The Best American Sports Writing 2013 (23 page)

Stories of native people's violent resistance are especially threatening to foreigners with a financial interest in controlling local land and earning profit from recreational events such as surfing competitions. The Hui were not docile; they'd been overlooked, and their fury felt justified. This anger threatened powerful locals, who labeled the Hui thugs, terrorists, enforcers, and criminals.

 

IV. Star of Gladness

 

When Eddie finally won the Duke, in 1977, it was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. Duke was Eddie's hero. For both men, surfing was an expression of cultural identity, as well as a way to earn respect in Hawaii. “He was not trying to risk his life or defy death,” Eddie's wife, Linda, told Stuart Coleman. Winning the Duke, she said, was “a way for him to feel worthy. He wanted to achieve something for the Hawaiian people.”

There are clear similarities between Eddie and Duke, but while Duke branched out from surfing to act in Hollywood movies such as
Hula, The Pony Express
, and
Old Ironsides
, playing roles like “Indian Chief,” “Hawaiian Boy,” and “Pirate Captain,” and later became the sheriff of Honolulu, Eddie's life outside surfing took a more anticolonial turn. As part of a thriving Hawaiian renaissance movement during the 1970s, Hawaiians protested militarization and war, celebrated indigenous art and traditions like hula, and demonstrated a surge of pride in their cultural identity. Eddie embraced it. In 1977, one of the most visible symbols of this cultural and political moment was
Hōkūle
‘
a
(“Star of Gladness” in Hawaiian). A 62-foot, eight-ton, double-hulled canoe built in the manner of ancient Polynesian vessels,
Hōkūle
‘
a
was the brainchild of Ben Finney, a
haole
anthropologist at the University of Hawaii; Herb Kane, a Hawaiian artist; and Tommy Holmes, a local beach boy. Anthropologists had claimed for decades that ancient voyagers from Polynesia—over 1,000 islands of genetically and culturally related people scattered across the south and central Pacific—arrived in Hawaii after their boats accidentally drifted there. This theory relied on the racist belief that ancient Polynesians weren't sophisticated enough to have made these voyages intentionally. The three men formed the Polynesian Voyaging Society in 1973 and began constructing a vessel that would prove that Polynesians, likely from Tahiti and the Marquesas, had intentionally navigated boats across 2,500 miles of ocean over 1,500 years ago.

The inaugural voyage to Tahiti, in 1976, was marred by power struggles, temper tantrums, and racial tensions. Despite these conflicts,
Hōkūle
‘
a
became a rallying point for thousands of Hawaiians. Eddie wanted in. Because of his status as a waterman and lifeguard, he was selected to be part of the crew for the boat's second voyage to Tahiti, in 1978.

Captain Dave Lyman and navigator Nainoa Thompson had second thoughts about leaving when the forecast promised 35-mile-an-hour winds and eight- to 10-foot swells in the channel. But 10,000 well-wishers had gathered to celebrate the launch, and at sundown on March 16, 1978,
Hōkūle
‘
a
left Magic Island and headed through the Kealaikahiki Channel toward Tahiti.

That night
Hōkūle
‘
a
rode 15-foot swells. The boat began listing from water leakage, and eventually stopped dead in the water. The panicked crew huddled to one side of the craft in an effort to balance out the lilt of the boat with their weight. Around midnight, a rogue wave capsized the canoe, tossing the crew into the water and destroying their radio. The crew clung to the boat. Waiting to be spotted by a plane, they drifted farther from the flight patterns between the islands. Huge swells hammered the vessel. Less-seaworthy members of the crew were seasick and exhausted from exposure. Eddie eventually asked if he could paddle his surfboard nearly 20 miles to the island of Lāna‘i for help. Captain Lyman refused until, seeing no other option for rescue, he gave Eddie permission to go.

Nainoa Thompson remembers Eddie putting on a lifejacket, “and then he paddled off. And I swam out to him. I was so conflicted with this idea. We're tired, we're somewhat in shock, we're in denial. Emotionally, it was an extremely draining situation. But he was like a miracle man—he could do anything. So if he says he could go to Lāna‘i, he's gonna go.”

Tours and guidebooks tend to present admirable historical figures as statues—static, immobile, their good deeds and bravery things of the past. Visitors sit on the bus, or the beach, admiring these surfers, but they often miss the real message—the messy, sometimes depressing story of conflict that defines the place they've gone for an exotic escape. Tourists don't need to adopt local customs to honor the history of their destination. But they do need to make an effort to learn about them.

Today, Eddie Aikau's legacy is commemorated in the Quiksilver in Memory of Eddie Aikau, the surfing contest I first learned about when I was working as a tour-guide writer. The competition takes place on Waimea Bay on a day when waves are consistently over 20 feet tall. When the Eddie is on, thousands head to the North Shore to watch surfers climb and descend these rushing walls of water. At the first Eddie competition, in 1985, the surf was especially forbidding. Surfer Mark Foo insisted on paddling out, telling contest organizers, “Eddie would go.” Nearly 30 years later, this tribute to Eddie's fearlessness is emblazoned on T-shirts and bumper stickers across the island, universalizing Foo's sentiment:
IF EDDIE WOULD GO, THEN SO WILL I
. A visitor to the North Shore can find Eddie's legacy in the protest banners on lawns that decry “illegal statehood,” and the sunburned foreigners wearing T-shirts with his name on them. Tourists eat it up, and locals wear the shirts and tell the story with pride. Everyone seems to love Eddie. But not everyone loves him for the same reason.

JONATHAN SEGURA

FROM GQ

 

M
Y WIFE GOT ME
the best Valentine's Day gift ever last year. Surprise trip to London with a surprise-within-a-surprise double bonus of tickets to the Manchester United–Manchester City match. Bear with me here—this isn't about soccer, really, but you do need some grounding: I am a Manchester United supporter, and this was one of the premier matches of last season. You may remember it as the one where Wayne Rooney scored that amazing goal. A goal so incredible, so fantastic, so unreasonably and gloriously perfect, that it got covered here, in America, where nobody gives a fuck about the sport.

Three years ago, I couldn't have explained offsides or told you who that twat from Argentina was, or why. And yet. And yet shouting myself hoarse at that match is one of the very few highlights of my short life. Without question. My hit list goes something like: getting married to the woman who would later score tickets to the February 2011 Manchester derby, and then going to the February 2011 Manchester derby. That's all I got. Naturally the triumph is not without tragedy: my cruddy little heart broke in the East Stand before kickoff as “Glory, Glory Man United” played over the loudspeakers and I dumped an ounce or so of cremated human remains under my seat. Not quite an hour and a half later, it felt wrong to be jumping up and down on that small mound of ash, but holy shit,
that goal
.

 

Martin was a big guy, maybe 250. Scottish. Brilliant ad man. Drunk. Bipolar, occasionally unmedicated. Had gout, some plague-looking psoriasis. Lots of expensive dental work, taken care of by a previous wife, pro bono. Old enough to be my dad. Kind of guy you can't not love and are afraid of sometimes but just won't say no to about anything, not even another round at 3:00
A.M
. on a Tuesday, which was the case about once a week. He lived down the hall, and surely we were the least favorite people on the ninth floor of our uptight building. That's how we met, actually, six years ago: at a meeting to shoot down a rule the building board wanted to implement, something about banning dogs from the lobby.

One of the good ones, Martin. Taught me important, basic stuff I'd somehow missed out on, like that it's okay—necessary, in fact—to say, “Fuck
them
, what do
you
want?” and to not believe that ridiculous bullshit about how you shouldn't take your single malt on the rocks. He'd actually put together and lived by a set of commandments. There were 12 of them, if I recall, and they boiled down to this: don't be an asshole, and do good work. For him, that was doing ad stuff and supporting Manchester United. Glasgow-born, Manchester-educated, Martin was a fearsome supporter of Manchester United. He
believed
in Manchester United. He also believed, much to the misfortune of his neighbors, that the louder he shouted at his TV, the more he could influence a match. He had framed newspapers on his wall from when United had won the league or the cup or whatever. He skipped work when it interfered with him watching his team.

As it turned out, Manchester United was the one thing I
could
say no to him about: his constant invites to join him—just once!—at some punishingly early hour at Nevada Smiths (“Where Football Is Religion”) to watch Manchester United play those cunts from wherever. I never went. Not ever. I hated sports. I couldn't give a shit less about Liverpool or Chelsea.

He got me a Manchester United jersey anyway. An enticement, unrequited, to join him in support of his team. I wore it, once, to watch the 2008 Euro final when Spain beat Germany, 1–0. I didn't have anything else going on, so I threw on the jersey—why not?—and walked down the hall to watch the match at Martin's. He was patient in explaining things I would soon forget—the same things everyone new to the sport doesn't understand and soon forgets. (On injury time: “A few extra minutes to make up for the time they spent fucking about.”) That was the only soccer game—sorry:
footie match
—I ever watched with Martin.

 

It was around Christmas 2008 when Martin and his wife separated. He'd been working in the U.K., and upon his return to New York City, Martin and his MacBook became a daily fixture in our household. I would wake up, miserably hungover from having been carousing with Martin, and there Martin would be, sitting at our table, chatting with my wife, using our Wi-Fi, happily pouring a dash of vodka into his coffee.

“Want some?” he'd ask, all sunshine. I'd decline, and then the day's soccer report would begin. I'd tune out and make coffee and nod along and politely decline his invites to watch whatever matches were on tap for that weekend. Martin was especially keen on someone named Rooney, whom, he said, I had to see and whose brilliance would convert me, instantly.
Surely!
But I nevertheless passed. My excuse: I was closing in on finishing a draft of my second novel and couldn't spare the time. (The novel is long since finished and remains unsold. Ha!)

Also, he was tough to be around all the time. This is a stupid thing to say, but it's true that whatever he did, he did the shit out of. As a bachelor, that consisted of herculean drinking. Some blow. Breaking our furniture. He'd show up with strange new bruises, but he didn't know how he got them, or why, or from whom. We would set out to walk our dogs, and it'd turn into a drink, and then another, and then—well, you get the idea. I took a silly pride in being able to hack, but then I couldn't anymore. I started avoiding him. I lied. I was busy. I had work to do. I had so much work to do I couldn't even walk down the hall to have a drink. He'd ring the bell and I wouldn't answer it. I loved Martin, but I could no longer do it. Self-preservation kicked in.

As March rolled around, Martin started getting his shit together. He was launching his own agency; his first potential account was a laundry detergent, and he was cooking up a campaign involving motocross racers. He began fostering shelter dogs and doing some work around his apartment that he'd been putting off. He got a better handle on his drinking and seemed to be getting on just fine. I saw him a couple of times, and it didn't end in a blackout. He seemed happier. Good stuff. One night, I ran into him in the hallway. He was coming back from walking one of his foster dogs and said that my wife and I were overdue for dinner at his place. I said yeah, sure, we'd figure something out, and that sounded good to him.

A week later, give or take, he jumped out of his window. I spent a few moments alone with Martin before the cops or EMTs or shrill neighbors showed up. I hope you never have this sort of opportunity, because it is fundamentally devastating. It changes you: your friend, dead, on some stranger's ruined patio in the rain, and what do you say? I said, inexplicably, “Oh, sugar pea. What'd you do?” Jesus, it's like the world's worst country song.

There was hardly any blood. He must've bounced, because he was faceup. His glasses were smashed and lying a few feet away. If it weren't for the split running down his forehead, he'd have looked like he was sleeping one off. The cops found his driver's license, passport, and a note, all of it wrapped in plastic and tucked in his inside jacket pocket, presumably so the rain and trauma wouldn't ruin the documents and slow down the identification process. The note itself wasn't Martin's best work.

Martin wanted to be cremated. His wife arranged it and left a bit of him with us, and my wife and I occasionally talked about finding him a more dignified home than a plastic bag in our liquor cabinet, but there he remained, near his quaich and my whiskey.

Six months later, I was at a friend's birthday party at a bar and saw a poster advertising the Premier League matches they'd be showing.
Why not?
I thought. I didn't have my would-be footie mentor around any longer, but I was going through a rather dark period and thought the experience might provide something in desperately short supply: fun. Plus, I missed Martin and thought, in a yucky bit of sentimentality, it'd be a nice tribute. The first match I watched was Manchester United's 2–0 victory over Blackburn on Halloween 2009. I didn't understand much of what went on, but I didn't have a horrible 90 minutes either. So the next weekend I went to a bar and watched the 1–0 defeat at Chelsea. I wish I could point to a pivotal match or a crucial goal and say that
that
was what converted me, but it wouldn't be true. Manchester United grew on me, quickly and mercilessly, like the Devil claiming your soul. I welcomed it, particularly the predawn bar crowds, whose passion and dedication were foreign and fascinating to a Midwestern-reared boy.