Date: May 12, 1990 (Saturday).
Location: The Cooper Residence / Highland Park.
Event: The Spring Barbecue & The Incident.
Part 1: The Cost of Doing Business
Success is heavy. That's something they don't tell you in the movies. In the movies, winning is the end of the story. The credits roll, the music swells, and everyone lives happily ever after.
But in real life? Winning is just the down payment on the next problem.
It was May in Texas, which meant the humidity was already thick enough to chew on. School was winding down—final exams were next week—but for the Cooper household, the work was just starting. "Spring Ball" was in full swing. The "New Era" of Highland Park football wasn't a theory anymore; it was an industry. And my father, George Cooper Sr., was the CEO.
I sat at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of iced tea, watching him. He was on the phone with Mr. Remington. It was a Saturday morning, a time that used to be reserved for fishing or sleeping in. Now, it was reserved for "Booster Relations."
"Yes, Mr. Remington," George said, rubbing his left temple. "I understand the expectations. Undefeated is the goal. Yes. We're looking at the defensive line depth."
He looked tired. Not the 'I had a long day' kind of tired. The deep, marrow-level exhaustion that turns your skin gray and puts dark circles under your eyes that no amount of coffee can fix.
He hung up the phone and let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Everything okay, Dad?" I asked.
"Fine," he grunted, walking to the fridge. He pulled out a beer. It was 11:00 AM. "Just... politics. Remington wants to know why we aren't practicing seven days a week."
"Because that's illegal under UIL rules?" I suggested.
"Rich people don't care about rules, Georgie," George said, cracking the tab. "They care about results."
He took a long sip, then reached into the deli drawer and pulled out a chunk of leftover cheddar cheese. He ate it in two bites. Then he reached for the salami.
I watched him eat. It was stress-eating. I knew the signs. It wasn't just the food. It was the lifestyle. No exercise. Constant cortisol spikes. Brisket for dinner, beer for hydration, and sleeping four hours a night because he was watching game film.
I was watching a ticking clock.
In the original timeline—the one I knew from the show—George Cooper died of a heart attack in 1994. I was living in 1990. Theoretically, I had four years. But the stress of Highland Park—the boosters, the expectations, the constant scrutiny—was accelerating the timeline. I could see it. His face was redder. His breathing was heavier. He was skipping his walks because "there wasn't time."
He was trading his life for this dynasty.
"Dad," I said softly. "Maybe you should sit down. Take a break. I can handle the film review this afternoon."
"I'm fine," he snapped. Then he softened. "I'm fine, son. Just gotta keep the engine running. We got a lot of people counting on us."
He patted my shoulder. His hand felt heavy.
"I'm gonna go fire up the grill," he said. "Larry and the boys are coming over. Can't have the offensive line going hungry."
He walked out the back door into the oppressive heat. I watched him go, a knot of dread tightening in my own stomach.
Part 2: The Smoke and the Fire
By 1:00 PM, the backyard was a scene of controlled chaos.
The "Inner Circle" had gathered. It had become a weekly ritual. If we weren't at the Remington Estate, we were here, at the Cooper house, pretending we were normal.
Mary was inside the kitchen, humming a gospel tune while she baked a rhubarb pie. The window was open, so the smell of sugar drifted out to mix with the charcoal smoke. Meemaw was gone—she had taken her "Social Security Investment Strategy" to the casino in Oklahoma for the weekend.
Outside, the heat was brutal. 92 degrees and rising.
Larry Allen was sitting in a lawn chair that was struggling to support his 300-pound frame. He was holding a plate piled high with potato salad, waiting for the main course.
Zach Thomas and Jimmy Smith were in the pool. Zach was treading water with a weird intensity, probably training his legs, while Jimmy was trying to throw a football through a tire swing we had hung up.
Serena was lounging on a chaise, wearing oversized sunglasses and reading a magazine, looking like she was in the Hamptons rather than a Dallas suburb.
Sheldon was sitting in the shade, fully dressed in long pants and a button-down shirt, applying sunscreen with the precision of a surgeon.
"You missed a spot," Missy teased, spraying him with a water gun.
"Stop it!" Sheldon shrieked. "You are diluting the SPF factor! I will burn, and then I will peel, and it will be disgusting!"
I was standing by the grill with Dad. The heat coming off the charcoal was intense. Combined with the Texas humidity, it felt like standing inside a mouth.
"Flip 'em," George muttered, sweat dripping off his nose. He was basting a rack of ribs with his secret sauce. "Don't let 'em dry out."
"You got it," I said.
I looked at him. He was sweating too much. His face wasn't just red from the heat; it was flushed a deep, alarming crimson. He was breathing through his mouth—short, shallow gasps.
"Dad?" I asked. "You want some water?"
"I'm good," he wheezed. "Just... smoke. Got in my eyes."
He reached for his beer, but his hand missed. He knocked the can over.
"Dammit," he hissed, bending down to pick it up.
He didn't come back up.
He stayed in the crouch, one hand on the ground, the other clutching his chest.
"Dad?" I dropped the tongs.
"Just... dizzy," George whispered. His voice was thin. "Stood up too fast."
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled. He started to tip backward, right toward the hot grill.
"DAD!" I lunged for him.
But I wasn't fast enough.
Fortunately, Larry Allen was.
I didn't even see Larry move. One second he was eating potato salad; the next, he was a blur of motion. He covered the twenty feet between the lawn chair and the grill in two strides.
Larry caught my father before he hit the ground.
He didn't just catch him; he cradled him. Larry's massive arms wrapped around George, holding him up like he was a child.
"I got you, Coach," Larry said, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. "I got you."
The music stopped.
Zach and Jimmy stopped moving in the pool.
Serena stood up, taking off her sunglasses. Her eyes were wide.
Sheldon dropped his sunscreen bottle.
"Coach?" Larry asked, his face tight with worry. "You with us?"
My dad blinked. He took a deep, ragged breath. He looked at Larry. He looked around, seeing the terrified faces of the team—Zach dripping wet on the pool deck, Jimmy staring with his mouth open. The shame hit him instantly. He hated looking weak.
"I'm fine," George wheezed, pushing weakly against Larry's chest. "I'm fine. Just... heat exhaustion. Put me down, Larry."
"You sure, Coach?" Larry asked, not letting go.
"I said put me down," George barked, though it lacked his usual fire.
Larry gently set him into a deck chair.
George sat there, head in his hands, trying to slow his breathing.
"Georgie," he whispered to me, grabbing my wrist. His grip was clammy. "Don't tell your mother. She'll panic. She'll call an ambulance. I just need a minute."
I looked at him. I looked at the fear in his eyes. He wasn't afraid of dying; he was afraid of losing the momentum. He was afraid if he showed weakness, the sharks would circle.
"Okay," I lied. "Just sit there. Drink this."
I handed him a glass of water.
I looked up. The "Inner Circle" was watching.
Larry hovered like a bodyguard. Zach and Jimmy were watching me for orders. Serena looked terrified. Sheldon looked like he was calculating probabilities.
I made a sharp cutting motion across my throat. Silence.
They nodded. They understood.
This wasn't just a team. It was a family. And you protect the family.
Part 3: The War Room
Thirty minutes later, George was "napping" in the master bedroom (we told Mary he had a headache from the sun). Mary was still in the kitchen, happily oblivious, pulling the pie out of the oven.
We convened in my bedroom.
It was the first meeting of the Cooper Health Task Force.
The attendees were squeezed into my room:
Me (The Chair)
Serena (Chief of Logistics)
Sheldon (Chief Medical Officer)
Missy (Spy/Saboteur)
Eric (Consultant)
Larry Allen (Enforcer)
Zach Thomas (Security)
Jimmy Smith (Observer)
"He almost went down," Larry said, sitting on the floor because he didn't fit on my beanbag chair. "I felt his heart, Georgie. It was beating like a rabbit. Too fast."
"It is a combination of factors," Sheldon announced. He had already pulled out a medical textbook he apparently kept in his backpack. "Hypertension. Obesity. Sedentary lifestyle. High sodium intake. And chronic cortisol elevation from stress. The statistical probability of a myocardial infarction within the next 24 months is 84%."
"Shut up, Sheldon!" Missy yelled, throwing a pillow at him. "Don't say that!"
"I am stating facts!" Sheldon argued, dodging the pillow. "Ignoring the data does not change the outcome! His arteries are likely hardening as we speak!"
"Enough," I said. My voice was calm, but inside, I was shaking. I knew the timeline. I knew the script. 1994. The heart attack. The funeral I had watched on a TV screen in my old life. I wasn't going to let that scene play out in reality. Not this time.
"We aren't telling Mom," I said. "If we tell Mom, she'll freak out. She'll nag him. And when Mom nags, Dad eats more. It's a stress cycle."
"So what do we do?" Eric asked. "Just let him explode?"
"No," I said. "We hack his life. We change his habits without him knowing."
I looked at the whiteboard on my wall. I erased the football plays and wrote: OPERATION: SAVE DAD.
"It's a lifestyle problem," I said. "Bad diet. No exercise. Too much stress. We attack all three."
"Step One: The Diet," I said. "He eats garbage. Brisket, bacon, fried chicken. We need to swap it."
"He'll notice," Jimmy said. "Coach knows his meat. You can't give him tofu. He'll throw it at you."
"We don't use tofu," Serena cut in. She sat forward, eyes gleaming. "We use rich people food."
"Define rich people food," Zach asked.
"Lean cuts," Serena explained. "Filet mignon instead of ribeye. Turkey bacon instead of pork. But we have to sell it. We tell him it's 'Kobe Beef' or 'Imported Artisanal Bacon.' He won't question the taste if he thinks it's expensive."
"I can source the food," Eric said raising his hand. "My mom's personal chef has a supplier. I can have 'healthy' meals delivered to the house. We just tell Coach it's a gift from a booster."
"Good," I said. "Step Two: The Stress. He's doing too much. He's watching film until 2 AM. He's taking every call from Remington."
"I can handle the calls," I said. "I'll tell the secretary to route the booster calls to me after 6 PM. I'll tell them Dad is 'reviewing classified strategy.' They'll eat it up."
"What about the film?" Larry asked.
"We do the film," I said, looking at Larry, Zach, and Jimmy. "You guys. You break down the tape. We give him the summary notes. We tell him we're doing it for 'extra credit.' If he doesn't have to watch 4 hours of tape every night, he can sleep."
"I'm in," Zach said immediately. "I love film."
"I will monitor the vitals," Sheldon said. "I can install a pressure sensor under his mattress to track his heart rate variability during REM cycles."
"No," I said instantly. "That's creepy, Sheldon. Just... count his beers. If he goes over two, distract him."
"Distract him how?" Sheldon asked.
"Bore him," Missy said. "Tell him about trains. Or physics. Or rocks. He gets so bored listening to you he usually falls asleep."
"Hey!" Sheldon frowned. "My anecdotes are riveting."
"It's perfect," I said.
I looked at the group. A cheerleader, a genius, three future NFL stars, two rich kids, and a girl with a water gun.
We were the only thing standing between my dad and a heart attack.
"We start today," I said. "Larry, go downstairs. Tell Dad you're still hungry. Ask him to grill chicken instead of ribs because you're 'watching your figure.' He'll do it for you."
Larry grinned. "I can do that. I love chicken."
"Break," I said.
Part 4: The Execution
The plan went into effect immediately.
That evening, dinner was "Imported European Poultry" (Grilled Chicken) provided by Eric.
George Sr. looked at the chicken suspiciously.
"It looks dry," George grunted.
"It's from France, Coach," Eric lied smoothly. "It costs fifty dollars a pound. Mr. Remington sent it over."
"Fifty dollars?" George's eyes went wide. "Well. Don't want to be rude."
He took a bite. "Hmm. Tastes like chicken. But... fancy chicken."
He ate two servings. No ribs. Victory 1.
Later that night, around 9:00 PM, I walked into the living room.
George was reaching for the phone. It was ringing.
"I'll get it," I said, snatching the receiver. "Cooper residence... Oh, Mr. Davidson! Yes, sir... Dad is actually in a deep-dive strategy session right now. Top secret. Can I take a message?"
I watched Dad. He looked relieved. He sank back into his recliner.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"Davidson," I said. "Wanted to complain about the uniform socks. I handled it."
"Good," George sighed. He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't have the energy for socks tonight."
"Why don't you go to bed, Dad?" I suggested. "I'll lock up."
"Maybe," he said. He looked at the TV. "Just wanted to watch the news."
Sheldon walked into the room. He was holding a massive book about the Transcontinental Railroad.
He sat directly next to Dad on the sofa.
"Father," Sheldon said. "Did you know that the locomotive engine of 1845 utilized a specific coal-to-steam ratio that created an efficiency paradox?"
I watched.
George Sr.'s eyes glazed over within thirty seconds.
His head nodded.
One minute later, he was asleep.
Victory 2.
I walked over and gently took the remote from his hand. I turned off the TV.
I pulled the blanket over him.
I stood there for a moment in the dark living room, listening to him snore. It wasn't the jagged, gasping snore from the afternoon. It was a deep, rhythmic sleep.
"We got him," a voice whispered.
I turned. Serena was standing in the hallway, holding two glasses of water.
"For now," I whispered back.
She walked over and handed me a glass. We stood there, watching him sleep.
"You're a good son, Georgie," she said softly.
"I'm a desperate son," I corrected. "I know what happens if we lose him. The whole thing... the football, the house, the money... it all falls apart. He's the engine."
"Then we keep the engine running," she said. She leaned her head on my shoulder. "You have a team now. You don't have to carry him alone."
I looked at the "Check Engine" light blinking in my mind.
It was still there. The danger hadn't passed.
But tonight, the engine was cooling down.
"Thanks, Serena," I said.
"Don't thank me," she yawned. "Thank Eric. He's the one who swapped the regular bacon for turkey bacon in the fridge. Your dad is going to be so confused tomorrow morning."
I laughed quietly.
"He'll survive," I said. "As long as he's around to complain about it."
I took a sip of water.
One day down. Four years to go.
[Quest Update: The Check-Engine Light]
* George Sr. Health: Stabilized (Temporarily).
* The Conspiracy: Active.
* Sheldon: Weaponized Boredom (Sleep Aid).
* Eric & Serena: Logistics Support Confirmed.
* Larry Allen: The Safety Net.
***
**AUTHOR'S NOTE**
**If you are enjoying the story, please drop a Power Stone!**
I am trying to break into the Top 15 Rankings this week, and every stone helps the Coopers take over Texas!
This was a heavier chapter, but necessary. Next up, we bring back the comedy with the Return of the Gellers.