Who On Earth Are You?

Something is off.

I hadn't paid much attention until recently, but now that I thought about it, it was undeniably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strange. What does this man actually do for a living? He claims to be a writer. My maternal grandmother has never once heard of him.

Sure, the world has more writers than I could count, so it wasn't as if she'd know them all — but Grandma has connections in the publishing industry that run deep and wide. Even if he worked under a pen name or an alias, I'd sent her a photograph. There was no way she wouldn't recognize him, she told me. She would have asked around, at the very least.

And then there was his spending. He didn't live extravagantly, but money bleeds out of a house even when you're only breathing. Two full years now of doing, as far as I could tell, absolutely nothing — so where did all that food he kept buying come from? I'd started watching him with real interest lately. At least a few hundred dollars a week, every week, minimum.

It didn't add up. It simply didn't add up.

Who on earth are you?

The person I'm talking about is the man who lives across the street from my grandmother's house. Jerry Floyd.

"Hey!"

Jerry Floyd waved cheerfully as he hauled his groceries out of the trunk, and I raised a hand in reply while glancing at the T-shirt he was wearing. Gators. University of Florida football gear, of course.

"Ah— damn it."

As he crossed the street with his bags still sitting abandoned on the ground, I muttered under my breath and pulled myself up from the hammock.

Lately, this man had been trying constantly to rope me into a trip to Florida.

"So? Thought it over?"

"Thought it over, and nothing's changed."

"Come on. I'm telling you, it'll be a blast."

He wasn't proposing the two of us take a vacation together, obviously. He said he'd arrange everything around my schedule. My plan was to visit the University of Florida sometime soon, and his pitch was that once Saturday's obligations were done, instead of flying straight back to Hawaii I should stick around and have some fun with him in the area.

It wasn't a bad offer. I just wasn't tempted.

"I've got a ton of friends around the University of Florida."

"Yes. You've mentioned that."

"And every one of them is a fan of yours. They've been waiting on pins and needles for you to come to the Gators. If you tag along, your heart will change too — guaranteed. Incredible food, and pretty girls stacked up like cordwood."

"By the way."

"Hm?"

"Shouldn't you go take care of your bags?"

Jerry Floyd's eyes went wide, and he whipped his head around. Then he took off running with a yell.

Yeah — you really shouldn't leave them sitting there like that. There are a lot of cats in this neighborhood.

Having chased off the strays, Jerry Floyd snatched up his bag, turned back to shout one last think about it!, and disappeared into his house.

Hmm. A Florida alum, is he.

I stared across the street for a long moment, then lay back down in the hammock. The complicated stuff could wait. Ahh — this was the life. Nothing in this world made me feel better than a wide blue sky.

And while I was on the subject — I wouldn't be heading back to the mainland for a while. Playoff preparation. Yesterday's game against Kapolei had closed out the OIA Division regular season, and at 9–0 we were set to face Campbell in the postseason. Two playoff wins and we'd advance to the HHSAA tournament — think of it as the open tournament that ran through last year. The championship game was scheduled to wrap up on November 24th, and from December onward I'd be back on the mainland.

Until then, people would keep coming to us.

Today was no different. We had a visitor.

"Haha. You look like a man living the good life."

"I took some hard hits yesterday. Care to see?"

"?"

To Jimbo Fisher, the head coach of Texas A&M, who was stepping out of his taxi, I showed off the bruise I'd earned the day before.

It had come in the first quarter, when the left side of our O-line broke down and I took a blind-side shot flush. I'm being completely serious when I say I thought I was going to die. The Kapolei defender stood 6'5" and weighed 290 pounds, and the hit came from a blind angle into my ribs — the pain literally stopped my breath. My entire left side was purple now. My thigh hadn't escaped either.

"That looks serious."

"That's why I already went to the hospital this morning."

"What did they say?"

Every single time I visited a hospital, the thing I heard most often was: thank your parents. Something about a naturally durable body. I can guarantee, though — it's 100% my grandfather's and father's doing. At sixteen, Grandpa got hit by a pickup truck doing thirty miles an hour and walked away with nothing but bruises. Dad wrecked a full-sized motorcycle and cracked a few bones, and that was all.

"Could you help me up, please?"

"There you go."

I took Jimbo Fisher's hand, got to my feet, and we walked into the house together. This was already his third visit. The man was nothing if not persistent. And a genuinely good person, too.

"This is what I mentioned last time."

"Oh— my goodness. You really didn't have to do this."

"You've got a granddaughter so pretty it'd hurt your eyes just to look at her. Moi here grew up beautifully, and I'm sure she will too."

What Coach Jimbo Fisher had brought were gifts for Kala. He was a tremendous lover of children — and I suspected that had everything to do with his son. Ethan. His youngest had been born with Fanconi anemia, a childhood illness, and ever since, Jimbo Fisher had paid special attention to children born with congenital conditions. Kala, for the record, was extremely healthy.

"So? How have things been?"

"Same as always, I suppose."

Grandma brought out the tea, and I spent the afternoon telling Coach Fisher about my last month — leaving out everything that was common knowledge, and being honest about the rest. Which meant:

"You must have liked Georgia, then."

"Yeah— it was a wonderful place."

"Haha. I'd have felt the same. Kirby Smart is one hell of a coach."

The fact that Jimbo Fisher showed no panic, even after hearing me say I was seriously drawn to Georgia, probably came down to one thing: Texas A&M was holding the single biggest recruiting carrot on the table.

Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Princeton, MIT. Set aside those untouchable Top 5, and A&M stood among the wealthiest universities in America. Its endowment was, in a word, very Texan — $9.4 billion last year, and reportedly on track to cross $10 billion this year. You could argue a school that pulls in that much money annually has no particular need to sweat over donations, but the truth was exactly the opposite. Because they were rich, they were that much hungrier for football. It was the only unfinished business they had left. A&M had never once been the best team in the nation. So they wanted me all the more desperately.

Factoring in my experience from my past life and the prices of this one, I figured a single recruiting decision would move at least three billion dollars. In other words — to them, I looked like a walking bundle of cash. Maybe not to the head coach himself, but to the rest of the people at A&M? Without a doubt.

"I mentioned this before, I believe."

"?"

"There's a tight end in your area. Baylor Cupp."

Of course I knew. The single best tight end in this year's graduating class — and the guy every school courting me had loudly vowed to lock up. Lately people had been name-dropping other players instead, and I suspected this was the reason.

A&M had won that recruiting battle.

"Baylor's decided to come to our A&M."

"Did he give a verbal commitment?"

"He did. He'll flip the cap officially at the U.S. Army All-American Bowl in January."

A commitment could still be flipped, technically. But if the man was talking this openly, it had to be a done deal.

"Baylor will make a fine partner for you."

"That's great. Good news for A&M."

"Not good news for us?"

"I'll come see you once more in December."

"Haha. You are not an easy man, are you."

I wasn't in the habit of scoring people, but if I were: Jimbo Fisher, sixty points as a coach and about ninety as a human being. I was sure we'd maintain a good relationship if we ever worked together. The problem was that A&M's overall roster left me decidedly unimpressed. The quality of their receivers was genuinely poor. In other words, picture a team that would grind out games on the ground — and I found myself wondering whether Baylor Cupp could actually thrive under this man's system. A tight end demands far more intricate passing designs than a wide receiver ever does. Could he pull that off? Naturally, a great deal would change depending on how I played as the quarterback — but fundamentally, I'd still be boxed inside whatever framework the head coach drew up.

And yet if I did end up choosing A&M, it would be for purely practical reasons.

Money. And one more thing.

"Well then. I'll look forward to December."

"Travel safe, sir."

Jimbo Fisher stayed two hours, talked almost not at all about football, and left the way a neighbor would. Grandma walked him all the way out.

"I like that man."

"He's a good one."

If I ended up choosing a college other than A&M, and there was anyone on this earth I'd want to call up and apologize to — it would be Jimbo Fisher. No question.

"Let's go inside, Grandma."

"Yes."

Now that certain schools had learned they'd been turned down, my days were gradually growing less hectic. The Hawaiian routine had closed the distance again, and for the time being, I was enjoying it. Because soon enough, I'd miss every bit of it.

The highest-rated player on our Kahuku squad this year was Enock Vimahi, who had finally dragged his evaluation up into the late 4-Star range. The discipline captain who'd put the freshmen through the wringer on my first day at Kahuku — though back then, that had all been because of the Huamatus.

"So where have you been visiting?"

"Cal, Ole Miss, Notre Dame, Oklahoma."

"Hooee— that's some list."

"Haha. Only aiming as high as you, brah."

"So? How was Notre Dame?"

"Ohhh. You going there too?"

"Yup."

Vimahi was the state of Hawaii's biggest fish this year. His listed position was offensive guard. But the D1 programs were approaching him as a linebacker. The reason: his relatively light weight.

"How much are you at now?"

"Body weight?"

"Yeah."

"260 pounds."

260 pounds — 118 kilograms. Yeah, that was definitely light. Especially for a man standing 194 centimeters tall, and doubly so for an offensive guard. That position demanded at least 290 pounds — 131 kilos — to survive. At the high school level, and in Hawaii especially, raw natural strength could simply bulldoze people. In college, the situation flips one hundred eighty degrees. So instead of a lineman, the schools seemed to want to move him to the defensive backfield and make use of his strength and speed at the same time. If I were a college coach, I'd have done the same. And he was a 4-Star — if the experiment failed, the roster took no damage. They could just recruit somebody else the following year.

But if there was one problem, it was this: stories like his almost always ended badly. A level of competition several rungs higher. A brand-new position to learn from scratch. Looking at the environment and the challenges that would be waiting for Enock — he'd need to work tens of times harder than everyone around him.

So? Then just work that hard.

Easier said than done. He'd need extra individual training stacked on top of team practices, and once he got to college, the academics would be a different beast entirely. And look at the schools he'd visited, for crying out loud. Oklahoma, fine, maybe — but Cal, Ole Miss, Notre Dame? Those places were academically brutal. Sure, the schools would assign tutors. His body would still run out of fuel.

"Is nobody looking at you as a lineman, then?"

"Only the lower-tier programs. I'm not into that."

"Geez. That's a rough spot to be in."

"Tell me about it."

Being a quarterback was definitely easier in this one respect — fewer worries about position changes. Though I'll admit, the position came with far less mercy too. Every other position could stumble and still carve out some niche of opportunity somewhere on the field. A quarterback who couldn't play went straight to the bench, and after the bench came the cutting board.

"Let's go again. I'll spot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you."

"Yep."

I got back under Vimahi's bench press as his spotter. Today wasn't a Muscle Men session — I was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just helping with his personal training. Vimahi wanted to make better tackles, so he was pushing to raise his bench and squat numbers. Which was why I'd taken to standing beside him for every set. Who else was going to do it? Right?

"One more!!"

"Hnnngh!!"

"UP!! UP!! You've got it!!"

"Ugheeeek!!"

Once Vimahi's personal training was fully wrapped, we headed to a restaurant nearby together. Six burger combos. A pile of chicken. Plus drinks on top of that.

"Moi. Where are you going?"

"Hard to say. I've got plenty of time."

"You're still deciding before May of next year, though, right?"

"Yup."

I wanted my college locked in before the fall semester of my senior year began. It helped the school's recruiting strategy, and frankly it made my own life easier in a dozen ways. For one thing — I could get my hands on the playbook early. For another, I could plan the rotation. Once my commitment was official, I intended to play a lighter snap count during my senior season. Whether the next man up would become a Tiger or some other quarterback I couldn't say, but I wanted to do my part for Kahuku's future before I graduated. Coach already knew, and he'd agreed to it. That was a problem for later, though. For now —

"First we take down Campbell."

"Obviously."

I'd understood the broad shape of it from the very beginning: kids who left Hawaii for the mainland were going to have to claw through every kind of hardship. Of the 2015 class that had graduated the year I arrived as a freshman, and of the 2016 class two years back, roughly 80 percent had been cut from their college football teams. In the process, some lost their scholarships outright, and others transferred down to NAIA or NJCAA schools. Every one of them had left the island dreaming of success — and in barely a year, they'd crashed into reality. And a crashed reality is very cold, and very hungry.

That was exactly why I wanted to root for Vimahi. I hoped he'd go out there and make it — even if it meant meeting him as an enemy on the field someday. The reason this time together felt so precious was that I knew it would come only once.

"Hey, V."

"Yeah?"

"What if we went to Notre Dame together and played side by side?"

"Haha. Wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

Vimahi knew I was joking. We were close, sure — but we weren't that close.

Having emptied our plates, we started arranging complimentary fries into football formations and talked through how we'd attack Campbell the coming weekend. And then, a few days later —

"You Like That?!!"

Vimahi, having gloriously bulldozed the opposing D-line off the ball, had just paved the way for my three-yard touchdown. Then he turned to me and roared: "You Like That?!!"

A line made famous nationwide thanks to an NFL quarterback named Kirk Cousins — and Vimahi kept shouting it as he charged over and shoved my chest, flexing like he owned the world. So I answered in kind:

"YEAH!! I LIKE THAT!!"

Even if a first impression had been bad — even if there had been no feeling at all — meeting someone as a stranger, coming to know them, becoming friends or even family, and playing football together: that was an experience no treasure on earth could buy. For teammates who'd sweated alongside me, I was giving everything I had today, too.

"Green— 80!! Turbo, hut!!"

Even if, somewhere in that process —

WHAM!

"Ugh!!"

— I had to endure pain beyond imagining. That, right there, was exactly why I loved football.

Is that strange?

The Gators, fresh off a victory over their in-state rivals the day before, had closed out the 2018 season at 9–3. But there would be no National Championship. Three losses saw to that. A Top 25 finish in the national rankings was all but guaranteed — a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Top 4 playoff berth was impossible. A failed season. That was why everyone was saying it.

"If we'd had a real quarterback."

"…."

"…."

"At least two fewer losses. Two, minimum. And with that, a playoff berth would've been on the table. I'm not joking. I believe that with everything I have."

Looking around at the coaching staff seated before him, Florida's head coach spoke. Dan Mullen. Through last year, he'd spent eight seasons at Mississippi State, hauling MSU up into the Top 20. But Dan Mullen had always been staring at something higher, and this year he'd moved his career to the Florida Gators. A six-year, $36.6 million contract. The right to build his own staff, guaranteed. And he'd hoisted the Gators' recruiting ranking six spots, from 19th the previous year to 13th.

"We need Moi."

"He went over four thousand yards again."

"Can you believe it? I know it's Hawaii, but even Tua never did that. Back-to-back seasons over 4,000 yards, and 11,000 career passing yards in just three seasons. Every single one of those is a first in high school football history—"

"Hooee—"

"Trevor Lawrence is a hell of a player, but Moi sits above him. We have to land that kid. Whatever it takes."

When he'd first signed with the Gators, Dan Mullen had made Moi's recruitment his central demand. The university's answer had been: don't worry about it. They claimed to have a plan prepared long ago. But the news trickling in had left Dan Mullen uneasy. Some of the recent headlines, especially.

"What's the president saying?"

"He's coming here himself next month."

"Oh?"

"He intends to make his move then. But first things first — we win the Peach Bowl. Bring home a trophy or two, and we'll have a hell of a lot more to say to that young man, don't you think?"

Dan Mullen had never once met Moi face to face. Every encounter so far had been handled by the senior recruiters. It was his first year at the helm, and with an entire program to rebuild, he'd kept himself somewhat apart from the 2020 class recruiting cycle. Which was precisely why this upcoming meeting meant so much to him.

"I want him. I want him so badly I can taste it. Truly. Desperately."

Success at Florida. Dan Mullen meant to stake it all on Moi.