In the quiet of his Boston study, Michael Kingston sat alone with the morning edition of the Boston Inquirer, one of the many newspapers owned by the Kingston family. The headline confirmed what he had already known: William Howard Taft had secured the Republican nomination in Chicago. Michael leaned back, his gaze shifting from the newsprint to the heavy financial ledgers on his desk. If the November election went as expected, John Kingston would become the next Secretary of the Treasury.
Michael began to mentally map the immense landscape of that office. He understood the global hierarchy clearly; while America was a rising giant, it was not yet the titan of the world. That title still belonged to the British Empire, whose pound sterling dictated the terms of international trade and whose Royal Navy enforced the flow of gold. The United States was a powerful challenger, but it remained a structurally unstable marketplace compared to the sophisticated financial architecture of London.
In this era, the Secretary of the Treasury was the de facto central banker of the nation. Since the United States still had no Federal Reserve, the Secretary held the "power of the purse" in its most literal sense. He alone decided which private banks would hold the government's massive tax revenues. By depositing or withdrawing these funds, the Secretary could single-handedly dictate national interest rates, providing a lifeline during a panic or a noose during a bubble.
Furthermore, as the architect of trade, the Secretary oversaw the Customs Service, which provided the vast majority of federal revenue through tariffs. He had the authority to interpret trade laws, effectively deciding which foreign goods could compete with American industry. Under the recently passed Aldrich-Vreeland Act, he was also granted the emergency lever—the authority to issue temporary currency to national banks during a crisis. It was a power that could prevent a total collapse of the banking system or, if misused, trigger hyperinflation.
Beyond the ledger, the Secretary acted as the nation's enforcer by controlling the Secret Service. While they protected the President, their primary mandate remained the investigation of financial crimes and the protection of the currency's integrity. Michael stared at the map of the United States on his wall, knowing that the Gilded Age elite would expect a man like John Kingston to use these tools for mutual profit. To Michael, placing his father in that seat was not about the family's next million; it was about ensuring that when the next great storm hit the global economy, the American ship would not be steered into the rocks by men looking to salvage the wreckage for themselves.
Michael shook his head slowly, the weight of the coming years pressing against his mind. There was so much work to do. To an outsider, it might seem strange for a young man of such immense wealth to concern himself with the affairs of others. Why would a Kingston, who could live a life of leisure, care about the intricacies of federal policy or the plight of distant strangers? But Michael couldn't help it. The impulse was an echo from his previous life as Dean.
In that life, he had learned a bitter truth: humans are not kind by default. It is far easier to be apathetic, or even cruel, than it is to be kind. He had seen how people ignored small injustices, tucked away under the excuse that they were too minor to matter. But Michael knew that a million small injustices eventually coalesce into one big, ugly world. To him, correcting a single wrong wasn't just about the success of the act; it was about the act of trying. Dean had spent his life fighting for the underdogs and the downtrodden against insurmountable armies and impossible odds, and Michael carried that same restless fire.
He looked back at the map of the world, his eyes tracing the borders of an era defined by exploitation. While America looked inward, celebrating its own "Progressive Era," it remained willfully blind to the darkness beyond its shores. Even within its own reach, the United States held vast foreign territories—the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Guam—under rigid military jurisdiction, often ignoring the democratic ideals it preached at home.
Beyond the Americas, the sight was even grimmer. Michael thought of the horrors in the Congo Free State, where European rubber interests had turned an entire region into a graveyard. He thought of the colonial chains tightening across Asia and the near-slavery conditions in South American plantations. Each nation claimed its own citizens came first, using national interest as a shield to ignore the screams of the exploited. Michael wanted to correct it all—every shackled limb, every stolen resource, every silenced voice. He knew he didn't have the power yet. He was a titan of finance, but he was not yet the architect of the world's order.
He turned back to the newspaper, his gaze lingering on the mention of the Treasury. His father taking that seat was more than just a political win; it was one of the most critical steps in a much larger ladder.
"One step at a time," he whispered to the quiet room. "First, we stabilize the home. Then, we look to the horizon."
He was preparing for a war against the apathy of an entire century.
By October 31, 1908, the autumn chill had settled over New England, but the atmosphere inside the Harvard stadium was electric. While Michael usually operated from the shadows of the business world, this season he had taken center stage on the gridiron. Michael hadn't joined the team out of a desperate need for glory. He had joined because he wanted to experience the raw, visceral reality of the sport, and because both his father, John, and his biological father, George, had encouraged him to try it.
When he showed up for tryouts, Coach Percy Haughton hadn't even needed to see him throw a ball. He had simply looked at the young man standing there and pointed toward the locker room. Standing at a towering 197 cm (6'5") and weighing a solid 113 kg (250 lbs), Michael was a massive presence. Yet, he moved with a terrifying quickness that defied his size. He was strong, nearly impossible to bring down in a solo tackle, and remained unnervingly cool even as the pocket collapsed.
In the first decade of the 1900s, the average college football player stood roughly 175 cm (5'9") and weighed about 75 kg (165 lbs). Even the "line giants" of the era rarely exceeded 200 pounds. Michael just towered over his peers. To the opposing players, it was like trying to tackle a draft horse.
Michael hadn't started the season as the star. When he first arrived at the practice fields, he was placed at the bottom of the depth chart, buried under upperclassmen who had spent years learning the traditional "push-and-shove" style of play. However, once the practices began, the hierarchy of the team shifted rapidly. During scrimmages, while the senior quarterbacks struggled to move the ball five yards against a wall of defenders, Michael began to dissect the defense with a surgeon's precision. He spent his nights studying the playbook until he understood the spatial relationship between every player on the field better than the coaches did. In his first few weeks, he moved from the scout team to the second string, simply because no one could stop him in a "rushing" situation. When the pocket collapsed, he didn't just fall; he used his massive frame to carry three or four defenders for a first down.
By the time the season opener arrived, Michael had climbed to the starting quarterback position. He had proven to Percy Haughton that his mind was even more dangerous than his 250-pound physique. Haughton was a Harvard man through and through, having been a star player in the late 1890s. Before returning to coach his alma mater, Haughton had built a reputation for discipline at Cornell.
Under first-year coach Percy Haughton, Michael had revolutionized the Harvard offense, leading the team to six straight wins. In an era of "cloud of dust" football, Michael's dual-threat capability was unheard of. He could tuck the ball and run, his long strides eating up the 110-yard field with predatory efficiency. But it was his daring use of the air that truly baffled his opponents.
The rules of 1908 made every offensive decision a high-stakes gamble. A touchdown was worth only 5 points, a field goal earned 4, and a safety was worth 2. Teams had only three downs to gain ten yards, a grueling requirement that usually favored blunt-force plunging.
Michael, however, mastered the forward pass—a tactic most coaches considered a desperate folly. In this era, the pass was a "sudden death" risk; an incomplete pass resulted in an immediate turnover, and any ball caught by an ineligible player resulted in a loss of possession. Despite these restrictions, Michael's precision allowed him to exploit the gaps.
At this time, college football was the undisputed pinnacle of the sport. Professional football was considered a low-level, disreputable sideshow played by "town teams" in rough industrial cities. It lacked the prestige, the massive stadiums, and the organized coaching of the Ivy League. To the public, the college game represented the highest level of amateur character and strategic brilliance, while the "pros" were seen as little more than mercenaries playing a disorganized version of the game for a few dollars.
In the frosty air of the Harvard stadium, the roar of the crowd was a physical force. Thousands of students stood on the wooden bleachers, their voices merging into a singular, rhythmic chant of Michael's name. It wasn't just the men of the Harvard Yard shouting; the sections occupied by women from Radcliffe College, Harvard's affiliated institution, were equally fervent. To the women of Radcliffe, Michael was a figure of magnetic, stoic charm—a man who seemed to command the very air around him.
Michael's popularity was rooted in the quiet war he had waged within the campus gates. In an era where Harvard was still dominated by the "Gold Coast" elites—wealthy students who lived in private, luxurious apartments and looked down upon their peers—Michael had become the champion of the "Yard" students, the middle-class and poor strivers who often felt like second-class citizens. He didn't just sympathize with them; he acted. Michael had used his own wealth to fund and renovate the dorm canteens, ensuring that students from modest backgrounds had access to high-quality meals at prices they could actually afford. He refused to tolerate the bullying of the "Elites."
As the game started, the Brown Bears found themselves suffocated. When they stacked the line to stop Michael's rush, he would launch a spiraling pass down the 5-yard hash marks. When they dropped back in fear of his arm, he used his 250-pound frame to steamroll through the secondary.
By halftime, the Harvard stadium was in a state of controlled delirium. The scoreboard read 22–2 in favor of the Crimson. Michael had dominated the first thirty-minute half, accounting for both a passing touchdown and a rushing touchdown. He had gained 62 yards on the ground and 50 yards through the air. While those passing numbers would seem modest in a modern context, in 1908, they were astronomical. In a year when most teams averaged fewer than three pass attempts per game due to the extreme turnover risks, Michael's ability to move the ball through the air was a tactical marvel.
He had thrown one interception—a rare miscalculation—but it hardly mattered; the Harvard defense was as immovable as Michael himself, and Brown failed to capitalize. However, the lopsided score hid the true physical cost of the contest. The football of 1908 was a brutal, primitive war of attrition. It was a game of "mass momentum," where players locked arms to form a human battering ram, slamming into the opposition with zero regard for safety. Helmets were mere scraps of soft leather that offered no protection against concussions, and "flying starts" often resulted in high-speed collisions that shattered bones. The season had been particularly lethal; by the end of October 1908, the national death toll for the football season had already reached eleven players, with dozens more suffering "paralytic" injuries or permanent internal damage. While public outcry for reform was growing, the violence on the field was still largely viewed as a necessary test of manhood.
Michael stood in the center of the locker room during the break. Looking at the players being stitched up or having their joints taped, Michael looked as cool as he had during the opening kickoff, barring a few minor scrapes. He looked at his teammates, some of whom were the very scholarship boys he had championed. He knew they were playing for more than a score; they were playing for the respect of a university that had once ignored them. Michael wasn't just leading them to a victory; he was ensuring they survived the meat-grinder of the 1908 season so they could witness the world he intended to build.
Coach Percy Haughton stood on a wooden bench, his eyes scanning the room. He was a man who usually dealt in grim statistics and military discipline, but even he couldn't hide a rare, sharp grin.
"Listen up!" Haughton barked, and the room fell silent. "We've done well. Most of you are walking away with nothing but cuts and bruises, which is a miracle in this game. Keep that intensity up. For the second half, you follow Michael's play-calling to the letter. If we stay on this path, gentlemen, we aren't just winning a game—we are going to be National Champions."
The locker room erupted. The players hammered their lockers and stamped their cleats, their voices rising in a deafening chorus: "Champions! Champions! Champions!"
Michael stood in the center of the noise, silent and still. While his teammates were swept up in the emotion, his mind remained analytical. He knew they had an unfair advantage, and that advantage was him. It wasn't just his size or his strength; it was his gift. It operated involuntarily, a sensory radar that Michael couldn't shut off even if he wanted to. If an opponent's movement posed a threat of significant bodily harm—the kind that shattered bones or tore joints—Michael's body received a signal before the blow even landed. He would instinctively shift his weight or change his direction, avoiding the career-ending collisions that were so common in 1908.
If it was a minor tackle or a routine hit, his gift remained silent, allowing him to experience the game like any other man. But the moment the "meat-grinder" of the 1908 style threatened his health, his instincts took over. He felt a flicker of guilt, knowing that while other men were dying on the field across the country, he was playing with a safety net.
Michael looked at the scholarship boys, their faces flushed with the hope of a title. He would use his "unfair" advantage to draw the defenders toward himself, intentionally pulling the spotlight—and the risks—away from his teammates so they could experience the glory of the game without the terror of the injury list. He adjusted his leather headgear and looked toward the door.
"Let's finish this," he said, his voice cutting through the cheers.
Under Michael's influence, the Harvard team had developed a reputation that was unheard of in 1908. He had enforced a strict code of discipline, banning the "dirty" tactics that were common in the era's mass-momentum plays. He forbade unnecessary roughness, late hits, and the intentional gouging that often turned games into brawls. Because it was Michael Kingston—the man who funded their meals and fought for their status—the players followed his lead without question. Even Coach Haughton, usually a pragmatist who cared only for results, respected the quiet authority Michael wielded over the locker room.
The second half was a masterclass in precision. Michael moved like a ghost through the Brown defense, his heightened senses allowing him to slide past would-be tacklers who intended to "break" him. He was a 250-pound target that no one could squarely hit. The final whistle blew under a darkening sky, cementing a dominant 38–2 victory for Harvard. It was more than just a win; it was a statement. Under Michael's disciplined leadership, the Harvard Crimson had not only dismantled the Brown Bears but had done so with a tactical elegance. With a perfect 7–0 record, their journey toward a National Championship seemed inevitable, and the newspapers were already hailing this squad as one of the greatest in the history of the sport.
Note: If you find 250 lbs to be heavy, you should consider his height of 197 cm (6'5"). For comparison, Josh Allen stands at 196 (6'5") cm and weighs 237 lbs, while Dak Prescott weighs 238 lbs at only 188 cm (6'2").