Date: November 25, 1989 (Saturday Morning).
Location: Medford General Hospital / The Cooper House.
Event: The Aftermath of the Carthage Game.
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.
My right leg was propped up on a chair, encased in a bag of ice so large it looked like I was smuggling a frozen turkey.
"It's swollen," Mary said, pacing back and forth. "It's purple. George, look at it. It's the color of an eggplant."
"I see it, Mary," George Sr. said, staring at the floor. He looked miserable. The pride from last night had evaporated, replaced by the guilt of watching his son get carried off the field.
Meemaw sat next to me, flipping through a magazine.
"Well," Meemaw said casually. "At least you covered the spread. My bookie was crying on the phone. It was beautiful."
"Mom!" Mary snapped. "My son is crippled, and you're talking about gambling?"
"I'm talking about winning, Mary," Meemaw retorted. "Which, judging by your mood, is something you don't appreciate."
Dr. Evans walked in. He was the team doctor, which meant his primary job was keeping players on the field, not necessarily keeping them healthy.
"Well," Dr. Evans said, holding up the X-rays. "Good news. No fracture."
George Sr. let out a breath he had been holding for twelve hours. "Thank God."
"Bad news," Dr. Evans continued. "Grade 2 High Ankle Sprain. Ligaments are stretched like rubber bands. It's gonna be painful, stiff, and unstable."
"So he's out," Mary stated firmly. "He's done. Season over."
Dr. Evans hesitated. He looked at George Sr. He looked at me.
"Medically speaking... he should rest for four weeks," Dr. Evans said.
"See?" Mary threw her hands up. "Four weeks. Done."
"However," Dr. Evans added, shrinking slightly under Mary's glare, "if we tape it heavy... and I mean heavy... and if he can tolerate the pain... he could stand on it. But he can't run. If he tries to run, it'll snap."
"He's not playing!" Mary yelled. "George, tell him!"
George Sr. looked at me. He didn't say a word. He was torn between being a Father and a Coach. I could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to win, but he didn't want to break me.
I looked at the X-ray.
"Wrap it up," I said.
"Georgie!" Mary gasped.
"Mom," I said calmly. "We're in the Quarterfinals. We beat Carthage. If I sit out now, it was all for nothing. Just tape it so tight I can't feel my toes."
***
The War Room
By the time we got home, the Cooper Living Room had turned into a war zone.
I was on the couch with my foot elevated. Missy was sitting on the floor, eating cereal and watching the show with wide eyes.
"This is better than General Hospital," Missy whispered to me.
"Shut up, Missy," I groaned.
Mary was in the kitchen, aggressively slamming pots and pans. [attachment_0](attachment) George Sr. was in his chair, drinking a beer at 11:00 AM, staring at the wall.
Sheldon walked in, holding an anatomy textbook.
"I have conducted a structural analysis of the human ankle," Sheldon announced.
"Not now, Shelly," George muttered.
"The anterior talofibular ligament is currently compromised," Sheldon continued, ignoring the mood. "However, if one were to apply a rigid brace to restrict lateral movement, the ankle essentially becomes a fused joint. You would lose 90% of your mobility, but you would remain upright. Like a biological pogo stick."
"A pogo stick," I laughed. "Thanks, Sheldon."
"You are welcome," Sheldon said. "Although, a pogo stick implies vertical leaping ability. You will have the vertical leap of a tortoise."
Meemaw walked in from the backyard, holding a cigarette.
"Alright, enough gloom and doom," Meemaw said. "Mary, stop trying to break my cookware. George, stop sulking. And Georgie..."
She looked at my swollen ankle.
"If you're gonna play, you need to learn how to throw without moving. Because if you scramble, that Carthage boy won't be the only one trying to break your legs. Your mother will finish the job."
Mary marched into the living room. She looked exhausted. The fear was still there, but the anger was fading into resignation.
"I am not letting him play!" Mary shouted one last time, but her voice cracked. "He is fourteen! He has his whole life ahead of him!"
"Mary," George said softly. "It's his choice."
"It is not his choice! You are the adult!"
I cleared my throat.
"Mom," I said.
They both looked at me.
"I'm playing," I said. "But... I promise I won't run. Not a single step. I'll stay in the pocket. If nobody is open, I'll go down. I won't be a hero."
I looked at Dad.
"But we need a game plan that protects me. Because right now, I'm a statue."
***
Monday Practice: The Statue
The team was quiet when I hobbled onto the practice field on crutches.
Tiny looked like he wanted to cry again. Bullard looked concerned.
"Alright, listen up!" George Sr. yelled. "Cooper is active. But Cooper is also a tripod."
He pointed to a spot in the backfield.
"We are installing a new protection scheme. It's called 'Protect the President.' Tiny, you are the Secret Service. Nothing—and I mean nothing—touches the President."
"Yes, sir!" Tiny shouted.
I handed my crutches to Missy (who had been appointed 'Official Water Girl' and 'Georgie's Crutch Holder').
I limped to the line. My ankle was taped so heavily it felt like a wooden stump.
"Hut!"
I took the snap.
Instinctively, I tried to drop back three steps.
Pain.
My leg buckled. I almost fell.
"Don't move!" George yelled. "Just stand there! Shotgun only!"
We ran it again.
Shotgun snap. I stood still.
The defensive line (our scout team) rushed.
I couldn't evade. I couldn't step up. I couldn't roll out.
I had to throw with zero lower-body torque. It was all arm.
Throw Power: 70.
I whipped the ball. It spiraled, but it lacked the usual zip because I couldn't drive off my back leg.
"Faster," George said. "The ball has to be gone in 2.5 seconds. If you hold it for 2.6, you're dead."
***
The Dan Marino Method
For the next three days, that's all we did.
I stood in one spot. Sheldon stood on the sideline with a stopwatch.
"Snap," Sheldon said.
I looked left.
"One Mississippi, Two Miss..."
Throw.
"2.1 seconds," Sheldon called out. "Acceptable."
If I took too long, George blew the whistle and made the offensive line run laps.
"He can't run!" George screamed at the linemen. "So you have to be a wall! If he gets sacked, it's on you!"
By Thursday, my arm was sore, but my release was lightning fast. I wasn't Mahomes anymore. I was Dan Marino. Standing tall, barely moving, dissecting the defense with surgical precision because I had no other choice.
***
Thursday Night: The Dinner
The night before the game, the mood was calmer.
We were eating spaghetti. Mary was still unhappy, but she had accepted the inevitable. She had made sure I took extra calcium supplements ("For the bones, Georgie").
"Who do we play tomorrow?" Missy asked, slurping a noodle.
"The Daingerfield Tigers," I said.
George Sr. flinched.
Daingerfield was legendary. Earlier in the decade (1983), their defense had been so good they gave up zero points for an entire season. They weren't quite that good in '89, but they were still terrifying.
"They're fast," George muttered. "Faster than Tyler."
"And I'm slower than a tortoise," I added, winking at Sheldon.
"Actually," Sheldon piped up. "A tortoise can move at 0.17 miles per hour. Based on your current gait, you are approximately equal to a tortoise."
"Thanks, bud," I said.
Meemaw raised her beer glass.
"To the Tortoise," she said. "May he win the race."
I clinked my milk glass against hers.
I looked at my ankle under the table. It throbbed.
I couldn't run. I couldn't hide.
Tomorrow, I had to stand in the pocket and fight.
[Quest Update: The State Path]
* Status: Quarterfinals Prep Complete.
* New Style: The Pocket Passer (Statue Mode).
* Condition: Injured (Speed = 0).
* Family Status: Stabilized (Barely).