Now Begins My True Next Step

#. November 30, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu CDP, Kahuku

#-3. Kahuku High School

The season was over, and ordinary student life had begun.

Go to class. Take a pop quiz. Kick Marcus awake when he falls asleep. Sit through another class. Join a class discussion. Kick Marcus when he starts spouting nonsense. Head to the cafeteria at lunch, hang out with the guys for a bit, then smack the back of the zoned-out Marcus's head.

Slap!

"Ow—! What the hell?!"

"WTF. I seriously can't stand looking at you lately."

Marcus had been a little off his rocker recently. He'd broken up with his girlfriend.

Coach had decided to hand Isaiah's role—his enrollment at Western Illinois for next year was already confirmed—over to Marcus, and the condition was that he dump the girl he was currently dating.

She wasn't a bad person. But she kept him from focusing on football. They fought constantly, and when that didn't work, she'd use the bedroom to talk Marcus around. The reason Marcus had barely shown up to our Muscle Men sessions since last October was the same—his brand-new girlfriend.

Love or football. The choice should have been easy. The heartache was a separate matter entirely.

"Damn it. I swear, running into you every single day is killing me."

"Yeah—I figured that'd be the case."

"What? Why are you agreeing with me?"

"I agree with you all the time when you're being normal?"

"Really?"

"Of course. Your garbage takes make up eighty percent of our conversations."

"Heh heh heh. Well—fair enough."

We grabbed a quick lunch and walked down the hallway shoulder to shoulder. I'd grown taller since I first enrolled, but Marcus had shot up to six feet himself.

"Screw it. That's it, then."

"?"

"I'm going off to college and living the playboy life."

"Yeah—that's exactly what you should do."

The reason Coach had pulled Marcus aside to talk about his position next year was probably that he rated the kid's potential highly. I had my doubts whether he was a true D1-level talent, but an NAIA D1 scholarship didn't seem out of reach? Depending on how much he developed in college, he could even make a play for a transfer to NCAA D1 after his sophomore year.

"By the way, Moi."

"What?"

"Did you hear back?"

"I've been getting contacted from everywhere. What about?"

"The PFHF."

"Ah—yeah."

"How'd it go?"

At Marcus's question, I spun around on the spot. Marcus understood immediately and spun around too, and before long the two of us were hopping up and down in the middle of the hallway, hugging each other.

"What did I tell you!! I said you were a lock to win it this year!!"

It meant a lot to me that Marcus was this happy for me, like it was his own achievement. I almost felt bad for kicking him around a few minutes ago. But that had been for his own good, okay? I hadn't kicked him just because I felt like it. Seriously. I was worried about my friend. That's all it was.

Anyway. The reason Marcus and I were jumping around like idiots right now was that the PFHF had contacted us last night.

The PFHF—the Polynesian Football Hall of Fame. Since 2014, the organization had created awards for football players of Polynesian descent. The first year, only college players were honored. The year after, professionals were included. And this year, for the first time, they'd selected high school players.

Specifically: me.

I would be receiving the award this year alongside Pittsburgh Steelers wide receiver JuJu Smith-Schuster and Hercules Mata'afa of Washington State.

"Damn, that's insane."

"This is huge, bro."

"I heard they're presenting it somewhere?"

"No, they said they're sending it to the school."

"Oh yeah? Guess they're doing it in the auditorium, then."

"Probably."

"That's sick, man. I wish I could win something like that."

"You can, Marcus."

The American football season opens in order—high school, college, pros—and ends in the same order. While countless college leagues, NCAA D1 included, prepare for their various bowl games and playoffs, the NFL is right in the thick of its fiercest standings battles around this time of year. And so every December and January, high school football takes its moment to close out the year. Awards get handed out. All-American games are played. College decisions get finalized.

This year, the school announced it would set a date for a Selection Day ceremony.

"When was it again?"

"The eleventh."

"Damn—time really flies."

"That's a football player's life for you."

At this point last year I'd spent my days in class and in the weight room, but this year was shaping up to be a lot busier.

"I don't have fifth period."

"What?! Why?!"

"Since I've turned in every homework and report on time, they said I don't have to show up today? Teacher said as long as my attendance's fine, I get an A+."

"Aw, hell. Why do you get special treatment?"

"Did you do your homework, Marcus?"

"...Skipped it twice."

"Attendance?"

"Three times..."

"How many absences was it again before you fail?"

"Four... damn."

I guess he'd only just now realized I'd deliberately walked him all the way to his classroom door to shove him into class. Right on cue, a teacher was approaching from down the hall—my aunt Melodia.

"Marcus. Long time no see?"

"Ha. Haha. Yes. Hello, ma'am?"

"Get inside. Now."

Thwack.

Marcus staggered into the classroom after one more kick to the backside, and I traded a high-five with Aunt Mel before heading toward the football field.

I had nothing in particular to do right now, so I planned to spend some time with the coaches. We'd end up talking football eventually anyway.

"Haha. You again?"

"What's that supposed to mean—you know you love it."

"Want a glass of grape juice?"

"Love one."

My current hideout was the coaches' lounge. I was halfway through my juice when Coach walked in holding food, spotted me, and threw both arms up in disbelief.

"Do you ever go home?"

"This IS home?"

"...Damn it."

It was true—my lodgings were literally inside the school. Like a few of the coaches. With the extra budget the school could now spend, the coordinators brought over from the mainland and some of the other coaches were living in buildings built on and around the campus. Some of them lived there with their families, and I'd drop by now and then to hang out.

They probably like me even more than their own kids, don't they?

"That's a little hard to argue with."

"Damn it!!"

"Heh heh heh heh."

Class. Studying. Training. And chatter. This was what life looked like in the weeks after a season ended—utterly ordinary days.

#. December 1, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu CDP

#-3. Waina Haina

After wrapping up my Friday schedule, I came to Grandma's house with Aunt Mel.

"Is that it?"

"Yeah. That's it."

"Well open it, then!"

Aunt Mel beside me was the more excited of the two of us—but my heart was pounding all the same. In my hand was a piece of mail. The words U.S. Army were printed boldly across the front, and the postmark stamped in one corner told me it had been mailed from San Antonio, Texas.

With a happy heart, I opened the envelope.

What I'd received was an invitation to the All-American Bowl, also known as the high school football All-Star Game. Sixty-six players from across the country gather for it, split into two teams of thirty-three divided along the Mississippi—East and West. The game is already broadcast nationwide on ESPN2, Texas region included, and the media had reported that if I played, ESPN would air it live across the entire country.

"Kyaa—! What do we do, Moi!! This is HUGE!!"

"I should probably call Mom, huh?"

"Yes. Call her right now."

Dad would be on a plane by now. These days he commutes entirely from home—by plane, every single day. A change that came with the new baby on the way.

Speaking of which. Next March, I'm getting a little sibling too.

"Mom? It's me. How are you feeling?"

At first I'd worried Mom was having a baby ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠far too late in life, but that concern had been for nothing. She hadn't taken a single day off from the restaurant, and her voice sounded stronger by the week.

—You got invited to the All-Star Game?

"Yes. January 7th, next ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠year."

—Well then. I suppose we'll have to get ready for Texas.

"Will you be okay, Mom?"

"Hey. Your mother is perfectly fine."

"I miss you so much."

Normally I'd have gone back to Paia before the Christmas holidays, but having received this invitation, I had to stay and keep building my body. From what I saw earlier, they wanted us to report to San Antonio by January 2nd—presumably to gather early and get some basic reps in together. I'd see the family then, naturally.

"I'll call again when Dad lands."

—All right. And Moi?

"Yes?"

—I could not be prouder of you.

"...I love you, Mom."

—I love you too.

After telling Mom the news, it finally felt real. I'd been quietly hoping for it, and I'd assumed it would come this year, but the emotion swelling in my chest right now was something else entirely.

Just then, a sound came from the front entry.

"Ooh—your grandma and grandpa are home!"

"I'll go tell them right away."

I told my grandparents too—back from their movie date in town—about my selection for the All-American Bowl. And Grandma said:

"Well, we can't just let this pass, can we."

"Huh?"

"We're having a big dinner tonight."

Uh-... excuse me. Grandma? When Grandma says "big," you know that means calling the entire town out, right?

Scratching my head, I watched as Grandma, positively buzzing, dragged Grandpa back out to go grocery shopping. Well then. I suppose we'd better get some people together.

"Should we invite the neighbors?"

"Yeah. Let's do it."

Notice: A small party at the Stone residence tonight. Official reason: Moi's selection for the All-American Bowl. Actual reason: Grandma wanted to eat big.

Aunt Mel and I went around the neighborhood inviting people to dinner, and nearly everyone hugged me or offered their congratulations. Everyone with no prior plans was coming—about fifteen households in all.

Things were going to get pretty loud tonight. No—very loud.

"It'll get rowdy, won't it?"

"That's half the fun."

As I was walking back home with my aunt, I noticed someone at the previously empty house across the street. I'd actually been invited over there once or twice recently. Not a bad guy, from what I could tell. But what was his name again?

"Jerry. Jerry Floyd."

"Ah, right, I remember now."

I'm genuinely good with names. But for some reason, his just never stuck.

"Jerry!!"

"?"

When I crossed the street calling his name, the man fumbling with his house key turned around.

"Moi? You're home today?"

"Yes. Any plans this evening?"

"Hmm, nothing special? Why?"

"Come over for dinner. We've invited the neighbors too."

"Oh—! Absolutely! What should I bring?"

"Nothing. Just bring something to drink."

"You got it. See you later."

"See you."

I'd noticed it before, but peeking through Jerry Floyd's slightly open door, the place struck me as a little strange. Was it because he was a writer? No—it felt more like a soldier's home. Barely any furnishings, and no sense that anyone intended to live there long. That was why I'd been wary of him from the start. And yet a year had already gone by, so maybe it was just... his style?

"What did he say?"

"He's coming. Oh, and Aunt Mel?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's invite your boyfriend too."

"...Then promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"You'll promise, right?"

"Let me hear it first."

Taking a deep breath, Aunt Mel turned to me with the most serious face I'd seen on her in months.

"Do not give him any crap."

"..."

"Understood?"

When someone says that, it just makes me suspect the guy's a weirdo, you know? But I did have to meet him first, and I had no intention of sizing up a total stranger out of the gate. Maybe like... fifty percent.

So I said:

"Fine. I promise."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'll hold back as much as I can."

"...Moi."

"Haha, I'm kidding. Would I really mess with someone I've never met? Come on."

Aunt Mel's eyes were full of anxiety. I smiled, turned away, and narrowed my eyes as I walked toward the house.

He'd better be legit. If he's not, he's dead tonight.

And a few hours later, what I laid eyes on was—

"...Coach?"

"Ha. Haha. Hahahaha."

Coach John Morse, who'd shaved his head clean recently and lost so much weight people had started calling him handsome. And I stood there, frozen absolutely solid, like a statue. Coach walked up to me and said:

"You're not about to give me crap, are you?"

"..."

"Right. We'll talk later, when you've collected yourself."

Would somebody please tell me what I just saw? No. Actually—don't. Don't say anything.

Tap. Tap.

I flicked my fingers in front of my eyes, trying to deny reality, but I doubted anything would change. Oh—

good heavens.

#. December 12, 2017

#-1. Oahu, Hawaii, USA

#-2. Honolulu CDP, Kahuku

#-3. Kahuku High School

#-4. Auditorium

Yesterday, my teammates finalized their college choices. Hawaii's media gave it enormous coverage. Since no school in state history had ever produced this many D1 players in a single year, the local TV and radio stations ran nearly thirty minutes of live broadcast on it.

And today brought another celebration. The PFHF I'd mentioned before—the one running the Polynesian Football Player of the Year award for high schoolers—had named me its very first honoree.

"Sophomore—Dwayne Moi Stone!"

The principal called my name, and I climbed the stage where everyone below was waiting. The moment I stepped up, a roar of cheers erupted.

"DAMN—!! BRO!! I knew you'd crush it!!"

"SO FREAKING COOOL—!!!"

"MO—I!! MO—I!!"

"MO—I!! MO—I!!"

Among my football teammates celebrating so noisily, a few had even pushed back their scheduled college campus visits by a day—visits that had been arranged weeks ago. There was only one reason. To celebrate me.

It honestly nearly brought me to tears. They understood better than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠anyone what a college commitment meant. That made it all the more meaningful.

Standing on the stage, I blew kisses with both hands to my friends below, and a few of the boys hollering their lungs out yelled back that kisses were no good—hand over some cash instead.

"WAHAHAHAHA!!"

Amid the uproar, I stood before the principal.

Lately the man had gotten quite well-fed. Word was he'd traded his Ford for a Cadillac, and for a public school principal drawing the same salary, the source of that sudden windfall wasn't hard to guess if you thought about it for a second. He'd probably been skimming. Obvious as could be. Which was exactly why I couldn't even be angry about it.

"Moi. You truly never cease to amaze me."

"I'm the school's greatest blessing, aren't I?"

"Haha. That you are."

But business was business. I reached for the microphone on the podium. Startled by the unexpected move, the principal stiffened as I stepped forward, mic in hand. And then:

"The great principal of Kahuku, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Mr. John Haggerty, has announced that tomorrow's tomorrow, Kahuku Grill will be preparing free burgers for every single student in the school! If you're happy, everybody give him a biiiiig round of applause—!!"

For the second straight year, Kahuku had paid every last fee the NFHS demanded and still walked away with over ten million dollars in surplus. The school had published the breakdown, but some of it had surely ended up in the pockets of the administrators. At a public high school, "the administration" amounted to the principal, the vice principal, the school board, and a handful of teachers—that was all of them. They'd skimmed at least a hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand between them, so I figured this kind of stunt was more than a fair haircut.

And sure enough, the principal was laughing.

"Heh heh. Heh heh heh."

Though whether that was laughter at the absurdity, I couldn't say.

Anyway. Setting the mic back on the podium, I turned to the principal and said:

"Next year, I'll bring you gold again."

He might have been displeased for a moment—but by now, surely, he'd made his peace with it.

So the NFHS is corrupt? Yeah. It is. But the NCAA is far, far worse. And I have no intention of letting that slide.

I turned my head back toward the student body, raised the hand clutching the trophy high, and roared:

"KA—HUKU!"

"KA—HUKU!"

"KA—HUKU!"

"KA—HUKU!"

After being named Player of the Year by the Hawaii High School Athletic Association, I'd now taken the PFHF's Player of the Year as well. But let me make one thing clear.

This is just the beginning.

The All-Star Game coming in January. And everything that comes after it.

From here on out—

this is where my true next step begins.