Date: September 28, 1990 (Friday).
Location: Ratliff Stadium, Odessa, Texas.
Event: The "Mojo" Game.
Part 1: The Decibel Discrepancy
You don't just hear Ratliff Stadium; you survive it.
We were standing in the visitor's tunnel. It was a concrete throat that funneled the sound of twenty thousand people directly into our skulls.
Above us, the bleachers were shaking. A rhythmic, terrifying stomp. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It felt like being inside a drum while a giant beat on it.
I looked at Sheldon.
He was sitting on a metal equipment trunk, knees pulled to his chest. He was wearing his industrial-grade shooting earmuffs over his regular earplugs. He was furiously writing on a clipboard.
"You okay, Shelly?" I shouted over the noise.
Sheldon looked up. He didn't look scared; he looked offended.
"I have logged a complaint with the facilities manager," Sheldon yelled, his voice flat. "The decibel level at your Medford State Championship peaked at 94. This is currently oscillating between 110 and 115. That is a logarithmic increase, Georgie! It is the sonic equivalent of standing inside a jet engine!"
"It's just cheering, Sheldon," I said.
"It is inefficient!" Sheldon argued. "How are you supposed to calculate trajectory when the air pressure is fluctuating from the screaming?"
I smiled. Only Sheldon would worry about the physics of sound waves during a war.
"Just track the plays," I said. "Ignore the noise."
I turned to the team.
The Seniors were breaking.
Derek (Senior Center/Captain) was pacing. He was sweating through his jersey before we even took the field. He kept adjusting his pads, checking his helmet, finding imaginary problems with his gear.
Brad (Senior Safety) was staring at the floor, his leg bouncing nervously.
"They chartered planes, Georgie," Derek whispered to me, his eyes wide. "I saw the parking lot. There's an ESPN truck. Why is ESPN here for a high school game?"
"Because they want to see if the rich kids fold," I said, grabbing his shoulder. "Snap out of it, Derek. It's just a game. The field is the same size as Dallas."
"You don't get it," Derek hissed, pulling away. "You played in Medford! That was 3A ball! Those were farmers! This is the big leagues, Georgie. Listen to them!"
MO-JO! MO-JO! MO-JO!
Derek was right about one thing—the noise was different. But he was wrong about the pressure. A State Title game is a State Title game. I had been there. He hadn't. That was the difference.
George Sr. walked to the front. He looked small against the backdrop of the tunnel light. His face was gray. The beta-blocker Eric had slipped him was working overtime, but you can't medicate fear.
"Alright!" George yelled. "This is it! They think we're soft! They think we're rich kids who buy trophies! You go out there and you hit them in the mouth until they shut up!"
He looked at me.
Please don't let us get embarrassed.
The referee blew his whistle.
"Scots! You're up!"
We ran out of the tunnel.
The noise hit us like a physical blow. A wall of hate.
Welcome to the Badlands.
Part 2: The Mathematical Nightmare
I had played in big games. I had played in the Cotton Bowl against Carter.
But Permian was different.
They didn't just have athletes. They had a system.
We lost the coin toss (Stoney Case stared me down the whole time). They elected to receive.
Our defense trotted onto the field.
"Watch the wishbone!" Zach Thomas yelled from the sideline. Zach wasn't starting—politics kept him on the bench behind a Senior—but he was practically foaming at the mouth to get in.
Permian lined up.
Three running backs behind the quarterback. Tight ends on both sides.
It looked cluttered. It looked old-fashioned.
It was a lie.
"Hut!"
Stoney Case took the snap.
He didn't drop back. He turned and sprinted left.
Our defensive end, a Senior named Mike, crashed down to tackle him.
Stoney didn't panic. He waited until Mike was two feet away, then pitched the ball perfectly to Lloyd Hill.
It was effortless.
Lloyd Hill caught the pitch in stride. He was already running 4.4 speed.
Brad (our Senior Safety) took a bad angle. He tried to arm-tackle Hill.
Hill didn't even break stride. He stiff-armed Brad into the dirt and sprinted 40 yards.
The cannon fired.
Permian 7, Highland Park 0.
Elapsed time: 14 seconds.
"They're too fast," Derek gasped as the defense came off the field. "Did you see that? He didn't even touch him."
"We get the ball now," I said, putting on my helmet. "Let's go."
But our offense was worse.
The noise was deafening. I tried to call a cadence, but my tackles couldn't hear me.
"Blue 80! Blue 80!"
Derek snapped the ball late.
The timing was off. The Permian nose tackle, a kid named Bo who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast, blew past Derek and buried me.
We went three-and-out.
We punted.
Permian got the ball back.
Dive. Keep. Pitch.
Dive. Keep. Pitch.
It was hypnotic. They marched down the field in six plays.
Permian 14, Highland Park 0.
The first quarter wasn't over yet.
We were getting massacred.
Part 3: The Coward
The second quarter began.
The score was 14-0. The crowd was smelling blood. They were chanting O-VER-RA-TED!
On a 2nd and 8, I dropped back to pass.
I looked for Jimmy Smith. He was covered.
I looked for the check-down.
WHAM.
Derek got beat again. Bo, the nose tackle, drove him straight back into my lap.
I went down hard. My head bounced off the turf.
I lay there for a second, seeing stars.
"Get up, Georgie!" Larry Allen's voice rumbled above me. Larry grabbed my jersey and hauled me up.
But Derek didn't get up.
Derek lay on the ground, clutching his right knee.
"My knee!" Derek screamed, rolling back and forth. "It popped! Oh god, it popped!"
The trainers ran out. The stadium went quiet(ish).
I looked at Derek.
I looked at the play.
Bo hadn't hit his knee. Bo had hit him in the chest. Derek had fallen backward.
I walked over.
"Derek," I said quietly.
"It's torn!" Derek yelled, squeezing his eyes shut. "I can't walk! Get the cart!"
I stared at him.
In my old life—my real life before 1990—I had torn my ankle ligaments. I lost my scholarship. I lost my tire store dream for years. I knew the specific, sickening feeling of a career ending.
Derek wasn't pale. He wasn't in shock. He was breathing fast, but his color was fine.
He was quitting.
He was getting beaten on every play, humiliated in front of 20,000 people, and he wanted a way out that saved face.
A cold, hard rage settled in my chest.
I grabbed his facemask. I leaned down so only he could hear me.
"You liar," I whispered.
Derek's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"You aren't hurt," I hissed. "You're scared. You're quitting on your team because you can't block him."
"S-screw you, Georgie," Derek stammered. "It hurts."
"Get off my field," I said, letting go of his mask. "If you ever come back, I'll break it for real."
They carted him off. The crowd clapped politely.
I watched him go.
Texas football is a religion. You play hurt. You play tired. You play until you can't stand.
But you never, ever fake it.
Derek was dead to me.
George Sr. walked out to the huddle. He looked at me. He looked at the cart.
He knew. A coach always knows.
"We need a Center," George said, his voice tight.
I looked at the sideline.
"We need a tackle," I corrected. "Larry moves to Center."
"Larry's never played Center," George argued.
"Larry can block a truck," I said. "Put him at Center. Put Zach Thomas at Tackle."
"Zach is a linebacker!"
"He's a football player, Dad!" I yelled, my voice cracking with anger. "We need dogs! Not cowards! Put the dog in the game!"
George stared at me. He saw the fire. He saw the disgust I felt for what Derek just did.
He nodded.
"Thomas!" George roared. "Get your ass in here!"
Zach Thomas sprinted onto the field. He didn't look scared. He looked like he had been kept in a cage for a month and someone just opened the door.
Part 4: The Recruit Rise
The huddle changed.
The energy shifted.
Before, it was fear. Now, it was anger.
"Derek quit," I told them. "He quit on us."
Larry Allen looked at the spot where Derek had been lying. He spat on the turf.
"Weak," Larry rumbled.
"I'm playing tackle?" Zach asked, vibrating with energy.
"You're blocking the end," I said. "He didn't use textbook footwork. He just got low and drove."
"I can do that," Zach grinned. It was a terrifying grin.
"Jimmy," I said to Jimmy Smith. "They're playing press coverage because they think we can't throw. Run a streak. Run until your lungs burn."
"I got you, QB," Jimmy nodded.
"Break!"
We lined up.
Permian's defense was laughing. They saw a Sophomore linebacker lining up at tackle. They saw a confused offensive line.
"Easy meat!" Bo yelled.
"Blue 80! Set! HIKE!"
Larry snapped the ball. It was a shotgun snap. It came back like a cannonball.
I caught it.
Bo tried to rush up the middle.
He met Larry Allen.
Larry didn't block him. Larry absorbed him. He got his massive hands inside Bo's pads and violently torqued him to the ground. Bo hit the turf with a thud you could feel.
On the edge, the Permian defensive end tried to speed rush.
Zach Thomas didn't know the blocking scheme. He didn't use textbook footwork. He just got low and drove.
He launched himself like a missile at the defensive end's chest.
CRACK.
The sound of pads colliding echoed over the crowd noise. The end flew backward.
I had time.
For the first time all night, I had a pocket.
I looked deep.
Jimmy Smith was running.
Clifton Abraham's cousin was fast, but Jimmy was angry. Jimmy had an extra gear tonight.
I stepped up. I threw it.
The ball cut through the stadium lights. A high, tight spiral.
Jimmy went up at the 20-yard line. He high-pointed the ball, snatching it away from the defensive back.
He came down. He spun. He dragged a tackler to the 5-yard line.
The stadium went quiet.
The "Mojo" chant died in 20,000 throats.
I ran downfield.
Zach Thomas was standing over the defensive end he had flattened.
"Get up!" Zach screamed, pointing a finger at the guy. "We aren't done! Get up!"
The Permian player looked at Zach. He looked confused. Highland Park kids weren't supposed to hit like that.
Part 5: The Drive
1:15 left in the half.
First and Goal from the 5.
We were down 14-0. If we scored here, we had a pulse. If we failed, the game was over.
"Huddle up!" I yelled.
They gathered around.
Larry. Zach. Jimmy. Eric (who had run onto the field with water during the timeout).
The Recruits.
This was the team now. The Seniors were gone or irrelevant.
"They're tired," I said, breathing hard. "They sprinted for a quarter. Now they're getting hit. We punch this in. Right now."
"Give me the ball," a voice said.
I looked at our running back. It was Tim, a Junior. He looked scared.
"No," I said. "We're not running it."
I looked at Larry.
"Larry," I said. "Gap scheme. You pull. You hit the linebacker. I'm following you."
"QB Draw?" Larry asked.
"QB Power," I corrected. "I'm not sliding."
"Blue 80! HIKE!"
Larry snapped it, then pulled to the right. A 325-pound man moving with the grace of a dancer.
He met the Permian middle linebacker in the hole.
WHAM.
The linebacker disappeared. Larry erased him.
I tucked the ball. I put my head down.
I saw the goal line.
I saw a safety coming to hit me.
In my old life, I would have stepped out of bounds. I would have protected my career.
But I remembered Derek faking his knee injury. I remembered the cowardice.
I wasn't going out like that.
I lowered my shoulder.
I met the safety at the 1-yard line.
The impact jarred my teeth. My ribs screamed.
But I drove my legs.
Push. Push. Push.
I fell forward.
The white chalk of the end zone was under my face mask.
The referee raised his arms.
TOUCHDOWN.
Highland Park 7, Permian 14.
The silence of the crowd was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
I stood up. I spiked the ball.
I looked at the Permian sideline. Stoney Case wasn't smiling anymore.
I jogged to the sideline.
George Sr. grabbed me. "You okay?"
"My ribs are on fire," I gasped. "But we're alive."
"Good drive," George said. "Now get in the locker room. We have to figure out how to stop that damn Wishbone."
I walked toward the tunnel.
Sheldon was waiting there. He had lowered his earmuffs to look at me.
"Georgie," Sheldon said.
"Yeah, Shelly?"
"I have been tracking the plays," Sheldon said, pointing at his clipboard. "The Wishbone isn't random. Stoney Case has a tell."
I stopped. I looked at my genius little brother.
"A tell?"
"Yes," Sheldon said. "I can predict the pitch with 87% accuracy. He changes his foot placement by three inches."
I grinned.
"Come with me," I said, grabbing Sheldon's arm. "You're giving the halftime speech."
[Quest Update: The Cathedral of Noise]
* First Half Score: 14-7 (Permian).
* Leadership Shift: Complete (Derek Exiled, Recruits Rising).
* Sheldon Cooper: Asset Activated (Codebreaker).
* Injuries: Ribs (Critical but manageable).
[System Notification: The "Wishbone" Code has been detected.]
***
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