Pain Like This Is Always Welcome

“Mo—i!”

“?”

“Come over here!”

At Coach Travis's call, I dropped what I was doing and jogged over. Two strangers were standing in front of him.

“This is James Franklin. Head coach at Penn State.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Now that I see you in person, you look even taller than I expected?”

“I was measured at 190 centimeters not long ago.”

“Oh— that's excellent.”

I'd already figured out the gist of it. These were Penn State people. That navy cap with the lion's profile emblazoned across it—how could anyone miss it?

Though honestly, the lion looks more like a bear to me.

Anyway.

Coach Gavin Travis had once played practice-squad ball at Penn State. That had to be why these men were standing here—two days before the Open Tournament final. Strangers don't just wander onto a training field. It meant the alumni network was at work.

“So, have you decided where you're going yet?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Our Lions are a fine program. Long history, two national championships. And….”

Ah.

I know. Of course I know.

The fact that he had to reach back for a national title more than thirty years old said everything about how Penn State had been performing lately. Two division titles were all they could point to.

But one of those belonged to this man. James Franklin, one of the most talked-about NCAA D1 coaches in recent years. He'd taken Vanderbilt—a perpetual doormat—to three straight bowl games, parted ways on less-than-graceful terms, and landed the Penn State job. His initial contract was three years, but after winning the Big Ten last season, he'd been guaranteed a six-year extension.

His salary? A cool $5.73 million. Plus bonuses on top of that.

Yes. That is what college football head coaches make in America.

“You'd fit us perfectly.”

The internet says the man is famous for his aggressive recruiting, and here he was, pitching enrollment with zero subtlety. Maybe being in front of Coach Travis, a fellow alumnus, made him bolder. He doesn't seem like someone who reads the room. Somewhere right on the border between confident and rude—that's the feeling I get.

“And there's something else I'm curious about.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn't you attend any of the camps?”

Had Penn State sent me an invitation too? I stopped checking them one by one after last year, so I couldn't say. Probably, though.

“We would have gladly covered every expense.”

Ah, so they did send one. I ignored all of them, you see. Time to improvise an answer.

“Going to camps would've been great, but right now, training with my friends matters more. We've really pushed ourselves this year.”

“I know. The Muscle Men, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sounded like something straight out of the Gators' program.”

“I found out about that afterward. I didn't copy it, I promise.”

“Haha. I see. Well, it seems the work paid off?”

“Oorah. My body's never felt more solid.”

James Franklin wasn't the only one here—Penn State's offensive coordinator had come along too. And apparently the university president himself had made the trip. What an honor, such distinguished men traveling so far. The president of Penn State had never once set foot in Kahuku before.

Well.

All because of me, of course.

Sorry to the men who'd come such a long way, but my expression didn't flicker. The college will be my choice.

“Tell me—have you heard of our Beaver Stadium?”

“I've seen it on YouTube. Impressive place.”

“The finest football field there is.”

Beaver Stadium was, admittedly, a little—

No. Enormously attractive.

It had been named the best college football venue in America by USA Today just last year, and the stadium promised a magnificent, breathtaking vista to match. And as for size—my God, the size. It was simply spectacular.

Remember the BYU stadium I mentioned once? It held a little over forty thousand. Beaver Stadium, Penn State's home, could seat a staggering 106,572 for a football game.

Does the crowd really fill all of it? Naturally. Every single weekend of the season.

“With you in it, you could fill thirty thousand of those seats.”

“I'd rather aim higher than that.”

“Hm?”

“Fifty thousand, and we can talk.”

“…Hah! Hahahaha! I like you! You've got serious nerve. A quarterback should—damn right he should. Dammit. I like you even more now than I did a minute ago.”

James Franklin laughed for a long while, dabbed at imaginary tears until he recovered his composure, then made his pitch to me once more, dead serious.

“Come to Penn State. I'll promise you the starting job.”

“I'll give it serious thought.”

“Not right away, then?”

“I'm only thinking about the game in two days, honestly.”

“Oh, look at me. Of course. Forgive me—I nearly filled a boy's head with dreams right before his championship final.”

And once again, sorry to disappoint—

A breeze that light doesn't even tickle my ears. If it weren't for Beaver Stadium, I'd have written Penn State off long ago.

And another thing—doesn't their quarterback graduate in 2019? Then what happens to that year without me? I don't love their quarterback succession timeline either. Everything goes sideways on a schedule like that.

Above all, tactically speaking, they're textbook college football—leaning far too heavily on the quarterback and running back as rushers. They get by right now thanks to an exceptional running back named Saquon Barkley, but if they fail to groom a proper successor, the offense will get awfully cramped.

They don't grant the quarterback any special freedom, and their receiving-based passing schemes are merely average. Their strength, if I had to name one, is the way they assemble a line? Their tackle schemes I'd rate highly.

“Ah—there's the president now.”

I didn't love having my training time eaten up like this. But right now, broadcasting to the outside world that I was “a young ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man of very polite and positive disposition” mattered more. So I kept playing the nice kid.

Like a model student.

“Word is you've already decided on Penn State?”

“Rumors have a way of growing in the telling, sir.”

“Haha. You do jokes too? I like you.”

How many more times was I going to hear I like you? Just to see, I'd counted.

Nineteen times in roughly ten minutes of conversation.

And then—

“I really do like you.”

There it was. Number twenty.

The Penn State men talked with me for a long while longer, left word that they'd enjoyed the visit, and walked off the field.

Saint Louis, which had prided itself year after year on being Hawaii's finest high ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠school football program, was nursing a deep wound to its pride. The cause, of course, was last year's Open Division Tournament final loss. Ever since that day, a torrent of memes under the banner of “the Crusaders who lost the war” had set Hawaii's online communities ablaze.

For their head coach, Cal Lee, it remained an indelible humiliation.

“We have to pressure that coward of a quarterback!”

“….”

“….”

“He's so scared he won't even leave the pocket, that kid!! Do you understand what I'm saying?! I'm saying we smear a proper pile of shit all over that bastard's face!”

Watching the offensive coordinator spew his violent language, Cal Lee quietly swept his gaze around the room. Then he raised a hand and drew everyone's focus. With his voice carrying on, a particular segment of the film played on repeat.

“As you all know well, tomorrow hinges on breaking through Kahuku's O-line. The gaps between the guards and tackles are weak. The weak side especially—the guard and tackle are both sloppy over there.”

Cal Lee laid out what he believed to be Kahuku's vulnerabilities, and the footage playing again and again showed the moment Kahuku's offensive line gave way and Moi took a sack.

And that tackle—tomorrow—was to be Saint Louis's play.

“Tomorrow, we put heavy pressure on the quarterback. We force him into after-play mistakes. They say he runs audibles with some polish, but there's little proven there yet. Under genuine duress, this kid might lose his composure. And that means the whole team collapses with him.”

When the strategy meeting on beating Kahuku ended, Cal Lee returned to his office with the coaches. Sinking deep into his chair, he let out a long, weary breath.

“Whew— this time, we win. No matter what.”

“Their arrogance does scrape the sky, sir.”

“It's more than that. If this keeps up, next year will look no different from this one. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Hawaii's talent is flowing toward Kahuku as we speak. If they win it all again this year, the gap between us only widens.”

“….”

Among Hawaii's high school offensive players right now, one saying was making the rounds: “If you want to make D1, go line up next to Dwayne Moi Stone at Kahuku.” After the news broke that Enoch Nawahine had locked in his move to Utah State, that sentiment had grown only louder.

And the rumors had been confirmed. Word was going around that Punahou's fullback and a wide receiver were weighing transfers to Kahuku, and that a tight end Saint Louis had been courting had chosen Kahuku instead.

In truth, it was probably worse than that. Every promising transfer could be plucked away from them. If only to cut off that current, Saint Louis had to win this year.

“We've got to blow that goddamn boulder of a kid to pieces.”

“Yes. That's exactly it.”

“We're prepared. We can do this.”

“….”

Saint Louis, Hawaii's perennial topdog, looked more like an underdog with every passing day. The atmosphere was worlds away from last year, when they'd possessed Hawaii's finest quarterback in Tua Tagovailoa. The landscape of Hawaii high school football that Dwayne Moi Stone had redrawn was still convulsing, violently, to this very moment.

In Kahuku's favor.

Aloha Stadium, host of the second Open Division Tournament final, was burning hotter than it had a year ago. The early rainy season had ended, leaving perfect football weather—and the unexpected appearance of famous Hawaii-born NFL players had done a great deal of the rest. Dominic Raiola, the longtime Detroit mainstay, and Kimo Von Oelhoffen, who'd played for Cincinnati and Pittsburgh among others, were both in the building.

Meanwhile, the jumbotron was playing video messages of recent graduates from both schools—now playing NCAA D1—cheering on their alma maters.

The rivalry's heat kept climbing. As the marching bands stoked the excitement and the cheerleaders' voices built the chants, both teams burst onto the field with mighty roars.

The fans answered with a thunderous ovation. The game that would decide the state's finest high school football team was about to begin.

.

.

(Andrew Catalon) — CBS Announcer

“Two undefeated football teams have just entered this stadium. Kahuku and Saint Louis, each sitting at twelve wins on the season. But the evaluations of these two teams don't quite agree.”

(Tom McCarthy) — CBS Announcer

“Kahuku has hoovered up a lot of Hawaii's talent this year. Saint Louis's roster isn't bad by any division's standard, but in both the number and size of their athletes, Kahuku holds a slight edge. They simply have far more future Division 1 players.”

(Andrew Catalon)

“Since we've brought up Division 1—there's a saying going around among Hawaii's high school offensive players these days. If you want to reach Division 1, you must line up alongside this young man. It's remarkable, truly. Dwayne Moi Stone, the sophomore quarterback of Kahuku High School. He may be even more famous for having turned down scholarship offers from more than fifty NCAA Division 1 programs.”

(Tom McCarthy)

“Some have called his decision to skip the camps a warning sign. The spotlight on him is so intense that all sorts of talk was bound to surface. But his numbers this season are simply absurd.”

(Andrew Catalon)

“Through this season, Dwayne Moi Stone has attempted 357 passes and completed 272—a completion rate of 76.2 percent. His 3,772 passing yards lead the nation, and his 41 touchdowns are also the most in the country. On the other side, he's thrown only 4 interceptions—the fewest among any quarterback with ten or more starts. And the passer rating that all this computes to is… heh. 143.21.”

.

.

Last year, we were the challengers.

This year, we're the champions.

Taking something is one thing. Holding onto it is far harder.

I'd drilled that point into my teammates earlier. All around me, the voices of the position coordinators rose, each one stoking and sustaining our focus.

“Defense!! Sound off!!”

“STOMP 'EM! TEAR 'EM UP!”

“STOMP 'EM! TEAR 'EM UP!”

.

“Backs!! You are the final wall—LAST LINE, HEAR ME?!”

.

“On a day like today, the smallest margin decides it all! Special teams—NOT ONE MISTAKE TODAY!!”

.

“OFFENSE!!”

The offensive coordinator gathered us offensive players in one place and reminded us of the simple truth: no points, no victory. And when all of it was done, I pulled the offense together again myself.

Looking around at my teammates, I raised my voice.

“One of the two teams out there loses its perfect record today.”

“….”

“You know what that means? It means every drop of sweat we've bled getting here can evaporate off the back of one result. Do NOT let them walk away with our glory! You hear me?! The championship is OURS. We yield nothing!! Because the winner tonight is US!! One, two, three!!”

“RED RAIDERS!!”

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

“Four, five, six!!”

“STATE CHAMPIONS!!”

As I turned around from the battle cry, I saw the captains out on the field. They were flipping the coin. Loto checked the result, turned back, and gave us the signal. Our ball to start.

A good start. From one side, the special teams coordinator was bawling out the players headed onto the field.

“Special teams—! Set the tone right!!”

“LET'S GO!!”

Some people say we've gotten arrogant. But I'd call it confidence, plain and simple. As defending champions and the strongest roster in the state again this year, all we're doing is showing the world what we've got. And above all—we work. Two or three Muscle Men sessions a week. Grinding practices. And I study separately, every single day.

I read sixty minutes of the analytics team's reports daily, paged through the play book I'd already memorized, sketching scheme after scheme and opponent tendency after opponent tendency into my notebook. My teammates put in the same kind of solitary work—receivers drilling routes every day, linemen hammering their bodies against heavy equipment. Not one lazy man among them.

Peeeeep!

Saint Louis's kickoff got the game underway, and our special teams marched our starting position all the way up to the defense's 41-yard line. Across midfield. They'd handed us a truly excellent start.

So I jammed my helmet on, wheeled around, and shouted.

“That's what special teams just did for us!! Are we really going to do less than that?! Let's go!! Time to show them what a real drive looks like!!”

It had been this way all season. We were bound by a fierce bond—the sweat of Muscle Men sessions and the effort on the field were the links in that chain. Feeling that trust settle over me like armor, I ran onto the field.

The first play call was dead simple. As always, we opened with the run.

“We're running it on the second set. Don't get confused—stay locked in.”

After relaying only the snap timing to the team, I broke the huddle quickly and we took our positions. I'd told them: second set. What that means is—

“Green— 80!! Set!!”

….

“Set, Hike!!”

Exactly what it sounds like: the snap comes on the second call of Set.

Football has penalties like offside and false start—if the linemen move forward before the snap, it's a five-yard flag. And that's precisely what had just happened. The rushing attempt gained barely a yard, but I already knew we were getting five back. The Saint Louis linebacker had jumped early, and my teammates were pointing at the man wearing number 8. The referee with the mic squared up to his spot and announced the reason for the flag.

【“Defense, number 8—offsides. Five-yard penalty. First down.”】

Maybe it's from playing two full games in the rain, but this kind of hard-count trickery has become second nature to me. Still, you can't count on luck every down. Treat it as a bonus, nothing more. What really matters isn't the opponent's mistake—it's our play.

“Green— 80!!”

….

Midway through calling the next play, I caught the defense's edge drifting ever so slightly sideways, so I started barking numbers to keep my line's attention pinned on him.

“56!! 56!! Green— 80!! Set!!”

…

“Set, Hike!!”

After taking the snap, I kept feeding the ball to Enoch. The most fundamental way to grind out yards. Five yards. Six yards. Five again. Another first down. I sprinkled in a little short passing game here and there, and once we got pinned down to a third-and-long where a punt loomed, but we fought our way near the red zone all the same.

That was when Coach Travis flashed a sign in from the sideline. An order to go for the touchdown—a very aggressive call.

“Naruto Run?”

“No. Honolulu Swing.”

The Honolulu Swing, along with the Naruto Run, was the play we ran most often near the goal line. Everyone already knew their assignments, so there was no need to say much in the huddle. We broke it and lined up again.

With time to spare, I didn't rush. I read the defense first. A slightly spread 4-3 front. The safeties playing just off the goal line. The corners glued to my wideouts. If everyone ran their routes as drawn, which window gave us the best odds?

Having run the numbers at speed, I made the call.

“Set, set, Hike!!”

I decided and demanded the snap. I sold the handoff fake to Enoch, spun the other way, and locked my eyes on my target. Peter needed roughly another second and a half to reach that spot. So I planned to hold up in the pocket and let it fly, keeping my gaze downfield and tracking the defenders' movement.

But then—

THUD!!

“Ugh!”

A massive impact slammed into my left flank like I'd been broadsided by a motorcycle. I never even got to attempt the pass—I crumpled onto the field. Number 49 of Saint Louis, fresh off his sack, sprang up and started posturing, hollering for all he was worth.

“Is that all you got?! I could do this all day!!”

All day, can you? You serious? And you're a pass rusher?

Saint Louis was traditionally a team that didn't pursue aggressive pass rushing—they played zone, planting themselves firmly on the line and refusing the opponent any space. Yet today here was 56 doing it earlier, and now 49 was practically salivating because he couldn't devour me fast enough.

Were they planning to hunt me specifically? Had I been playing too cozy in the pocket lately?

Fuck.

Goddamn it.

I grabbed a teammate's outstretched hand, hauled myself up, and nodded to show I was fine.

Good. Anytime you like. Let's see how well you can really hang.

I glanced back at the bench, checked the sign, and rebuilt the huddle.

“Same play. Keep the weak side protected. Let's go!”

My left side was still throbbing. The pain was no joke—there'd be a bruise there for sure when I checked later. Pads only protect us so much; most of the impact comes through untouched.

But still.

“Set, Hike!!”

Pain like this is always welcome.

Confirming the opposing linebacker charging at me again, I clutched the ball and started sprinting into the open lane on the outside.