Cavemen Here Too
Dallas to San Antonio was a blink-and-you-missed-it hop.
What was it, ninety minutes or so?
By the time I'd grabbed my bags and stepped outside, I spotted someone waving at me from across the terminal.
The moment I saw her, a bright smile spread across my face.
"Moi!"
"Aunt Mel!"
My parents were planning to fly into San Antonio on Saturday, the day of the game itself, so until then Aunt Mel would be my guardian.
Rule number one of the All-American Bowl:
All participants must be accompanied by a guardian.
Which made sense, given that every one of us was still a minor.
"How was Crossville?"
"Amazing. And you? Was the flight okay?"
"Yep. There was a little turbulence, but nothing to write home about."
Falling into step naturally, we headed for the exit.
"Should we grab the rental first?"
"Seriously? You're okay to drive?"
"Hey. I lived in New York for three years."
"If you say so, Aunt Mel."
The U.S. Army All-American Bowl wasn't just a single game.
It was an entire event week, with all sorts of activities spread across the 5th and the 6th.
Which was why the organizers provided lodging and vehicles for the duration — for the rental car, all you had to do was submit a receipt and they'd take care of the rest.
Every detail had been spelled out in the invitation.
Anyway.
The actual game was on Saturday.
And the Friday before that...
"Wait. Don't tell me Coach is coming too?"
"..."
"Mel! Seriously?!"
"I like John. So don't say a word."
The night before the game, on the 5th, there was an awards ceremony.
The All-American Bowl Awards.
Hosted by the U.S. Army, naturally.
It was the occasion where they handed out the Ken Hall Trophy, given to the nation's best high school player, along with the Bill Yorst Trophy — essentially the Coach of the Year award — among others.
Since nobody had given me any advance notice, I figured the Ken Hall Trophy would go to Trevor Lawrence.
And honestly, that was only fair.
As for the Bill Yorst Trophy, Coach Gavin Travis — the man who had carried our Kahuku squad to a No. 6 national ranking — was one of six nominees.
He'd said he'd be arriving here around the 4th or 5th, and apparently Coach John Morse was tagging along to see Aunt Melodia.
I knew he wasn't a bad man.
But he had gotten divorced last year, and while I didn't know the full story, word had it that the wife — the one who used to pack his lunches for him — had betrayed his trust.
Still.
"You know he's a genuinely good person, right?"
"Hmmmm—"
"Just trust him and keep an open mind. Okay?"
"Yep."
Getting worked up over it would do me no good whatsoever.
So I decided to file it away and forget it.
We finished the rental quickly and loaded our bags into the car.
Tap.
"We heading straight to the venue?"
"Uh— no? Hold on a sec."
At her words, I rummaged through my pocket.
I'd printed out the schedule that had arrived by email, and I unfolded it to check what we were supposed to do next.
Let's see...
"What time is it?"
"10:17."
"Then I think we should head straight to the stadium."
"Got it. What was the place called again?"
The Alamodome.
The city of San Antonio had built it with grand ambitions of luring an NFL franchise, only for it to fall short of overcoming the small-market ceiling and end up as the home field of the UTSA Roadrunners.
A tragedy, you say?
Heavens, no.
It got put to good use in all sorts of ways, and for a city without a pro team, it had become a pretty well-known venue.
Total seating capacity:
64,000.
Since the very first All-American Bowl in 2000, there had never been a year when the stadium didn't fill to capacity.
"Wow, it's even bigger than Aloha Stadium?"
"Says the woman who lived in New York?"
"Haha. Fair point."
"Plus, this is Texas. Everything's big out here."
"Really?"
"Dunno. Want to find out together?"
"Now we're talking—"
Conversations with Aunt Mel really were always a joy.
That said, the buzz around this year's All-American Bowl was electric as always.
It had sold out sixteen consecutive years through last season, and I'd heard every ticket for this year was already gone.
A city with no NFL franchise.
A high school game, even if it was an all-star showcase.
And yet 64,000 seats vanished without breaking a sweat.
America was a country obsessed with football, sure — but the South played by entirely different rules.
Down here, football wasn't a sport. It was religion.
"Huh? Look over there."
"Hm? Where?"
We were on our way to the Alamodome when Aunt Mel suddenly pulled the car onto the shoulder.
"There."
"..."
I turned my head to where Aunt Mel's finger was pointing, and a few seconds later I found myself getting out of the car without even realizing it, staring blankly at the spot.
Whoa. That's—
"That's you?!"
"Oh my gosh, Moi! You're a real star now!"
"...Yeah. Guess I am."
On the side of a road I couldn't place if I tried, standing on foreign soil I couldn't have guessed at, Aunt Mel and I stood gazing at the left half of a massive billboard split neatly down the middle.
If you glanced to the right, there stood Trevor Lawrence.
But whatever. Never mind him.
The real question was:
When the hell had that photo been taken?
I didn't even remember taking it myself.
"Ooh! I'm taking a picture and sending it to everyone right now."
"Send me one too."
"Obviously."
For a long while, I couldn't tear my eyes away from that billboard.
From the airport to the Alamodome took all of ten minutes.
Man, that was close.
The parking lot we'd been directed into was packed with an enormous number of cars and people.
All of them players and their families, presumably.
"Should we get out?"
"Yeah."
After climbing out of the car with Aunt Mel, I opened the rear door to grab my bag.
And then—
"Dwayne Moi Stone."
"Huh?"
Someone was approaching from one side.
I recognized the face from the internet.
"Day-um! This place is crawling with nothing but big names!"
"Takes one to know one."
"Haha. You know who I am?"
Of course I did.
Amon-Ra St. Brown.
Along with Justin Shorter of South Brunswick, he was rated one of the very best wide receivers in all of high school football.
"Damn. And here I thought this was an honor."
"Well, I should at least know who's going to be slinging me the ball."
"Haha! I like you! Fuck! Now that's what I'm talking about!"
Amon-Ra had come over first, all friendly, and we chatted for a bit.
We'd barely exchanged a handful of words, but I knew it instantly.
This guy and I—
were going to be great friends.
"JT's got a lot of complaints, by the way."
"Who?"
"JT Daniels. He's the QB from my school — the guy you're going to be competing with. He figured he was a lock for the West's starter, and then you show up and now his spot's in jeopardy."
"Or the reverse. I could lose the job."
"Oh?"
"Not that I've spent even a rat's ass worth of time thinking about that."
"What?? BAHAHA!!"
Amon-Ra burst out laughing all over again, wiping away tears as he slapped my shoulder.
His booming laughter drew attention our way like a magnet.
Aunt Mel came over and introduced herself to him, then pointed toward the crowd and told me:
"I'm going to head over there for now."
"Yeah. I'll catch up soon."
"Who was that?"
"My aunt. We're really close."
After a quick introduction to Aunt Melodia, I picked up my bag and moved out with Amon-Ra.
"Everyone kept going on and on about Trevor Lawrence this, Trevor Lawrence that, and honestly it pissed me off. But you showing up got people talking about our West squad instead. That's a good thing. It's what everybody wants right now."
"Is that so?"
"Yep— come on. Let me introduce you to the guys."
We walked a little further and approached one of the two clusters of players gathered on the lot.
I was guessing this was the West team.
"Fellows? Say hello to Dwayne Moi Stone — the sophomore who actually made the All-American Bowl."
Once Amon-Ra had introduced me, everyone came crowding in without a shred of hesitation.
As if we'd known each other for years.
"I'm Jaylen Waddle. Call me Waffle."
"Haha. Waffle?"
"Yeah. That's what everybody calls me."
.
"Brothers showed up."
"For real. Which side?"
"Mala'aimi. Ever heard of it?"
"I've heard the name."
.
"What is this, a Samoan convention?"
"You too?"
"Half, like you. I'm Tongan, though."
Slipping into the group wasn't hard at all.
We were going to be teammates for the next several days, after all.
Besides, most of them had already committed to their colleges, so none of them had any particular need to impress recruiters.
That said—
"We've gotta smash the East team, right?"
"Obviously."
A baseline competitive fire was something they all had in stock.
If they hadn't, I'd have been disappointed on my end.
"Anyway, who the hell is our head coach?"
"Anybody know him?"
"..."
"..."
Traditionally, the All-American Bowl's head coaches had little to do with the legendary figures of high school football.
It reflected the nature of the event itself.
The organizers selected coaches with an eye toward the future, too — appointing men likely to land NCAA D1 or NFL jobs down the line, giving them a taste of what it meant to coach the absolute highest level of high school talent.
And so, on the documents I'd printed out, there sat an unfamiliar name.
"Jason Mohns. How do you even pronounce this?"
"Saguaro."
"What?"
"Saguaro. Just read it the way it looks."
"Oh. Thanks."
Yep.
Everywhere you go, there's always a few of those guys.
The fact that they were mostly linemen made it even funnier.
Anyway, I got a little worried about Aunt Mel and started craning my neck to look for her — only to find her happily gabbing away with a crowd on one side.
She'll be fine on her own, I think.
She's adapting surprisingly well, actually?
【"Ah— ah—."】
"Huh?"
From deeper inside, people with megaphones made their appearance.
【"West team?"】
【"East team?"】
The organizers called us out by team, and we set off in our respective directions accordingly.
So it was finally beginning.
What kind of experience awaited me here?
That's exactly what I intended to find out.
Participation in the All-American Bowl was strictly voluntary.
Which was why plenty of players turned it down every single year.
The reasons varied, but for the most part it boiled down to one thing: it was a hassle.
This year was no different — the first wave of invitees, a whole host of blue-chip prospects, had sent their regrets, and among them were kids the U.S. Army had been desperate to land.
Ordinarily, everyone would have forgotten about the event in no time.
But this year, the reactions that erupted were a little different.
The moment: right after the rosters dropped.
It's over for me (crying-laughing) (crying-laughing)
Is it too late to sign up now?
Ja'Marr Chase. Nicholas Petit-Frere.
A gifted wide receiver and offensive tackle who would otherwise have belonged on the West squad were, remarkably, kicking themselves hard and openly wishing they could take it back.
And why?
Everyone knew the answer.
#-1. San Antonio, Texas, USA
#-2. Alamodome
Having wrapped up the quick meet-and-greet, the players changed into practice gear and stepped out onto the Alamodome field.
The joint practices would run for two days, today and tomorrow, and the two days after that would be split into scheduled sessions where the East and West teams trained in turns.
And today's practice fell to the East team's head coach, Chad Grier.
A former quarterback at East Carolina University, Chad Grier currently coached a high school football team down in South Carolina.
"Those two over there are the ones everyone's watching, huh."
"The whole world's already in an uproar over them."
"Trevor, sure, I get it — but Moi is something else entirely. There was so much hype for so long that I figured he'd be an empty drum. Turns out he's even more impressive than I'd heard."
"He's still only a sophomore, you know."
"Jason sees it differently, though?"
"..."
Richard Bailey, the East team's offensive coordinator, ran the program at Scotland High School in North Carolina.
Through an old connection, he knew Jason Mohns, the West's head coach — and after talking it over, he'd learned that Mohns intended to throw out all preconceptions, hold an open competition, and hand the starting quarterback job to whoever won it.
Of course—
"Starters don't mean much in an all-star game anyway."
"..."
"We're still starting Trevor, right?"
Traditionally, all-star games named three quarterbacks and divvied up the playing time evenly.
The starter would take either the 1st and 4th quarters or the 2nd and 4th, and the remaining two split whatever was left over.
Usually, the coaches running each side ironed this out between themselves in advance and relayed it to the broadcaster — that way the broadcast could flow smoothly and build an interesting narrative.
It was guaranteed to happen that way this time as well.
Except—
"Still, you've got to let them compete, don't you?"
"You're serious?"
"Whoever wants it more will take the fruit."
"Hmm. The broadcaster isn't going to like that."
"I'm the head coach. Excuse me."
Watching Chad Grier's retreating back — his expression slightly sour — Richard Bailey let out a quiet snort.
The man had marched out his pointless pride the moment things didn't go his way.
The starter was Trevor Lawrence, full stop.
Jalen Williams was a fine quarterback but clearly a notch below Trevor Lawrence, and even the third QB, Phil Jurkovec, was rated at least a step or two further down.
Short of the sky splitting in two, the East's starting quarterback job was already decided.
The real curiosity was the West.
The first sophomore selection in the event's history.
Dwayne Moi Stone.
Bailey found himself wondering whether the kid could actually beat out JT Daniels — a pro-style quarterback nobody could afford to take lightly — and claim the starting job.
He knew the kid was good, obviously.
But whether he could handle the highest level of competition? Still a question mark.
After all, he was from Hawaii.
'Hmm. This should be fun,'
Convinced that this would be the most intriguing storyline of the entire prep period, Richard Bailey slowly made his way toward the cluster of quarterbacks.
Far across the field—
he could pick out two QBs who stood out from the rest.
Interesting.
Can't say much about the practice itself.
But this guy — he's interesting.
Trevor Lawrence.
The kid is very obviously aware of me.
Emphatically so.
We hadn't so much as exchanged a word, but the way he kept stealing glances was impossible to miss.
For now, I refocused on the drills.
"BALL!!"
Whap!
.
"BALL!!"
Whap!
There were all kinds of ways to train a quarterback, but most of them concentrated on developing throwing ability.
Because a QB had to move his feet in every direction while keeping his eyes locked forward at all times, the two things drilled hardest in every throwing exercise were a fixed upper body and reaction speed.
Only with everything above the waist stable could your delivery stay consistent, and only by firing the ball the instant you located your target could you beat the defense's reads.
The drill we were running now existed to sharpen exactly that.
Backpedal along the yard line—
and the moment the coach barked, you threw.
Right.
"BALL!!"
This was exactly the moment for it.
Whap!
You reacted to the word BALL as fast as your body allowed — and you never stopped retreating while you did it.
Eyes forward, always.
Beyond that, we threw passes at moving targets, or launched them deep.
"Next up, Moi."
"Yes sir."
"Try to send it as far downfield as you can."
"As far as I can?"
"Pretend it's a real game. Do it right."
"Yes sir."
It wasn't as if my arm was anything to sneeze at.
Any high school QB can throw a ball far — just angle it high into the sky and let it fly.
The problem is that a rainbow like that is utterly useless.
The defense eats it alive.
Watch the QBs famous for their deep balls, and even their longest throws never sit at that steep an angle.
I tilted my head back and pictured the ball stretching out in a flat, driving line, gave the ball a light tap with my left hand—
tap.
—and whipped my right arm through.
The ball left the end zone with a gorgeous spiral, screamed across midfield, carried a few yards further, and dropped out of the air.
Call it seventy to seventy-five yards?
Not bad.
And then—
the reaction came from somewhere entirely unexpected.
The wide receivers who'd been warming up on the far side of the field — the ones standing right where the pass had landed — went absolutely berserk.
Amon-Ra scooped up the ball where it had tumbled to a stop, took a few steps of runway, and hurled it back in my direction.
Naturally, it fell comically short, and I tuned out the receivers — deafening as they were, not a single word reached me — turned around, and walked back toward my coach.
"Was that okay?"
"Uh, huh?"
"That pass just now. It was fine, right?"
"Oh— yeah, yeah. More than fine."
"Good. Looked great."
I'd thrown eighty yards when I was fourteen.
Last year, I'd put a pass past the hundred-yard mark on our school's football field.
Even now, if I raised the angle just a touch, I could add another twenty to twenty-five yards of distance.
But none of that would earn me any credit.
After my throw, I took my place at the very back of the line.
"N-next!"
Up next, JT Daniels launched a long ball that traveled roughly seventy yards — but the coach told him it sat too high.
Then Tanner McKee, maybe a touch nervous, watched his ball wobble violently left and right and come off as an ugly throw.
Wobble like that and of course the distance dies too.
A little over forty yards.
Relax, my guy—!
"Next!"
The fourth one.
Trevor Lawrence.
Gripping the ball, the guy snuck a glance at me while pretending not to look, took his step forward, and unleashed his right arm from the back of the end zone.
Oh—
That's got some real distance on it.
Call it a touch short of sixty-five yards.
Shorter than mine.
But still, a good throw.
"Nice. Good one, Trevor."
"..."
But Trevor didn't seem pleased at all.
His face stayed frozen solid.
Hey now.
It's not that I don't get where you're coming from.
But aren't you and I done after this week anyway?
We wouldn't cross paths again for at least two years — right now, what you should be worrying about is enjoying this All-American Bowl and showing everyone why you're the No. 1 high school player in the nation.
Good grief.
High schoolers.
Ugh.
...Says the guy whose body is also in high school?
"Next!"
My turn came around again, and once more I launched it deep.
And within seconds—
"DAY-UM-------!!!!"
"HE'S OUT OF HIS MIND!!!"
"MO---I!!!"
Just like before, the wide receivers went absolutely feral.
Oh boy.
So there were savages here too.
Aren't they just adorable.
Without a quarterback, those boys can't do a blessed thing.
Which is exactly why I look after them so much — but among everyone I met today, the wide receivers might just be my favorite group.
Truly.
Quarterbacks and receivers just get each other.