything my age should have allowed.

Twice that of kids my age.

No—

Exaggerating a little, close to three times.

Granted, that was judging by the skinny ones.

Walking back along the beach to the house, I went into the bathroom with Dad, washed up together, then headed straight to my room and jumped onto my bed.

But I immediately sprang back up and turned toward the desk.

Only after checking the roadmap to becoming an NFL quarterback one more time did I settle down and get ready for my nap.

So far, everything was proceeding step by step, right on schedule.

Track and field, then baseball.

Starting next year, things were going to get a lot busier.

#. April 10, 2011

#-1. United States, Hawaii, Maui

#-2. Wailuku

#-3. The War Memorial Sports Complex

As with all youth sports in America, leagues were organized around the sports clubs of each local region.

Hawaii was no exception, and four regional clubs—Central, South, Upcountry, and West—ran the Little League baseball on the island of Maui.

So, hoping to join a baseball club, I had come with my family to Wailuku, west of Kahului, on a Saturday morning.

"So you're the one who called."

"A pleasure. I'm Noah Stone."

"Wow—hoo-wee. That build of yours is no joke. Did you play sports back in the day, by any chance?"

"No, sir. I just enjoy watching them."

"Well, I'll be. This country has suffered a tremendous loss of talent, then."

Wherever we went, whoever we met.

The reaction of men meeting my father for the first time was always the same.

The man before us now was no different.

The man with the memorable mustache, wearing a hat mixed white and scarlet, turned to look my way.

"Hmm... you did say your son has never played baseball before, correct?"

"That's right."

"I don't wish to be rude, but isn't your son a bit too old to be starting baseball?"

"Are you saying nine years old is too old?"

"Er?"

A strange silence suddenly fell over the room.

The man looked back and forth between me and Dad several times.

Then he took off his hat and scratched his head vigorously.

"W-wait a moment. D-did you say nine years old?"

"That's right. Moi?"

"Yes, Dad."

As I stepped closer, the man flinched back, startled.

It was just like watching the first-year students who'd seen me for the first time last year.

Back then a few of them had nearly burst into tears, which had caught me off guard.

"Hello. I'm Dwayne Moi Stone."

"Er... r-right. Nine years old, you said?"

"Yes."

Fwoom-!

Fwoom-!

Every time I fired a baseball from my right hand into the glove on my left, the color drained from the man's face in real time.

He was already a pale man by nature, so it was hard to tell exactly.

It just felt that way, is all.

Dad spoke to the man again.

"Is there some problem, perhaps?"

"What? N-no. Not, not at all."

"We came here because we heard this place had the best coach. We judged that you could give our Moi proper instruction. If that's not the case, then we'll have to consider our next option. So, if you could hurry things along a little?"

To me, or to the rest of our family, the words coming out of my father right now were extremely polite and courteous.

Only somewhat stiff—being a banker and all.

But to strangers, that stiffness came across as a threat.

Our family knew this well and occasionally exploited it cleverly, and Dad rather enjoyed that part of it himself.

A little while later.

I stood on the mound.

Behind the plate sat another man, wearing nothing but a catcher's glove—no protective gear whatsoever.

Dad spoke up, sounding worried.

"Shouldn't you put on some proper equipment first?"

"Haha. I'll be fine."

Mr. Thomas Bradley, his composure fully restored, answered with an easy smile that nothing was amiss.

Dad still looked anxious to the end, but instead of pressing further, he came over to me and passed along a single line:

"Show him what you've got."

"Yes, sir."

Hidden inside Dad's words was the unspoken meaning: "Better to throw one for real, before that poor man gets hurt."

Finished with my preparation, I gave my arm a light windmill.

"I'm throwing now!!"

"Throw away!"

The look on his face that said go ahead and try, along with that faintly condescending smile, rubbed me just a little bit the wrong way—so I let out a long, deep breath and stepped into my windup.

I'd been practicing steadily since I was six.

I'd even had a coach of my own, in his way.

Uncle Iwai, who had pitched for his team all through high school and competed in the tournament called 'Koshien.'

I flowed through the pitching form now worn completely into my body.

And at the very end, I snapped my arm forward.

Fwooooosh-!

The baseball left the mound and was sucked into the mitt.

CRACK!!

"What the—"

"W-wait a second!!"

The man who'd been watching the catcher shot up from his seat in shock, and Mr. Thomas Bradley, who'd turned to look behind him, stood frozen like a statue.

Something—

something like a sense of victory—welled up in me.

But I buried it and said, deadpan:

"That was maybe eighty percent, tops."

"...What?"

"My shoulder's not fully loosened up yet."

"..."

The test had barely started and I'd thrown exactly one pitch, but a short while later, Mr. Thomas Bradley was begging me to please, please join his team.

He looked ready to sit down and bawl like a little child if I refused.

Dad was thoroughly satisfied with the scene, and watching him, I made up my mind to play for this team.

And so, I had taken my second step.