Surely It Won't Get Noisy, Right?

Ryan Roberts, who played college ball at Baylor, had been an unremarkable quarterback.

The fact that after graduating from Keller High School he went not to a D1 program but to Midwestern State, a D2 school, said it all.

But he had been a passionate young man.

He earned a starting job the moment he arrived at Midwestern State, rose to become the best quarterback in the Lone Star Conference, and was rewarded for it with a scholarship offer from Baylor, a D1 program.

Even if he never made it to the NFL.

Ryan Roberts was remembered as a quarterback who worked.

And as a good man.

December 26, 2017.

#1. Fort Worth, Texas, USA

#2. RRQB

"He's really coming, right?"

"How many times do I have to say it? Yes. He's coming."

"Damn. This is the biggest fish there is."

"He's still in high school."

"Still. It's real."

"…"

About a week earlier, Ryan Roberts had received a message from someone asking how to arrange private training sessions.

And the sender was none other than—

"Excuse me."

"?"

"We're here."

"Whoa!"

The greatest high school quarterback of all time.

Dwayne Moi Stone.

The moment Ryan Roberts saw a Buick pull into the parking lot, he started walking over alongside one of the other coaches.

A middle-aged woman stepped out of the driver's seat, and then an enormous figure emerged from the passenger side.

The coach walking beside him flinched to a stop.

"Whoa-oh. He's big."

"Hurry up, Derrick. Introductions first."

"R-right. Yeah."

His feet were already moving fast, but Ryan Roberts was inwardly stunned all the same.

The media consistently listed the kid's measurables at around 186–187 centimeters and 96–99 kilograms, but he felt even bigger than that.

Above all, the sheer thickness of his frame was astonishing.

At that size—

You could play something other than quarterback at the high school level.

Offensive line might be a stretch, but linebacker or edge looked entirely doable.

On offense, tackle or tight end.

And yet, Dwayne Moi Stone was—

undeniably a quarterback.

"Dwayne Moi Stone."

"Haha. Hello, sir."

"Impressive. What are your measurables?"

"190 centimeters, 100 kilograms."

"Wow. That's fantastic. And who do we have here with you?"

"This is my maternal grandmother."

At the word grandmother, Ryan Roberts blinked.

Nothing about the woman looked like a grandmother from any angle.

These East Asians really do—

having let a prejudice about the man's race slip through, Ryan Roberts quickly extended a hand to the grandmother as well.

"Ryan Roberts. A pleasure."

"Young-sun. Please call me Young-sun."

"Young. Sun?"

"Young as in youthful, and Sun like the sun in the sky."

"Oh- Young-sun. Okay, got it."

Once the introductions were done, Ryan Roberts gave them a tour of the facility.

Since opening in 2012, RRQB had built a reputation for its immaculate outdoor turf and excellent indoor facilities, and it had already put countless high school and college players through its programs.

"Next summer we're hosting pros for the first time, actually."

"NFL players?"

"That's right."

"Wow- that's amazing."

"I'd call it proof the academy is growing the way it should."

"Yes- I think so too."

After roughly twenty minutes of leading them here and there, Ryan Roberts found himself thinking something quite unexpected.

This was the boy who had been turning heads since age seven by shattering age-group track records year after year, who picked up baseball and threw 99 miles per hour at thirteen, summoning major league scouts all the way to Hawaii.

And then, upon entering high school, he had declared he would play football instead—breaking the hearts of track coaches, baseball scouts, and even basketball coaches by the dozen.

Once he started football, he went on to rewrite every freshman and sophomore quarterback record in existence, proving he was built on a different scale entirely.

Any boy with that résumé had every right to be insufferable.

And yet.

"Good vibes, right?"

"Told you. He actually listens, and his manners are spotless."

"Did you catch how he racked his equipment?"

While Ryan Roberts and Derrick Farnsworth traded first impressions, Moi stood beside Young-sun, preparing for training.

He looked to be loosening up on his own, unhurried.

"Going to watch her grandson train?"

"I suppose so. You heard him earlier, didn't you?"

"Right- a Cowboys fan."

"Haha. Everyone around here is."

"Anyway. Derrick? Get set up, please."

"On it."

Ryan Roberts walked back over to Moi.

Well then.

First things first—

Let's see what you can actually do.

Whether the stories floating around were true.

He intended to confirm it with his own two eyes.

December 28, 2017.

#1. Fort Worth, Texas, USA

#2. RRQB

Just twenty minutes into training at RRQB, I already knew I'd come to the right place.

The training methods Ryan Roberts had designed were nearly identical to the quarterback regimens I remembered from my past life, and better still, the man explained everything in terms that were remarkably easy to grasp.

Anything I didn't like?

Hmm.

If I had to pick one thing—

this, I suppose?

#3. Gym

"Good. That's it for today."

"Huh? Huh? Why?"

"You want to keep going?"

"We've barely started, sir."

"Come on, no need to overdo it."

Overdo it, my foot.

That was nothing but a warm-up.

Raising my left hand and wagging my index finger side to side, I walked straight to the squat rack, slid a forty-five-pound plate onto the bar, and then—

shot him a look that asked what exactly he was waiting for.

"Come on, then!"

"We're going past this?"

Ah—

honestly.

How exasperating can a man be?

So I'd knocked out eight sets of six at a mere 140-kilogram squat. Did he seriously think my legs would give out over that?

NFL running backs lift 500 pounds like it's nothing, and linemen—at their weakest—pull 650.

Wasn't the record something like 750?

"Light Weight Babe-!!"

"…Do you have to do that every time?"

"Oh, sorry. It's a habit."

I added another ninety pounds and ran six sets of six.

Then another ninety, and did four sets of four.

Only now were my legs starting to register a signal.

"God Damn- you're one hell of a kid."

"Muscle Men! You know it, right?"

"I saw it online. So that thing was real?"

"People assume everything out of Hawaii is exaggerated. It's just an island, not some fantasy world. One more set to finish."

"Damn. All right. I'll spot you."

Day one had been field work only.

Day two mixed the indoor facility with the field.

Only today, the third day, did the weight room finally enter the picture—and now everyone was staring at me like I was some exotic animal.

Go ahead and charge admission, then. Watch all you like.

"Hr-gh!"

Clang!

The final squat weight came to 505 pounds, exactly matching what I'd hit during the season.

"Sweet heaven. Can I actually post this?"

"To Twitter?"

"Yeah. This is going to blow up, guaranteed."

"Go right ahead."

The average NFL quarterback squats somewhere around 400 pounds.

Plenty of them fall short of that, of course.

Dual-threat QBs generally lift in the same neighborhood as me—but that's the pros we're talking about.

I'm a high school sophomore.

Skipped a grade, and only fifteen at that.

And I just did 505 for two sets of two?

There are plenty of backs my age who can't manage that.

For a lineman, failing that would be disqualifying.

"Whew-! What's next?"

"Hold on. Haven't uploaded it yet."

"Then can I go grab some water?"

"Take all the time you want."

As I walked off for water, someone began clapping, and the little kids training indoors joined in.

There were quite a few middle schoolers in the indoor facility.

They couldn't have been more than a couple of years younger than me.

And yet, judging by build alone—

"It's like watching a grown man next to toddlers."

"Haha. It's QB training hour, you see."

"You know you're a QB too, right?"

"Yep. What's next?"

"Good. I'm changing up the program."

"Oh-!"

"A kid like you can handle NFL-style training."

Martin Schmidt, RRQB's strength and conditioning coach, led me off to a different area, and from there the two of us had some genuinely fun sessions together.

Swinging baseball bats.

Leaping as high as we could.

Then sprinting like lunatics.

Every one of these drills feeds the same purpose—faster, stronger, more explosive energy.

After that unusual prep sequence, we moved to slamming a medicine ball into the wall with everything I had, and I'm not exaggerating when I say it was several times harder than the 505-pound squat.

Breath climbed all the way up my throat.

Dry heaves kept rising with it.

"Hee—hah. Hee—hah."

Every time I inhaled, something like a whistle escaped my lips.

"Here- drink this."

"Hah- hah. Hoo- what is this?"

"Electrolytes, salt, vitamins. Everything your body needs right now."

"Whew- I'm not going to throw it back up, am I?"

"Why do you think the bucket's right there?"

"…"

My mouth was so dry that even swallowing my own saliva was a struggle. All I could do was force the liquid down my throat.

Whatever.

Bottoms up.

"Urk—!!"

"Haha."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

In the end, everything I'd drunk came straight back up, and Martin gave my back a gentle pat.

"And yet. I honestly didn't expect you to keep up this far."

"Hoo- I'll survive. Did I do well?"

"Perfect score."

"Oorah."

After two solid hours of driving my body to its limits, all I wanted was to collapse right there and fall asleep.

But that wasn't an option.

"I'm going to go wash up."

"Go ahead. I'll have a drink waiting for you outside."

"Yes, sir!"

The six days of training from the 26th through the 31st had cost my parents somewhere around $3,600.

Unlike the relatively affordable 5-on-5 or 7-on-7 programs, private training was priced according to each client's requested regimen and the range of services the academy provided.

In my case: workout gear and towels, all beverages, protein drinks, and two weight-training lessons were included.

Gloves and cleats were personal equipment.

That way, I wouldn't lose my feel for them.

Anyway.

The program Martin had so suddenly "upgraded" would ordinarily have cost considerably more.

He'd taken a liking to me, it seemed.

Consider it a complimentary service.

Coming out of a cold shower, my body felt a little revived.

I sent my grandmother a message.

When I was doing field work, my grandmother watched from close by; otherwise, she headed to a café nearby to write.

Word was that around twenty years ago every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠romance novel she published became a bestseller, and while those days were behind her, she was still recognized as a venerable author with a steady readership.

As for my grandfather—she and he were legally separated.

Not divorced.

They simply lived apart.

My grandmother, who treasured a quiet life, and my grandfather, whose hobbies were fishing and hiking, had both realized as they grew older that living separately was the shortest road to happiness.

Though they did meet up about twice a year.

They claimed it felt like dating again.

Well, as long as the two of them were happy.

"Moi."

"Yes, sir?"

"Take a look at this."

"?"

Martin Schmidt came over and showed me the video he'd uploaded earlier.

And the reaction was—

December 29, 2017.

#1. Dallas, Texas, USA

#2. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport

"Isn't it been about twenty minutes now?"

"Thirty-one. Incredible, isn't it?"

"Wow- it really is."

A tweet posted by an account with barely 160 followers had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠racked up sixty thousand likes and fifty thousand comments in just half an hour.

And one comment stood out.

Someone had recognized the place and left a comment.

Surely it wasn't about to get noisy… right?

"No way. Not a chance."

"That's what I keep telling myself."

"Oh, there's your grandmother now."

After telling Martin Schmidt I'd come say goodbye, I also greeted the other coaches working with students on the far side of the facility.

"SEE YOU TOMORROW!!!"

"Hahaha!! Take care, kid!!"

"Bye-!!"

I was jogging off light on my feet when—

my legs nearly buckled and sent me sprawling.

Well, well.

December 29, 2017.

#1. Dallas, Texas, USA

#2. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport

When the news broke on Twitter that Dwayne Moi Stone had arrived in Dallas, the powerhouse D1 football programs across the state of Texas bristled in unison.

Why Dallas?

Why not San Antonio or Houston?

There wasn't a single NCAA D1 FBS university anywhere near Dallas, and there seemed to be even less reason for him to head there alone.

So curiosity curdled into frustration—

and just as that frustration threatened to make people burst, a video featured on ESPN the night before revealed exactly where Dwayne Moi Stone was.

And why.

Why he was in Dallas.

But rather than the relief of a question answered, what dominated everyone's emotions was a shock far deeper than mere astonishment.

A fifteen-year-old high school quarterback.

Had squatted 505 pounds.

Two sets of two, no less.

This was the kind of event that drew a massive line through Dwayne Moi Stone's scouting report, forcing a ground-up revision of every projection of his future.

And at this very moment—

Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport.

Two reporters, having quickly grasped the ripple effect of a video that had logged nine million views and seven million comments within twelve hours of upload, sat in a cafeteria observing the crowd.

"Look over there. Baylor."

"A&M's here too."

"TCU. SMU."

"Rice and Houston were around earlier, if I remember right."

"The whole neighborhood's really gathered, huh."

"Oh- there."

"Hmm?"

"Oklahoma."

"Sooners? Cowboys?"

"Sooners. As in the ones who got here first."

Today, college representatives flown in from nearby cities were showing their faces all over Dallas.

Most belonged to universities within Texas, of course.

But neighboring Oklahoma had its own as well.

The Oklahoma Sooners—nicknamed for those who staked their claims first—stood, along with the Oklahoma State Cowboys, as the two teams that embodied college football in their state.

Once he'd finished sizing up the crowd, one of the veteran reporters rose from his seat, and his companion shouldered his bag and followed.

"Heading straight over?"

"No. We're after something else."

"Something else?"

"I checked—he doesn't train until three in the afternoon. What I need to know is why, of all places, he picked Dallas."

"His family all lives in Hawaii, and his mother's side—"

"Florida. Except—"

"?"

"His grandmother's estate is nearby. Let's go."

Todd Archer, ESPN's senior man covering the Dallas Cowboys since 1997, was putting his famously sharp instincts to full use.

Ordinarily, mid-season, he would never have chased a high school player for a story—but with Dwayne Moi Stone, the calculus was different.

NFL fans driving their own franchises to stamp a kid's name onto the team jersey—a boy who hadn't even played a down of college ball yet—was something you simply never saw.

Perhaps a first in the league's history?

It certainly was for Todd Archer.

"Do you know where the estate is?"

"Roughly. Head for Colleyville first."

"Yes, sir."

Seven days since Moi had arrived on the mainland alone.

And four days of training.

With the NFL taking a breather before the playoffs—

the entire country was losing its mind over a single high school student.