I Cherish My Roots

December 30, 2017 — Fort Worth, Texas · RRQB Academy

"Honestly, what a sight."

"Right?"

"Haha. You do realize you're talking about them like they're somebody else's problem?"

"Yup. No telling how long they intend to keep that up, either."

The people I was addressing were the crowd gathered around the chain-link fence enclosing RRQB's outdoor football field. A single tweet Martin had posted two days earlier had summoned every D1 program in the area to this one patch of turf. As a result, I'd spent the better part of yesterday shaking hands.

"Baylor. We've met before, haven't we?"

"Yes — I remember you."

"A&M. Did the gift I sent arrive safely?"

"The crab cakes, you mean?"

"That's right — a College Station specialty."

"Honey. It's an Oklahoma specialty."

"Oh — I'm honored to accept it."

"You've heard of Shipley Do-Nuts, haven't you?"

"No, sir."

"We Houston folk wouldn't touch garbage like Dunkin'. I brought these straight from the fryer, just for you."

The college representatives who had made the trip to Fort Worth hadn't come to scout me. That much was obvious. Practically everything there was to know about me had already been made public — every school surely had reports on me stacked up like mountains by now. What they wanted instead was to demonstrate one of the cardinal virtues of recruiting: Sincerity.

Gifts disguised as pure goodwill. Asking after my family's well-being. Questions about what I liked. Each of them was subtly making the point that they hadn't flown in to pitch enrollment — they'd come a long way purely because they were fond of me. I hadn't mentioned this before, but a few programs even kept someone stationed in Paia full-time. Thank goodness nobody's pulled that move on Oahu yet.

"Shall we get started, then?"

"I was wondering when you'd say that. Let's go."

"Good."

The surroundings had gotten a bit noisy, sure — but training itself was genuinely fun.

"Today we're working on weak-side rollouts."

"Understood."

"You know this already, but when defensive coordinators draw up a scheme, the baseline is always attacking the quarterback's weak spot. And a quarterback's pass is hard enough as it is."

Anyone who'd ever laid hands on a football knew it: this ball isn't even easy to grip properly. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And throwing it is harder still. Throwing it a long way? You're lucky if the ball doesn't dance on you. That's why there are fundamental mechanics for throwing the ball hard and deep — and they admit no exceptions. A right-hander turns his left side away from the line; a left-hander turns his right.

Tackles, on the other hand, come from every direction, so the side a quarterback keeps at his back — measured from his own perspective — is called the weak side. Schemes define Strong and Weak separately as well, but the same distinction applies to the quarterback himself.

"For this scenario, we'll assume a strong blitz."

"Pressure coming straight up the middle, in other words."

"That's right."

Among the most common tools in a defensive playbook is the Blitz. Used mainly out of 3-4 fronts, it commits four or more backs — sometimes more — to swarm the quarterback as fast as possible and deny him any chance to throw. And what happens if the quarterback freezes up in that moment? He gets Sacked on the spot. But a quarterback who keeps his head switches immediately into an off-script play and tries to escape the crisis.

That's exactly what we were working on. Crisis escape.

That said, I knew as well as anyone: it isn't easy for a right-handed quarterback to sprint out to his left and still deliver the ball accurately to his target. Ryan was teaching me the knack for it.

Hmm—

I already know how. But learning is always right.

"The moment you turn your body mid-run is everything."

Ryan demonstrated first, and I copied him.

"Like this?"

"Excellent. But a little more like this…."

"…."

"Think of it as springing across the field."

"…."

"There we go. Want to try a throw?"

"Yes, sir."

I moved to the spot we were treating as the pocket, dropped into my throwing stance, and imagined a defender bearing down on me from straight ahead. I spun away quickly, shielded the ball, and sprinted for the left sideline. Then, just as Ryan had taught me—

"…."

— I snapped into my throwing motion and hurled the ball toward the end zone. There was no receiver to catch it, of course. I simply imagined someone running.

"Ooh!"

"Now that's nice."

"Fast, too."

Voices from the people pressed against the fence near the left sideline carried over vividly. Ignoring them for the moment, I turned to Ryan.

"How was that?"

"Perfect."

Word among the coaches during my time training here was that I was the best high schooler who'd ever come through the place. Naturally. It was a slight shame they didn't count the college ranks too, but honestly, expecting that much would've been greedy.

"Let's run a few more."

"All Day."

"Haha. Then let's go."

I repeated the same motion a good dozen times before moving on to a different drill. This time there was a receiver, and I kept firing passes — again, and again — until we'd connected on the most basic slant option fifteen times in a row.

"Good! That's it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for today!"

And the moment the lesson wrapped up, the crowd wasted no time closing in on me.

"How about joining me for dinner?"

"There's a fantastic BBQ joint called Brazos."

"Do you happen to like Italian?"

"I know a proper Texas steakhouse. First-rate place."

"What about Korean food?"

The offers were genuinely appreciated. But I was sorry to say—

"I have a prior engagement this evening."

"Oh…."

"Well, another time, then."

They were no doubt convinced I was making excuses. But today I really did have an appointment — a long-standing one, at that. With rather special people.

5:23 PM — Colleyville, Texas · Young-sun's Villa

After grocery shopping with Grandma, we'd returned to the villa.

"Shall I help you with that?"

"No. Those hands are treasures, dear. You have to take care of them."

"Then at least let me do the washing."

"Such a good boy. Your mother raised you well."

"My father did his part too."

"…Well then, wash these first."

"Yes, ma'am."

I carried the bowl of potatoes and assorted vegetables to the sink and scrubbed each one meticulously. As anyone could see, we had guests today.

"They're due by seven, right?"

"That's right."

"Yesterday nearly turned into a genuine disaster."

"The price they pay for trespassing on private land."

"Haha. Fair enough — but still."

Colleyville, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a town of roughly 25,000, is known around Dallas as one of the wealthy suburbs. Grandma's villa sits along Big Bear Creek, with six small golf courses strung out to the north and south, and tucked into one corner a truffle grove into which she has poured herself — heart, effort, and money alike. The one catch is that navigation of any kind fails out here: your phone will catch a satellite signal just fine, but the road it's supposed to find never materializes. So once or twice a year, someone goes missing out here. In most cases the nearest golf course is visible right away, and no one had ever actually wandered into the truffle grove.

Yesterday, of all days, that changed.

I'd had lunch with Grandma, taken a rest, and was getting ready to head to RRQB when an alarm suddenly shrieked — someone had entered the truffle grove. And in that instant, Grandma picked up a shotgun.

…

Yes. A real shotgun. Startled and worried, I followed behind her, and before long I heard an enormous gunshot ring out. Grandma, having spotted the intruder (?), had fired straight into the air.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?!"

No wonder Mom managed to wrap Dad around her finger. Dad, who is both stronger and faster than I am. Genetics truly are a terrifying thing.

Her profession as a novelist, layered on top of a slight East Asian frame, leads people to see Grandma as fragile — but she is every bit as formidable as Grandma on Dad's side or Mom. In any case: the pair who had triggered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the alarm were two men, and the shotgun blast turned their legs to jelly. They trembled in pure terror — until I appeared before them.

"M-Moi!! Dwayne Moi Stone!!"

"Huh?"

"I-I'm a reporter!"

"A reporter? What's a reporter doing out here?"

"I-I got lost!"

One of them, both arms raised, had asked whether he could at least take out his wallet while Grandma held the muzzle inches from his face. A moment later the wallet came flying through the air, and I picked it up and checked it myself.

"He's telling the truth, Grandma."

"…."

Only then did Grandma lower the gun, turn on her heel with magnificent cool, and declare it served them right for setting foot on private property. I walked over to the reporters, offered my apology, and returned the wallet. Today's dinner, then, was an invitation extended in the spirit of that apology. That's the kind of person Grandma is — when she believes she was in the wrong, this is how she extends her hand.

That said, I couldn't help wondering: would those two actually manage to find the place today?

"Surely they won't get lost again?"

"They're reporters. They can't be that hopeless."

"I suppose not."

"Are the potatoes done?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then hand them over."

I passed her the potatoes first, and a little later set all the washed vegetables down at her side.

"All finished."

"Thank you, dear. Go rest a little now."

"Just call if you need anything."

"By the way."

"?"

"Will it really be all right?"

Because tonight's guests were reporters, Grandma had originally intended to simply offer her apology and leave it at that. It was I who had whispered the suggestion to invite them to dinner. But there was a reason behind everything I did.

"After what happened yesterday, you think they'd try something?"

"I intend to inspect them first, all the same."

"Inspect them?"

"There could be wiretaps or recording devices on them, you know."

"But how would we even—"

"Over there. Look deep inside that cabinet."

Ah—

There it is. But wait—

Why on earth does she own this?

In the cabinet Grandma pointed to, I found a handheld detector — the kind you'd see at an airport — and the moment my fingers closed around it, I froze solid.

"I bought it for research while writing a novel."

"You needed this?"

"You know I'm never satisfied unless I try everything myself."

"Ah… right. Of course."

"Would you charge it up for me, dear?"

I learned today, for the first time in my life, that handheld metal detectors charge the same way cell phones do — by plugging in a cable.

Wow—

I didn't even know that in my past life.

The reporters arrived right on the appointed hour, and the moment they saw me standing in the villa's front hall holding a detector, they turned visibly pale.

Well, of course they did.

Truthfully, I find it pretty funny too. But what can I do? The villa's owner isn't me. When in Rome, you follow Roman law. Wouldn't you agree?

"…."

"…."

The two men, wearing expressions of profound displeasure, stretched their arms out to either side. I had intended to run the wand over them as a mere formality—

Beep—

"Huh?"

Beep—

"Again?"

Beep—

"…."

My admiration for Grandma's keen eye was renewed on the spot. I mean, really — these men actually had hidden cameras and wiretapping devices on them?

"Ahem. Hem."

"I-It's an occupational hazard."

"You two ever taken a hit from a tackle before?"

"N-now, what kind of—"

I smiled brightly and told them I was only joking. But my expression and my actions were two very different things.

CRUNCH!CRACK!CRACK!!

I stomped the fallen devices into the floor and crushed them to pieces. After that, the reporters couldn't so much as meet my eyes.

Well, honestly. Every single time I extend a kindness—

People just have to— come around and stab me in the back, don't they? Right?

I know perfectly well that reporters are a breed you can't trust. All the same, I needed these men. Not right now. For later.

"That's all of them, I take it?"

Their firm, decisive nods were, I had to admit, deeply satisfying. Only then did I open the front door and call out toward the kitchen.

"CLEAR!!"

This makes me feel like I'm with the FBI, doesn't it? This. This is genuinely fun.

January 2, 2018 — Colleyville, Texas · Young-sun's Villa

The RRQB lesson had ended two days ago, and I'd spent yesterday at the villa. In the evening we video-called the family gathered at Grandma's house in Hawaii, and my parents — unlike at the very beginning — said this had turned out to be a good thing after all, and asked me to take good care of Grandma while I was here. After that, we welcomed the New Year the Korean way. We listened to the bell tolls over the phone, I performed the New Year's bow for Grandma, and in my clumsy Korean I said, "Happy New Year, and may you receive much good fortune."

Ah. Right. I do speak a little Korean. I've been learning since I was little.

Anyway. Yesterday morning we ate rice cake soup with dumplings in it. And Grandma said to me:

"How wonderful it is, not being alone."

The truth is, Grandma still hasn't forgiven my father and mother for running off and marrying on their own. She occasionally takes Mom's calls, but she can't stand the sight of Dad. Well — every family has its stories. They just take different shapes.

"Are you all set, dear?"

"Yes, Grandma."

At first I had come here purely to watch the lessons. But by now I genuinely believed I'd made the right call coming. And Grandma — she really is wonderful.

"Yesterday it was nothing but your news, all day long."

"Haha. People do love making a fuss."

"Moi."

"?"

"I am so very proud of you."

"…."

I hear it often enough. But sometimes, without warning, the tip of my nose stings. In my past life I never once heard those words from family, and I don't know why, but every so often something wells up in my eyes all on its own. I couldn't cry, though. So I smiled instead.

"I love you, Grandma."

"…Come along, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

I had no idea yet where college would take me. But I had made one resolution. Someday, when the chance came, I would bring my college friends here. We'd play golf together. Hunt for truffles together. And if anyone took a wrong turn and tripped the alarm, I'd sprint ahead of Grandma so she didn't fire the shotgun.

The drive to the airport went by far too quickly. Probably because the goodbye was hard to let go of.

"I'll call when I land."

"You'd better. And Moi."

"Yes, Grandma?"

"Half of you is a proud Korean. Never forget that — no matter where you go. Will you promise me that?"

"Haha. Yes, Grandma."

Does she know? That even looking the way I do — I have never once forgotten?

I respect the culture of Hawaii. But no. All the more because of it—

I treasure my roots. And that is exactly—

"That's simply what a Stone does, you see."

"…Yes. I suppose it is."

I loved her final answer more than I could say. It meant she was forgiving my father. Her heart hadn't yet caught up with her actions — most likely out of pride. With a little more time, perhaps it would become possible. Or perhaps there was something I could do to help. But for now—

"I love you, Grandma—!"

It was time to pour myself into the future.

The All-American Bowl.

And I—

I was headed for San Antonio, Texas.