The Comet from Hawaii

I had no intention of wasting a single second.

Youth baseball on the island of Maui, Hawaii was divided into the Big League, played by athletes sixteen to eighteen years old, and the Little League below it.

The Little League was subdivided once more: T-Ball, Rookie, Minor, Major, Junior, and Senior.

The dividing line between each stage was age. The gap between one year and the next was enormous for children at that stage — without sorting them by age, fair competition simply couldn't happen.

And today, a boy stepped onto the mound of the Central Maui Major Little League team, a squad made up of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.

Thomas Bradley, Central Maui's head coach, wore a knowing smile — and the moment the opposing coach from Upcountry Maui laid eyes on the boy on the mound, he shouted for time and sprinted out onto the field.

Then he yelled at the umpire.

"Hold on, Jonathan — this is illegal! You know it is!"

Little League or not, the rivalry between Maui's baseball teams ran plenty hot. The coaches in particular often treated one another like sworn enemies. Bending every rule in pursuit of a win went without saying, and petty squabbles that made them seem hardly like adults broke out on a regular basis.

Brett Roberts, Upcountry Maui's head coach, was convinced at this very moment that Thomas Bradley had pulled some kind of trick.

But—

"What did you just say?!"

Brett Roberts found himself listening to something he could not believe.

Umpire Jonathan McGill confirmed it for him a second time.

"It's true, Brett. The kid's nine years old."

"That's impossible…"

"Haa— good thing I brought this along, just in case."

Reaching inside his protective gear, Jonathan drew out a neatly folded sheet of paper and held it out to Roberts.

It was a document that began with the following words:

Beneath the heading, the document recorded that the boy currently standing on the mound was named Dwayne Moi Stone, and that he had been born on December 26, 2001, at Maui Memorial Medical Center.

"If this document isn't a fake, then he's nine years old, without a doubt."

"…"

"Yeah— I felt exactly the same way the first time I saw it."

Having received the single greatest shock of his year, Brett Roberts glared back and forth between the mound and the opposing dugout with trembling eyes. Thomas Bradley answered with an oily grin, and Roberts — a man whose temper flared at the slightest spark — took his pot shot like a champ, spun around in irritation, and stomped back toward the dugout.

Once he'd taken his seat, fuming, Roberts fixed the field with a scowl.

Nine years old? If that's true, then they're the ones mocking us — throwing a kid three or four years younger than ours up on the mound.

The boy's size had stunned him, yes — but if he really was nine, that meant a pitcher three or four years green was taking the hill. No matter how far ahead of the curve a kid's development might be, throwing serious velocity as a pitcher was impossible without years of training and arm strength to back it up.

And baseball, on top of that, was a brutally difficult sport.

No matter how talented you were.

"Play ball!!"

After the brief commotion, the umpire signaled the start of the game, and the boy on the mound — unremarkable enough during warm-up tosses — drew a long, deep breath and went into his windup.

A powerful leg kick.

And then—

THWACK!!

The instant the baseball that left the boy's fingertips smacked into the catcher's mitt, Brett Roberts was struck dumb, like a man who'd been fed a mouthful of honey and lost his tongue.

His eyes were now locked onto the scoreboard.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

81 miles per hour (roughly 130.4 km/h).

Dwayne Moi Stone, allegedly nine years old, had just casually thrown past the average fastball velocity of a fifteen-to-sixteen-year-old high schooler, as surveyed and published by the national baseball association.

The 43rd USATF Junior Olympic Track & Field Championships, held the previous year, had drawn the usual modest level of attention. The stands were mostly filled with the families of competing athletes, while a handful of officials from track and other sporting associations lingered on-site hoping to scout promising young talent.

Those officials had shown little interest in the preliminary rounds, and in the early days of the meet they contented themselves with checking results and networking among themselves.

But today's 44th USATF Junior Olympic Track & Field Championships, opening its very first day, was a different animal entirely.

And the boy responsible for it had just stepped onto the track.

One side of the grandstands erupted.

"Mo—i!!!"

"Tear it up out there!!!"

"Hey! This is track and field!!"

"So what! Mo—i!! Smoke 'em all!!"

Puu— puu— went the air horn.

It was a rather rowdy brand of cheering, but the boy took it in stride, beaming back at the crowd as he brought his clenched fist up to his chest and thumped it twice.

The boy's name was Dwayne Moi Stone.

Those who had seen Moi the previous year marveled at how much ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he'd grown in a single year, while those laying eyes on him for the first time couldn't hide their bewilderment.

"So he's… nine, supposedly?"

"No way. Look at the kid next to him. He's nearly twice his size."

"You think he faked his age?"

"Come on… no chance."

"But the difference is just absurd."

"Did they say he's from Hawaii?"

The average physical measurements for nine-year-old boys across America, as surveyed by the federal government, stood at 131.9 centimeters and 30.8 kilograms.

But the boy they were watching now looked easily over 170 centimeters, and his torso seemed larger than the two boys flanking him on the track combined.

Amid a murmur that refused to die down, Moi — entered in the 100-meter preliminary for the 9–10 boys' division — settled into his starting stance.

"Ready, Set."

BANG—!

With the crack of the electronic starter's pistol, the solo run of Lane 4 began.

A stride and speed from another dimension — and on top of that, ferocious acceleration. Surging ahead of the other boys, Dwayne Moi Stone crossed the finish line a good twenty meters in front of the field.

Soon, the time flashed onto the scoreboard.

12.93 seconds.

Had he not eased off at the end — glancing left and right, showboating — he would have shattered the record set in '91 without breaking a sweat.

But people could feel it.

The boy was saving something for the final.

There were plenty more surprises still to come.

"Holy…"

"Sir, over here — Mark."

"Get Brian on the phone. Now."

The arrival of a heavyweight.

Today, the American sports world shook.

USATF — the national governing body for track and field, cross country, and more — was regarded as the cradle of American athletics. It oversaw fifty-seven regional associations, each tasked with ensuring meets ran smoothly in their state and that promising young athletes received ample support.

Above all, talent identification was their lifeblood — which was exactly why they struggled so much. So many young athletes gravitated toward ball sports over track, and football in particular had long been USATF's single greatest headache, robbing them of talent beyond counting.

And today, USATF was watching a track prodigy they would gladly have paid a fortune to keep.

"Whoa— wow."

"This is insane."

"He's nine, you said?"

"Good Lord…"

"You're positive he's actually nine?"

Yesterday, the 44th USATF Junior Olympic Track & Field Championships had come to a close.

Ordinarily, the lion's share of attention would have gone to the 17–18 division, the level closest to the adults. Instead, a nine-year-old boy from Hawaii had stolen every ounce of it for the entire meet.

Dwayne Moi Stone.

Known simply as Moi.

The boy who had competed in the 100m and 200m the previous year and rewritten the 8-and-under records had, this year, set new marks in a staggering five events — including the 100m in the 9–10 division, a record that had stood unbroken for eighteen years.

Nothing like it had ever happened in the history of American track and field.

"Is the birth certificate solid?"

"Yes, sir. Protests poured in from the other parents, so we had no choice but to launch an on-site investigation. Everything checked out. We even have video from the day he was born."

"Nine years old…"

Danny Lewis, vice president of USATF, stared at the documents with an expression of pure disbelief.

It was common enough for a 100m runner to post a strong 200m time, but for a sprinter to also set the top mark in the 400m turned conventional wisdom on its head.

And then, to pile on, Dwayne Moi Stone had won the high jump and the long jump as well — events with entirely different training methods from sprinting.

By all accounts, the siblings originally slated to represent Hawaii had come down with food poisoning after eating something bad, and the Hawaii state coach had selected Dwayne Moi Stone as the replacement.

And that was how he'd entered — and set records.

With barely any proper training behind him, no less.

This was an enormous event for American track and field, and the response demanded nothing less than sprinting over with an armful of cash to convince the boy's parents on the spot.

USATF, in truth, had every intention of doing exactly that.

But a formidable obstacle stood in their way.

"According to the paperwork… he wants to play football?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"…"

Throughout the entire course of the meet, officials from every manner of sport had made contact with the boy and his parents. One after another, they offered to help him receive elite training on the mainland immediately — and one after another, they were flatly refused on the grounds that he thought of nothing but football.

The boy's parents were the same.

And so was the boy.

"Damn it. Football again."

"Nothing's decided yet."

"Right. There's still plenty of time."

Disappointed, yes — but USATF resolved to look on the bright side as much as they could.

The boy from Hawaii who had appeared like a comet was now setting the entire American sports industry on its ear.

"SURPRISE!!"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!"

Puu—!

Puu—!!

Pop!

Pop-pop!

Today was my tenth birthday.

Truth be told, I'd more or less seen the surprise party coming. Still, out of consideration for everyone who had put it together, I did my level best to look shocked — and then moved. And honestly, I was deeply grateful.

"Hey, Moi."

Yikes!

SPLAT!

At the sound of Jamie's voice from next door, I ducked down in a flash. The cake slammed squarely into Joseph's face behind me.

Giving the flustered Jamie a light pat on the shoulder, I informed him he was about to pay for what he'd done to Joseph.

"J-Joseph? Th-that is, you see—"

"You're DEAD!"

"WAAAH!!"

THUD!

Jamie went down under Joseph's tackle.

Truly, it was a flawless tackle. My teaching had paid off handsomely.

While Jamie received his punishment ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠(?) at Joseph's hands, I made my way to the front of the real cake and took my seat.

"You gotta make a wish."

"With or without the wish, I bet it'll come out the same."

"Even so. Moi?"

"Yeah. Made it."

"Great, then! Everybody — all together now!!"

At first, being celebrated like this had felt strange to me. I had no memory of it ever happening in my past life.

Of course, I'd had birthday celebrations before. After coming of age, from my coworkers at the office. And after I became a head coach, from my players.

But this was the first life in which family — people truly dear to me — had celebrated my birthday with all their hearts.

Which was why I had never once disliked these parties.

"Whoosh—!"

I blew out every candle in one breath, and the cheering started up around me all over again. As I smiled watching my beloved family, I sensed something creeping up behind me once more, and pretended to drop something on the floor, bending down beside my chair.

And then—

SPLAT!

Bingo.

Knew it.

Jamie, thoroughly beaten down by Joseph earlier, had no intention of giving up after a single failure — this time he'd snuck in with a cake slathered in whipped cream, aiming to smear it across my face.

But just like before, the cake flew past me and landed with pinpoint accuracy in Joseph's face.

"Jamie! You—!"

"Damn it! HOW!!"

How did I know, you ask? Has it only been a day or two? How many times can you run the exact same play with zero improvement?

While Jamie suffered Joseph's tackle yet again, I set about unwrapping the presents everyone had prepared, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one by one.

A T-shirt. Board wax. Earphones. Slippers.

None of them expensive, but every one of them prepared with care, just for me.

And then this one.

"Who's this one from?"

"Me. It's mine — I mean, from me."

"Oh! Thank you, Uncle Iwai!"

"Moi. You like it big time."

"Oh— now I'm excited?"

When I opened the square-wrapped box, an oval-shaped sphere with a vivid logo stamped on it came into view. On the left, I could also make out the words The Duke and Wilson.

This was the official game ball of the NFL.

"Moi. You will become quarterback."

"Wow. You know that pronunciation was seriously spot-on just now, right?"

"Quarterback."

"Haha. Thank you, Uncle Iwai."

"Me happy too."

Once the happy birthday party wound down, I helped clean up, gathered my presents, and headed up to my room on the second floor. Then I carefully set the gifts down on the floor.

Organizing can wait until tomorrow.

Before going to wash up, I made my unbroken ritual visit to the desk and looked over what I'd written there once more.

At present, I had completed step three of my plan.

If you wanted to become a great football player, getting into a competitive high school and college mattered enormously. But America was a vast country with a huge population, and unless you marketed yourself properly from a young age, it was all too common to lose a year or two of your career to that gap.

Waste that time at the wrong school, and reaching your goal becomes that much harder. That pragmatic reality was part of why I'd chosen track and field.

I refuse to waste a single second of my time.

My first life had been saturated with regret. I didn't want to live this one that way.

Now and then I get the feeling I've left something important out of the plan — but I figure it's like trying to recall a certain passage from a novel you've already finished reading. It sits at the edge of your mind and won't come.

Anyway.

Now for step four.

Studying.

And training.

Five years from now, that was the horizon.

I intended to sharpen myself every single day.