Recruiting Is Over
Aloha.
Every time I hear that word, warmth spreads through my chest on its own.
Alo — presence.
Ha — breath of life.
We Hawaiians put these two joined words to an astonishing variety of uses.
When we meet.
When we part.
When we're sorry.
When affection overflows.
When we want to express something true from the heart.
Always, we simply say, "Aloha."
Jingle—
Jingle—
"Aloha—"
#. December 23, 2018
#-1. Maui, Hawaii, United States
#-2. Paia, Maui CDP
#-3. Restaurant Aloha
I'd left Oahu and returned to Maui about three days earlier.
The fall semester had ended exactly the way I'd hoped — a 4.0 GPA — and the moment I walked in the door, that was the first thing I bragged about. Mom and Dad were over the moon. And apparently, a football player pulling a 4.0 was the first in the program's history. Since the team was founded, that is. In 1973, at Kahuku High School. That little fact gave my shoulders an extra swagger all on its own.
"Heard you got a 4.0 this semester?"
"And how exactly would you know that, Uncle?"
"Small town, isn't it?"
"Haha. Fair enough. Will it be the usual Kalua pork today?"
"No. Today I'd like to order the Huli Huli."
"Oh? You've got company coming, I see."
"My niece and nephew will be here soon."
"Then they deserve the works. I'll get everything ready."
Writing the order down on a slip of paper, I headed toward the kitchen.
"Uncle Kepano ordered the Huli Huli—!"
"Oh! So it's today, huh? The kids are coming."
"Yep! That's what he said. This is table two, right?"
"That's right. Thanks."
There weren't many people working at the restaurant today, so I'd come to help out. Not because it was Christmas week and I was off — because it was Christmas week and we were slammed.
Uncles and aunts. Nieces and nephews. The staff who worked here. Almost all of them were gathered at our house right now.
And what were they doing there? The same thing we did every year. Our family had always spent Christmas week cooking up mountains of food and handing it out to the neighbors — mostly to families going through hard times. It was practically a Stone family tradition, and my grandmother over in Aina Haina did exactly the same, with the whole neighborhood chipping in alongside her.
"Here you go — one poke."
"Thanks, Moi."
"My pleasure. Anything else you need?"
"Oh. Just bring me one more beer, will you?"
"Of course."
Proof that recruiting was all but over? It was the sight of this dining room.
The recruiters who had once packed this place to bursting — I couldn't find a single one now, even if I scrubbed my eyes looking. A brutally honest business, this world of ours. That's exactly why it's business: a cold-blooded industry wearing the mask of amateurism.
Just a few days ago, one of the big Las Vegas sportsbooks had put my college destination up as an actual betting market. Five candidates on the board. They'd narrowed the field down admirably well.
"So? Where are you going?"
"You're not seriously thinking of placing money on it?"
"Not a lot. Maybe two hundred bucks or so."
"Please don't. You know that if you win, I get in legal trouble too, right?"
"Do I?"
"Yup. So I can't tell you a thing."
"Aw, come on! Not even a hint?!"
"Not a chance!"
Setting the beer down on the table, I made a slow circuit of the dining hall.
Recently, Ole Miss and Mississippi State had dropped off my list. Both fine schools, both fine towns — but the appeal of their football programs had fallen off a cliff.
Ole Miss first: head coach Matt Luke had done absolutely nothing to earn my trust, and even though the offensive line had been their glaring problem this year, he showed no real sense of urgency about fixing it. He acted like a man obsessed with offense, but for all that, his schemes were shockingly one-dimensional. A team whose whole plan was to pound the run until the wheels fell off. I couldn't help wondering what exactly they thought they were doing. The moment that thought crossed my mind, my interest in Ole Miss evaporated.
Then the other Bulldogs — Mississippi State. Their head coach didn't inspire much confidence either.
The result: five schools left on my list.
Georgia. Alabama. LSU. Florida. Texas A&M.
Ohio State was still clinging on, of course. Urban Meyer never seemed to tire, sending letters and messages one after another. Call it persistence. Call it obsession. Either way, I had zero intention of going to OSU.
By the time I circled back to the kitchen, the food was coming up hot. I gathered the plates and carried them to Uncle Kepano's table.
"Here you go — Huli Huli and macaroni."
"Whoa."
"Hm?"
At some point, the niece and nephew Uncle Kepano had mentioned had already taken their seats at his table. A boy and a girl, both looking about my age. The boy looked up at me in open astonishment.
"No way. He's actually waiting tables?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh — sorry, my bad. It's just... it's kind of amazing, seeing you serve food."
"Well, it is my mom's restaurant."
"Ah... right."
"Anything else you need?"
Glancing back and forth between Uncle Kepano's guests, I slipped around behind the bar and set a box on the counter — packed full of lemons. It was time to start prepping them.
Chop.
Chop.
I'd been cutting away for a while when one side of my face started to sting. The girl — Uncle Kepano's niece, whose name I didn't even know — was drilling laser beams into the side of my head. Apparently unable to bear it any longer, she finally got up from her seat and came over.
Please tell me. You're kidding, right?
"Heeey."
"Hey. Something you need?"
"Not exactly... It's just, I'll be staying here for a while. If you're not busy sometime... could you maybe show me around town?"
Hmm. A textbook bit of flirting. Not a bad attempt, honestly.
But.
"Sorry. I'm headed to the mainland soon."
"Oh. Right, sure. Got it."
Sorry about that. But I really am rather busy.
Tomorrow I had to drive all over the island with the family, delivering food we'd made to a string of facilities. For Christmas itself, my maternal grandmother was coming, so we were spending it as a family. On the 26th I'd cross back over to Oahu, spend time with my grandparents there, and from the 27th on I had plans to just hang out with my friends — chartering a boat out of Honolulu for a day of fishing. After that we'd come back to Grandma's place and camp out in the yard. Roast marshmallows. Make s'mores. If we caught any fish, we'd grill those too, and there'd be plenty of meat ready to go.
A good number of girls were coming as well, but they were all old friends, so it was fine. Every one of them was kind and solid.
And when all of that was done, I would finally head to the mainland.
Destination: Florida.
Chop.
Chop.
Ow!
Lemon juice, straight into my eye. Setting the knife down on the cutting board, I hurried to the sink.
Shhhhh—
Augh. It burns.
Christmas week, and I was enjoying the peaceful everyday life.
#. December 30, 2018
#-1. Gainesville, Florida, United States
#-2. University of Florida Campus
#-3. Ben Hill Griffin Stadium
When you talk about the University of Florida's football team, there is one name you can never leave out.
Steve Spurrier.
One of only four men enshrined in the Hall of Fame both as a player and as a coach, he led Florida from 1990 to 2001 — and racked up staggering numbers along the way. Six SEC championships. One national title. He built the program's golden age. After crafting eleven years worthy of a permanent place in Florida football history, he left for a new challenge in the NFL.
How did that go? I'll say the obvious: it was an unmitigated disaster.
It's hard for a successful college coach to become a good NFL coach. The NCAA and the NFL are entirely different worlds. The talent level is one thing, but the schemes that actually work are different animals altogether.
Anyway — the real reason Spurrier matters so much to UF is that he coined a certain phrase.
The Swamp.
In 1992, after Florida went a perfect 8-0 at home, an interviewer asked Spurrier the secret of that dominance, and this was his answer:
"This is a swamp. And swamps are where alligators live. We're comfortable here — but to everyone else, it's terrifying."
The answer set the entire state of Florida ablaze, and afterward the university's sports marketing department went so far as to adopt "The Swamp" as the stadium's official nickname and build an entire tagline around it.
Only Gators get out alive.
Isn't that just magnificent? When two predators fight in the swamp, the one that walks out alive — every single time — is the alligator. It sounded like something a fighter would say after surviving a bare-knuckle war inside a hexagonal cage where lives were on the line.
That's it. That's exactly why Florida pulls at me. This place has romance to spare.
"Honestly, I'm not big on orange in general."
"?"
"But the Gators' orange? It works."
"Haha. It does, doesn't it?"
"It really does. Paired with the blue, it's just *chef's kiss*."
Entirely a matter of personal taste, but I've never liked wearing orange. And yet Florida's orange strikes me as genuinely beautiful — because of how well it harmonizes with the blue.
"Shall we move on? Next up, I'll show you the equipment room."
"Looking forward to it."
Following my guide indoors, my eyes landed on gleaming trophies, still warm from yesterday. UF had just beaten Michigan 41-15 to win the Peach Bowl. They hadn't been given a shot at the national championship, but the bowl victory had nudged their final ranking upward — seventh or eighth, probably. For this team, that counted as a real success. Head coach Dan Mullen had taken a program that Jim McElwain had left in utter shambles and steadied it in a single year.
And the man who made that possible was right in front of me.
Dan Mullen.
"Finally, I get to meet the famous man himself. Dwayne Moi Stone."
"Dwayne Moi Stone, in the flesh."
"Haha. Been waiting on you. Have a seat."
Today I'd come to UF with my grandparents and Aunt Mel. A moment ago we'd split up, and my family were currently being roasted and skewered over a slow fire — Aunt Mel had been keeping me updated by text. As it happened, the campus had a bonsai that was exactly Grandfather's taste, and of course it happened to be a rare, hard-to-find specimen. There was also a tea set Grandmother had been eyeing covetously. UF was framing all of it as "a happy coincidence" and offering to hand everything over as gifts on the drive home.
All of it, surely, the handiwork of Josh Lewis. Two full years of reconnaissance, done with terrifying thoroughness.
But could we actually accept such gifts? Of course not. When Aunt Mel politely turned UF's gift offer down with well-chosen words, my guide grew flustered and started doing his level best to shove the things on us anyway.
Well, this side of things looks pretty entertaining too.
"So? What did you think of The Swamp?"
"What's there to say. It was incredible."
"Yes?"
"So then — are you ready to become a Gator?"
"I wouldn't say that. Not sure yet."
"...Is this about Georgia?"
By this point, legitimate suspicion was creeping in. I'd bet anything Kirby Smart had let something slip. The odds were high, honestly. Nothing else could explain a reaction this strong. Honestly, that man is like a cunning old raccoon.
"Georgia is one of the schools I'm considering. So is this place."
"So we're a finalist?"
"Yep."
This was my first meeting with UF, and they weren't about to push too hard without cause. True to form, Dan Mullen didn't — and switched topics immediately instead.
"Shall we talk X's and O's?"
"Love to."
All year I'd heard marvelous things about the Florida Gators. Last season had been so wretched that anything looked good by comparison, but even so, the results had blown past every expectation. Florida had started the season outside the AP Top 25, and most of the media pegged them at 8-5 at best. And the pessimism was entirely justified: a sophomore quarterback, a tight end room that barely existed, an offensive line in shambles.
Yet Mullen had converted every one of those anxieties into positive output, and his creative option plays had proven inspiring enough to ripple all the way up to NFL teams. The way he deployed his wide receivers in endlessly varied roles was something you almost never saw at the college level.
It was attractive. The schemes themselves, genuinely attractive.
"You do love your decoys."
"How could you tell?"
"Oh, it's obvious the moment you watch the film."
"Impressive. You're right — I'm fond of my decoys."
Dan Mullen had shown himself to be a clever coach. But he also seemed a touch stubborn — the common trait of a man who succeeded on his own terms. I was one, in my past life.
There was just one difference.
"Do you have a Plan B? Or C?"
"Don't need one."
Did he assume the league would simply take time to catch up before it could break down his system? His confidence didn't just overflow — it was gushing. And that was the problem: UF's option-play schemes hadn't just inspired NCAA D1 programs. They'd inspired NFL teams too. And that is a neighborhood where film analysis is no joke.
A flood of breakdowns was inevitable, and D1 staffs would borrow from them freely. If I enrolled in 2020 and Mullen was still running the same look, refusing to budge, we'd be picked apart and toyed with. Was he the kind of man unafraid to evolve? I'd only met him today, so I couldn't say. Worth finding out, though. Tactically, he looked like the most flexible coach in the country alongside Kirby Smart — a man I could actually learn from at the college level, and—
"You know, looking at you, I think of Tim Tebow."
"...Excuse me?"
"Have you seen the statue on the west side? I can see the future, son. Your statue going up right there, next to Tim Tebow's."
"..."
Fuck!
And here I thought Urban Meyer was the only one obsessed with Tim Tebow. Turns out it's the entire University of Florida? Were they seriously picturing me as "the second coming of Tim Tebow"? That half-wit couldn't even line up under center!
Ugh. Dammit. That settles it.
"Florida is out."
"Huh? Why?"
Spending my entire freshman season force-fed that same dogshit nonsense about being Tebow 2.0? I would rather die. There in the coach's office, I made my decision: I would not play for Florida.
But.
"So, how was it?"
"It was great."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Although."
"?"
"Georgia still edges it out. Just a little."
"..."
Josh Lewis. I'm going to wring every last drop of use out of him — right up until the day I land a proper blow on that garbage organization called the NCAA.
"Jerry! Where are you going?! Jerry!"
"Hold on! Let's talk in a bit!"
Josh Lewis suddenly bolted for the house. Without a doubt, he was off to phone UF. The university president, most likely — only a big fish at that level would've been worth planting on a two-year deep-cover assignment.
All right, then.
Now.
Just how will you play your card?
#. January 5, 2019
#-1. Maui, Hawaii, United States
#-2. Paia, Maui CDP
#-3. Kaula Hao Beach
Early Saturday morning, before the first light bled over the horizon, I was walking the beach near our house.
Shhhhh—
Kweep— kweep, kweep—
Ever since returning to Hawaii from Gainesville, a single thought had been running on a loop in my head.
If only Dan Mullen of the University of Florida had been at Notre Dame instead. Then the choice would have been so much simpler. There'd have been none of that "second coming of Tim Tebow" garbage either. Of course, it would've been lovely if Kirby Smart had been Notre Dame's head coach too — though he's a man who never quite seemed to fit the Irish.
Shhh-shhk.
Shhhhh—
Walking on along the shoreline, I kept thinking.
Ah, right. Tomorrow is the U.S. Army All-American Bowl. The invitation had come this year as well, as a matter of course — and I'd declined. Fresh off last year's MVP, another showing would earn me nothing I didn't already have, and while testing myself against the nation's best seniors sounded fun, there were more important things right now.
Shhh-shhk!
Kweep—
Next Monday, the Northern District Court of California — originally scheduled to rule in March — was moving its decision up by roughly two months, set to hand down judgment on the O'Bannon v. NCAA case previously heard by the Ninth Circuit. And piecing together the steady drumbeat of reports coming out these past weeks, I'd reached a prediction: the University of Florida was going to pull the trigger.
To be precise — Josh Lewis was.
In roughly two weeks, Todd Archer, armed with intelligence fed to him by a fictional character named Brett Boscoe, would make his way to Aina Haina. After cross-referencing it against the dossier of information currently being compiled on Josh Lewis in Gainesville, he planned to march right across the street from my grandmother's house and start asking hard questions about a great many things.
And naturally, Josh Lewis would dodge. Once his business in Aina Haina was done, Todd Archer would head straight back to Gainesville.
And then — a very great storm was going to break.
The O'Bannon v. NCAA ruling would come down against the NCAA; the whole world was already saying so, in every sport, at every level. It happens every year, after all. Every year, the biggest blue-chip prospects quietly receive offers no one is supposed to see. That's why I wanted the so-called "internships" dangled by the sports mega-giants like Nike and Adidas to be dragged into the light too — dealings that happen far more in basketball than football, where companies offer high school prospects "internship" stipends of roughly half a million dollars per semester.
The one condition? Sign with them when you turn pro. Nothing else. Nothing at all.
Because the NCAA refuses to recognize students' rights, absurdities that defy every ounce of common sense keep happening — and I wanted the world to grasp that, seriously and deeply. Maybe nothing would change. But this was something I'd wanted to do from the very beginning. The recent Operation Varsity Blues scandal and the O'Bannon v. NCAA lawsuit had both been outside my expectations, but even those I bent to my purpose with everything I had.
"..."
At the far edge of the beach, the sun crested the horizon. Hawaii's morning had officially begun.
"Aloha—"
"Aloha."
After exchanging greetings with some diligent soul out jogging before dawn, I turned back toward home.
Three finalists remained.
Georgia. Alabama. LSU.
From here on, these three schools alone would be part of the conversation about my future.
Recruiting is over.
All that's left now, and nothing else — is my choice.