Imagine
If receivers are a quarterback's spear, then what's his shield?
That's an easy one.
The **O-line**, obviously.
If the O-line doesn't hold back the hulking defenders lunging to break the quarterback's bones, the quarterback is reduced to fragile prey out on the field.
Just as we quarterbacks hold the receivers' fates in our hands, the O-line holds ours.
Which is why every quarterback must stay on good terms with his O-linemen.
And that's exactly why I'm sitting at this table right now.
To get cozy with my new O-line.
.
.
#. 6:48 PM
#-1. San Antonio, Texas, USA
#-2. Chama Gaúcha Brazilian Steakhouse
Over sixty high school football players, plus the family members they'd brought along. To feed all of them until they burst, the organizers had picked a Brazilian steakhouse downtown. The bar area was piled high with salads and every kind of appetizer, and we helped ourselves freely from the spread.
Of course, the main event was meat, but still.
"I'll gladly foot the bill."
"Seriously?"
"Yep. Even now, I take the O-line out to dinner at least once a week."
"Damn. Our quarterback doesn't do that."
"And yet you still protect him?"
"He's gotta get to college somehow. What can you do?"
"Come on— a quarterback is nothing without you guys."
Winning over an O-line is remarkably simple. You just tell them that everything you accomplish is thanks to them.
Sometimes football and quarterbacks are so selfish that they treat the men who sacrifice for them like disposable rags. They hoard every ounce of the spotlight— and even the linemen's money along with it.
No way that happens, you say?
Well then, let's take a look at some salaries.
When twentieth-string quarterbacks in the NFL make fourteen million dollars, the league's best O-linemen barely clear eleven.
One quarterback, but five O-linemen?
So what?
Watch what happens to a quarterback standing behind four perfect linemen with one trap hidden among them, and you'll see this talk is nothing but an excuse.
Granted, the quarterback is football's A to Z. I'll admit that's a limitation of the sport itself.
But that doesn't mean the O-linemen's effort and devotion should be written off.
Which is why quarterbacks who last, the truly great ones, always take meticulous care of their O-linemen. When a quarterback simply expresses gratitude for what they made possible, linemen feel their sacrifice was rewarded. That's the kind of men an O-line is built from— men who sacrifice, and sacrifice again. Without that selfless streak, you can never become a great lineman.
A quarterback grows by feeding on their effort. So how could I not be thankful? I'm not some ungrateful animal.
"Come out to Hawaii sometime."
"You'll buy me dinner if I do?"
"Obviously! My mom runs the best restaurant on Maui. The beach right in front of it is absolutely unreal too. Swimming, surfing— and don't even get me started on the fish burger after a day in the water."
"Damn— I'm sold just hearing about it."
"I'm not exaggerating. Hand over your numbers, right now."
"Kekekeke, I like this kid."
Going by the recruiting sites' rankings, our starting O-line would look like this:
@@@
ROT : Brey Walker
ROG : Emil Ekiyor
C : Justin Dedich
LOG : Chris Murray
LOT : Penei Sewell
@@@
We're heavy on tackles and thin at guard, so a few of the tackles will likely slide inside— the heavier ones, most likely. A tackle needs strength, speed, and technique all in one package, but a guard can get by without speed, as long as his power and technique are overwhelming.
On that front, this year's West squad is a little disappointing. While the East has quality guards in Jamaree Salyer and Trey Hill, Ekiyor and Murray carry relatively weaker marks in both ranking and ability.
That's not my personal opinion, by the way— that's what ESPN, FOX, and NBC have been saying.
Still, there's one silver lining: this is an all-star exhibition, so a few rules are mandated.
Twelve minutes per quarter. No blitzing. The defense must run a base 4-3. Onside kicks allowed in the second half only. The rules exist to keep the game from overheating physically and sending anyone home injured from what is, in the end, an all-star showcase.
And thanks to those rules, the O-line's weaknesses get partially papered over.
But the D-line hunting the quarterback? That never changes.
"Look at him, only hanging out with the receivers."
"Arrogant little punk."
"Should I just blow right past him once?"
"Are you insane? It's a national broadcast?"
"Ah— right, forgot."
The guy they're all talking about is our fellow West quarterback, JT Daniels.
The West's O-linemen don't like a quarterback who won't hang out with them.
I mean, I get where JT's coming from. Quarterback sensibilities, or something like that. I'm a lone Hawaii boy, so I'm free to wander wherever I please. But JT Daniels has his Mater Dei buddies here, and Chris Murray— one of the linemen— is sitting over there with them, not at this table. So I can see how he ended up like that. There's his personality too, probably.
Me? I'm just built different.
And of course, I intend to use that.
"Anyway, you guys into snacks?"
"Are you kidding? I'd kill for some Reese's."
"Same. Reese's is king."
"Perfect. Great. So listen— Reese's, Hershey's, Three Musketeers, Almond Joy, Butterfinger, everything else. I brought an absolute mountain of it. Come by my room at the hotel later and take as much as you want."
"Damn! Wait a second—"
"Hm?"
"As of today, we're best friends."
"Haha! Works for me. Now hurry up and give me that number."
"Fuck, sending it right now."
After sweet-talking the O-linemen over dinner, I wandered from table to table under the pretext of loading up my plate. My next targets were the receivers. I walked up and said:
"Hey. Hand over your route maps."
"What?"
"Route maps! You don't want the ball Saturday?"
I half-threatened them— fork over your route trees if you expect to catch passes in Saturday's game. It was obviously a joke.
But one of them didn't take it as one.
"I- I'll get them right to you, sir!"
"Huh?"
"Ugh. PTSD flashbacks."
"Uh... sorry?"
Huh. That's not how this was supposed to go.
Chase Cota from South Medford, Oregon, reacted like a whipped puppy. Excuse me, you do realize you're as tall as I am? A touch smaller, actually.
"I had a lot of brothers."
"Oh."
"They bullied me when I was little, back before I grew to this size. Damn it. Never, EVER talk to me that scary again."
"Yes sir. Understood and logged."
Now I actually feel bad. How was I supposed to know that?
I quietly set a pudding cup on top of Chase Cota's plate and moved on to my next targets.
This time it was—
"Hello there, defense~~"
A table full of the defensive squad— the unit I'd never share a field with, but would absolutely need firing on all cylinders if we wanted to win.
"Mind if I sit for a sec?"
"Go for it."
"Nice. Good. So, what were we talking about?"
I've got zero shame, you say? What can I tell you. This is simply the life we quarterbacks lead.
* * *
#. January 3, 2018
#-1. San Antonio, Texas, USA
#-2. The Alamodome
Day two of All-American Bowl week. Amon-Ra was glued to my side again today. When I told him to go worry about JT Daniels instead, he just said they were already good friends, so no need.
Anyway, this yawning is killing me.
"Haaah—"
"Sleep badly?"
"No. Just a little short on sleep."
"Lazy brat."
"Screw you. You want to die?"
"Spicy little thing."
"Touch me and you drop dead."
"Kukukuku."
It wasn't the unfamiliar bed that wrecked my sleep— I'm not sensitive enough for that. The mattress, in fact, was plenty soft. For us high school all-stars, the organizers had booked top-notch lodging: the Grand Hyatt, a hotel running north of three hundred fifty dollars a night. And not just rooms for the players— for the families too. Even with negotiated rates, food and lodging alone had to be burning through hundreds of thousands of dollars.
But no worries. They earn back far more.
Sixty-five thousand tickets, broadcast rights, and a mountain of sponsorship fees. Somewhere I read that even after skimming off everything, the U.S. Army easily clears several million dollars on this event.
And the Army donates every cent of it— for soldiers whose bodies and minds were broken in war. Servicemen and women are the people we should be most grateful to.
Anyway. The reason I'm short on sleep right now is simple: I stayed up late poring over route maps. How many times did I want to just collapse into bed? But thanks to the grind, I've memorized every route. I plan to verify them at practice later.
"Quarterbacks!!"
"Summoned. Later."
"Think of me even when you're gone!"
"I promise, baby!"
"Ugh, gross."
He does it first, then complains about it. What a piece of work, that one.
I jogged over to the coach who'd called for the quarterbacks and arrived first, standing at attention with my hands behind my back. Yesterday the East's coaches ran practice, so today was the West coaches' turn.
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Mark Fleetwood. I came out here from Huntsville, Alabama, and I've been doing this job for nearly thirty-five years."
Given that this game's coaches are supposedly chosen as men fit for bigger stages someday, you might wonder why a man with thirty-five years in the profession is here. Usually it goes like this: he's long since outgrown high school coaching, and he stays because he wants to. You could ask why he'd turn down bigger money and glory, but some great coaches pour their lives into teaching young athletes that sports are about something more. A football coach worthy of respect— and an even finer adult and teacher. Chances are, he's one of those.
"You've all warmed up enough, so let's begin."
Coach Fleetwood's drills looked similar to yesterday's at a glance, but the texture was clearly different. After running a few of those, he called over a handful of receivers and had me practice throwing to them. Not using yesterday's memorized routes, though— that would come later.
"Goood. That was a good ball."
"Yes, sir."
Coach Fleetwood praised me, and I stepped back and kept observing. What I was watching now wasn't the other quarterbacks. It was the receivers. Every last one of them has habits. Can he take a high ball well? Or is he more comfortable with low ones? Does he flinch when he cradles the ball into his chest? How does he react to a hot pass? Beyond that, stride length mattered too. Once you memorize how long a man's stride is, you can calculate how far he'll run in a given span of seconds— how much ground he'll have covered when your throw arrives.
The East and West receivers were alternating in to help, so East guys came up sometimes— I simply shut my attention off for those and studied only my own teammates.
First off, Warren was blazing fast. He runs nothing but a slant route and still leaves a few of the quarterbacks reacting late. Amon-Ra's speed, by contrast, was average— average for this room, that is. Top-tier at any regional level. But his move before breaking on a route was superb, and he carried footwork that looked like it would never lose balance in any situation. If Warren is a split end, Amon-Ra is a flanker. He'd be fine in the slot too, honestly.
I could see why JT Daniels gets such glowing reviews. Running routes alongside receivers like that, how could you not produce?
There'd be plenty to prove at the NCAA level because of his lack of deep speed, but at the high school level, a receiver like Amon-Ra is a master key to everything.
And regrettably, the team's lone tight end, Luke Ford, was a hair better than Sekope. He's probably far better at blocking and the like, but watching him run routes and catch the ball, the offensive side of his game looked seriously deficient. Meanwhile, the East's tight end, Jeremy Ruckert, beat Luke Ford across the board, handling included. This would be a game short on tactical polish, so having a high-level tight end is a massive advantage.
It made me miss the kid who turned down his invite. Under normal circumstances, Bishop Gorman's Brevin Jordan should have been the West's tight end, but he declined the invitation and is off playing around in Miami. Palai'e showed me photos yesterday. Must be nice being him— girls hanging off both arms, looking like he'd been drinking himself blind.
Players bound for D1 programs are usually local celebrities, so even as minors they get drinks comped by bar owners and girls clinging to them everywhere they go. Touch this, strip that off, now touch her again, undress yourself. For a high school kid, it's one hell of a temptation. Plenty of boys drown in it and end up down a road they can never turn back from— Brevin had better wake up soon, for his own sake.
"Nice, Trevor. Very well done."
Well, well. Look at him. Mister big shot today.
Unlike yesterday, Trevor was throwing darts all session, riding high on his own swagger. My stomach twisted a little, so I answered with an even more perfect deep ball.
"Yes! That's it! THAT'S the one, Moi!"
"Oorah."
You see that? That's what your big brother just did.
Watching Trevor Lawrence's face freeze as he turned his head, I clicked my tongue inside. Tsk tsk. So thin-skinned. Maybe it's because a spotlight he assumed was his alone got snatched by a sophomore who showed up out of nowhere, but I do wish he'd quit the games already. Be a man about it. Settle it on the field.
"Alright! That's a wrap!"
With day two of practice in the books, we all gathered in one spot. Today was the last day we'd train all together. From tomorrow, the teams split up. Plays would be built, strategies laid down.
The time we had: forty-eight hours. Of that, meetings and practice combined wouldn't exceed ten hours even at the outside.
Could a team really be forged from that?
No. Never.
It takes at least three months for strangers to become a team.
But the boys gathered here were selected to represent their regions— the best high school football players in the nation. Baseline skill and physical tools would carry them to a certain floor automatically. Everything above that floor, though? That's what we quarterbacks would have to build ourselves.
On that score, I'd say I did my homework. I'd befriended the O-linemen and mapped every receiver's routes. All that remained was sharpening the blade.
Before that, though, there was a small matter to handle— nothing to do with football. After a brisk shower, I stood in front of a camera to shoot the tournament's promotional video.
"I'm Dwayne Moi Stone."
When my introduction ended, I was holding a white hat. Pure white, completely blank. The other players clutched the hats of their committed schools, or the schools where they ranked among the top candidates.
But that wasn't me. I'd been handed a plain white hat.
And pulling it down over my head, I looked dead into the camera.
"Where do you think this hat's color and logo will end up?"
Then, with a smile, gripping the brim of the cap, I delivered the closing line.
"Imagine."
* * *
#. January 4, 2018
#-1. San Antonio, Texas, USA
#-2. The Alamodome
On the first day of full team practice, the West squad— assigned the morning session— went to work under a blazing sun.
At one edge of the field, a group of coaches including West head coach Jason Mohns stood talking.
"It has to be Moi."
"Everyone feels the same?"
"..."
"..."
Jason Mohns watched the coaches nod, then turned last of all to one man.
Mark Fleetwood. The most experienced and most respected football coach on the West staff— the man who'd trained the quarterbacks the day before.
"Mark?"
Arms crossed, Mark Fleetwood gazed out at the group running around freely nearby. Someone was playing some kind of prank, judging by the roar of laughter.
"That personality."
"Excuse me?"
"In thirty-five-plus years of coaching football, I have never once seen a high schooler with a personality like that. Just look at him."
"..."
"..."
Now every coach was looking at the same place. There stood a dancing boy. From Hawaii. Sixteen years old, 190 centimeters and 100 kilograms.
"The O-linemen look like they've fallen in love with him. The receivers? He knows their routes by heart, so they're over the moon."
Depending on a quarterback's personality and style of play, the shape of the spear and shield he wields changes too. Tactics matter enormously, of course— but that's a matter of execution. It does nothing to change the outer shell itself. Seen through that lens, the spear and shield in Dwayne Moi Stone's hands had a high chance of being a joy to watch.
"That boy can pull a team together as one."
"..."
"JT is a fine quarterback too, mind you. The classic honor-student type. If you're smart, you understand exactly what that means."
"..."
"..."
The classic honor-student type. In other words: a player who can never rise above the school level.
Every year, about half of the ten best quarterbacks in America manage to claw their way to the NFL. But becoming a starter? Becoming a star?
Jamarcus Russell, the #1 overall pick of 2007, lasted barely three seasons as an NFL player. Across 25 starts he led his team to victory just seven times, and his career completion percentage was a miserable 52.1. Brady Quinn, the next name called, walked much the same road— and Kevin Kolb, John Beck, Drew Stanton, every quarterback taken in the top five of the 2007 Draft failed to stick in the league.
Sam Bradford, #1 overall in 2010. Jake Locker, eighth in 2011. The top two picks of 2012. All of them crashed into bitter failure.
Those men were the classic honor students.
But Moi was different.
"That boy is a professional. In some ways, even more than Trevor."
What Mark Fleetwood had just said was the hammer driving the final nail into the decision over the West's starting quarterback for the game two days from now.
Jason Mohns looked around at the coaches once more. Every head nodded in silence.
"Good. I'll break the news myself."
As he walked toward the gathered players, Jason Mohns called out Dwayne Moi Stone's name in a booming voice, and a moment later, pulled him aside and told him he'd been named the starter.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Good. Now go back over there and keep having fun."
"Oorah."
Moi turned away with a blinding white smile.
Just now, the West team's starting quarterback had been decided.