Date: December 1, 1989.
Location: Rose Stadium, Tyler, Texas (Neutral Site).
Event: State Quarterfinals vs. The Daingerfield Tigers.
In the Wild West, the gunfighter who lived wasn't always the one who could run the fastest. It was the one who could draw the fastest.
That was my only hope.
I sat on the trainer's table in the locker room. Dr. Evans was wrapping my right ankle in so much tape it looked like a plaster cast. It was stiff, heavy, and numb.
"Tight enough?" he asked.
"Tighter," I gritted out. "Cut off the circulation. I don't want to feel it."
He pulled the tape. I winced.
George Sr. stood over me. He looked sick. The bags under his eyes were dark purple.
"You sure about this?" he asked for the tenth time.
"Dad," I said, standing up. It felt like walking on a wooden peg leg. I couldn't flex the joint at all. "I'm sure. Just keep them off me."
"Tiny knows the drill," George said, his voice serious. "Max protection. We don't roll out. We don't bootleg. You take the snap, you throw, or you hit the dirt. If you try to be a hero and scramble, I will drag you off that field myself."
***
The Stands
The stadium was packed. Rose Stadium in Tyler was the Mecca of East Texas football. The air was biting cold—that dry December freeze that makes hits sting like a whip.
Up in the Medford section, the hierarchy of Georgie Cooper's life was on full display.
Mary was gripping a seat cushion like a life preserver. Meemaw was next to her, holding a flask hidden inside a mitten.
But two rows down, there was a new dynamic.
Veronica Duncan was sitting there, wearing a Medford scarf, looking anxious.
Next to her sat Serena van der Woodsen.
She looked out of place among the rural Texas crowd. She was wearing a cashmere coat that probably cost more than George Sr.'s truck. She had driven all the way from Highland Park—over two hours away.
"Does he always play hurt?" Serena asked, watching Georgie limp out of the tunnel.
"He's stubborn," Veronica sighed, rubbing her arms. "He thinks he's Superman. But he can barely walk."
Serena watched Georgie warm up. He wasn't moving his feet. He was just flicking the ball, over and over.
"He looks... focused," Serena said, a hint of admiration in her voice. She liked determination. In her world, boys complained if the latte was too hot. Georgie was preparing to go to war on one leg.
***
The Kickoff
Daingerfield wasn't "scary" like Carthage. Carthage was a machine.
Daingerfield was a pack of wild dogs.
They wore blue and white. They didn't have a 44-game winning streak, but they had a reputation for violence. They were head-hunters. They hit you until you quit.
We received the kick. I hobbled onto the field.
I saw the Daingerfield middle linebacker—number 55—point at my taped leg. He yelled something to his defense.
"Cut the tree down! Break the bad leg!"
Classy.
"Huddle up!" I said. I didn't yell. I didn't have the energy to waste.
Tiny looked at me. "I got you, Georgie. Secret Service. Nobody touches the President."
"I know, Tiny. Let's go."
***
The First Half: The Blitz
First Play.
We lined up in Shotgun. I couldn't be under center; the drop-back footwork was impossible.
"Hut!"
I caught the snap.
Daingerfield didn't wait. They didn't read keys. They just attacked. They sent six guys. A "House Blitz." They knew I was a statue, so they wanted to topple me before I could blink.
A linebacker shot through the B-gap, screaming like a banshee.
I didn't flinch. I didn't try to dodge. I planted my feet in the dirt like roots.
Marino Mode.
I saw Higgins on a slant. The window was the size of a dinner plate.
One Mississippi...
I flicked my wrist. A quick, compact motion. No wind-up.
The ball rocketed out of my hand just as the linebacker slammed into my chest.
Wham.
I hit the ground hard. My ankle screamed in protest.
But I heard the crowd roar.
"Caught! Higgins! First down!"
Tiny hauled me up by my jersey. "You okay, Mr. President?"
"I'm good," I wheezed, adjusting my shoulder pads. "Just keep blocking."
The whole first half was a game of chicken. Daingerfield kept blitzing. They dared me to beat them with quick throws.
And I did.
Slant to Higgins. Zip. 6 yards.
Screen to the running back. Zip. 8 yards.
Quick out to Bullard. Zip. 5 yards.
I was playing the most boring, efficient football of my life. I was a turret. A stationary cannon. My release time was averaging 2.2 seconds.
Halftime Score: Medford 14, Daingerfield 7.
***
The Crisis
In the third quarter, Daingerfield adjusted.
They stopped blitzing. They realized they couldn't get to me fast enough, so they dropped eight men into coverage. They flooded the passing lanes.
"They're taking away the quick stuff," Kyle Stevens said, holding the headset on the sideline. "Everything is covered."
I stood on the sideline, icing my ankle. Serena was waving from the stands. I gave a small nod. I couldn't focus on her right now.
"If they drop eight," I said, looking at the black-and-white Polaroid photos of the defense, "then they're only rushing three."
"So?" George asked.
"So, I have time," I said. "I can wait for the deep routes to develop. But I need the line to hold."
"You can't hold the ball, Georgie," George warned. "If you hold it for four seconds, that pocket will collapse. And you can't run away."
"Then Tiny has to hold them," I said. "Tiny! Get over here!"
Tiny jogged over, sweating steam in the cold air.
"I need four seconds," I told him. "On the next drive, I'm going deep. I need you to anchor. Do not let that nose tackle push you back."
Tiny nodded. "I'll die before he touches you."
***
The Shot
Fourth Quarter. Score tied 14-14. 3 minutes left.
Ball on the 50-yard line.
Daingerfield dropped into coverage again. They dared me to be patient.
"Blue 80!"
I took the snap.
One second. No pressure.
Two seconds. Receivers covered.
Three seconds. The pocket started to squeeze.
The Daingerfield nose tackle bull-rushed Tiny. He got under Tiny's pads. He started driving him back into my lap.
I couldn't step up. I couldn't scramble.
I stood there, staring downfield.
Trust the protection.
Tiny dug his cleats into the frozen grass. He grunted, a primal sound of effort. He stopped the momentum. He anchored.
Four seconds.
I saw it.
Higgins had a step on the safety. Just a sliver of space.
I planted my bad leg. Pain shot up my shin, hot and white.
I ignored it.
Throw Power: 70.
I launched it. A moonshot.
The ball spiraled through the stadium lights. It seemed to hang in the air forever.
I got hit. The defensive end finally broke free and buried his facemask in my ribs.
I went down in a heap.
I didn't see the catch.
I just heard the explosion of noise.
I looked up from the grass.
Higgins was dancing in the endzone.
Touchdown.
Medford 21, Daingerfield 14.
***
The Aftermath
Our defense held on for the final two minutes. Bullard played like a man possessed, sacking their quarterback twice to seal the game.
When the clock hit zero, I didn't celebrate. I couldn't. I just sat on the bench, completely drained.
Dr. Evans started cutting the tape off my ankle. It was swollen and ugly.
I felt a presence at the fence behind the bench.
I turned around. It was Serena. She was gripping the chain-link fence, looking down at me.
"You're crazy," she said, but she was smiling.
"I'm effective," I grinned weakly.
"My brother is transferring next semester," Serena dropped the bomb casually. "My parents are looking at houses in Medford. Easier commute for his travel baseball team."
She paused, locking eyes with me.
"Guess I'll be seeing you around, Cooper."
She walked away before I could respond.
Veronica walked up a second later, handing me a towel. She watched Serena leave, then looked at me.
"What did she want?" Veronica asked, her voice neutral.
"Nothing," I said, wincing as I stood up. "Just talking baseball."
George Sr. walked over. He looked exhausted, but happy.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," I admitted. "It hurts like hell."
"Well," George smiled, "you got a week to heal."
"Who's next?" I asked.
George looked at the bracket sheet in his hand.
"Semi-Finals," he said. "We play the Lufkin Panthers."
I closed my eyes.
Lufkin. The Final Boss. The team George Sr. had been terrified of since Day 1.
And I had one leg.
"Great," I muttered. "Just great."
[Quest Complete: The State Path]
* Status: Quarterfinals Victory.
* New Rank: State Semi-Finalist (Final Four).
* Relationship Update: Serena (Interest Confirmed / Transfer Pending).
* Next Opponent: Lufkin (The Final Boss of East Texas).