Tuesday afternoon in the garage.
The air smelled like gasoline and saw dust. It was hot, but the garage door was open, letting in a slight breeze and the sound of cicadas.
I stood in the center of the concrete floor, holding a football.
Sheldon sat on a stool in the corner. He wasn't wearing pads or a jersey. He was wearing a checkered shirt, a bow tie, and holding a stopwatch.
"Commence trial one," Sheldon instructed. "Target: The tire swing. Distance: 15 yards. Velocity: Maximum."
I gripped the ball. I wound up. I threw.
The ball zipped through the air. It hit the tire with a dull *thud*, but it was slightly off-center. It wobbled in the air before hitting.
"Failure," Sheldon stated flatly.
"I hit the tire, Shelly," I argued, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"You hit the tire, but the spiral was imperfect," Sheldon said, looking at his notebook. "I calculated a yaw of 12 degrees. Your elbow dropped again."
He walked over to me, holding a ruler.
"The human shoulder is a ball-and-socket joint," Sheldon explained, tapping my arm. "When you throw to your left, you are compensating for a lack of core rotation by lowering your release point. It is biomechanically inefficient."
"Okay, Einstein," I said. "So how do I fix it?"
"You must disengage the hips *before* the arm motion begins," Sheldon said. "Think of yourself as a trebuchet, not a catapult."
"A trebu-what?"
"A siege engine," Sheldon sighed. "Just... twist your stomach before you throw your arm."
I tried it. I focused on my hips. *Twist. Throw.*
The ball hissed leaving my hand. It spun tight—a perfect spiral. It flew through the center of the tire without even touching the sides.
"Whoa," I whispered.
"Trial two: Success," Sheldon noted, scribbling furiously. "Rotation velocity increased by approximately 15%. Efficiency rating: High."
I looked at my hand. It felt different. Lighter.
In my old life, I had just thrown the ball. I had relied on talent. But this? This was engineering.
"You're a genius, Shelly," I said.
"I am aware," Sheldon replied without looking up. "Now, do it again. Fifty times. I need a larger sample size for my data."
***
Wednesday practice.
The mood on the field was heavy. Everyone knew who we were playing.
Odessa.
Coach Wilkins was yelling louder than usual.
"You think you can walk onto the field against Odessa and play patty-cake?" Wilkins screamed. "They breed linebackers in test tubes out there! They eat nails for breakfast! If you don't stay low, they will rip your heads off!"
The team looked terrified. Even Tiny looked nervous.
We were running "The Gauntlet"—a drill where you run between two lines of players hitting you with bags.
"Cooper! Get in there!"
I strapped my helmet on.
I ran. The bags slammed into me. *Whack. Whack.* I kept my feet moving. I lowered my shoulder.
I popped out the other side, still standing.
"Good!" Wilkins yelled. "Next!"
I jogged back to the line. Kyle Benson was standing there. He looked pale.
"My cousin played Odessa last year," Kyle whispered. "He said their safety knocked a kid's tooth out. Through his helmet."
"It's just a game, Kyle," I said, though my own stomach tightened.
"No, it ain't," Kyle shook his head. "It's Odessa."
***
That night at dinner, the tension followed me home.
I was pushing my peas around my plate.
"Georgie, eat your vegetables," Mom said.
"I'm not hungry," I mumbled.
"Is this about the game?" George Sr. asked. He was eating a pork chop, cutting it with surgical precision.
"We're playing Odessa," I said.
The fork paused halfway to George's mouth. He looked at me. "The Middle School? Or the B-Team?"
"The Middle School. But they run the same system as Permian."
George put the fork down. He took a sip of beer.
"Well," George said. "That's unfortunate."
"George!" Mary scolded. "Encourage the boy."
"I am being realistic, Mary," George said. "Odessa is a factory. They got kids who shave in the fifth grade." He looked at me. "They're gonna be bigger than you. Faster than you."
"Thanks, Dad," I said dryly.
"I ain't finished," George said. "They're bigger and faster. But they're arrogant. They think they've won before they get off the bus. If you punch 'em in the mouth early... they panic."
"Punch them?" Mary asked, horrified.
"Metaphorically, Mary," George rolled his eyes. "I mean you gotta hit 'em first. Score on the first drive. Make 'em doubt."
"Statistically," Sheldon piped up from his spot, "arrogance leads to underestimation of the opponent. It is a classic tactical error. See: Napoleon at Waterloo."
"Exactly," George pointed at Sheldon with his fork. "Be Napoleon's enemy. Whoever that was."
"The Duke of Wellington," Sheldon corrected.
"Right. Be the Duke," George said. "Don't let 'em scare you. They put their pants on one leg at a time. Just like you."
"Unless they are mutants," Missy added helpfully. "Then they might have three legs."
"Eat your dinner, Missy," Mary sighed.
I looked at my dad. He wasn't coddling me. He was giving me the game plan.
*Hit them first.*
I looked at Sheldon. He was eating his peas one by one.
*Use the mechanics.*
I took a bite of my pork chop.
"Okay," I said. "I'll be the Duke."
[System Quest Update]
[Opponent: Odessa]
[Strategy: Shock & Awe]
[Objective: Score on the Opening Drive]
The fear didn't go away. But it changed. It wasn't paralyzing anymore. It was fuel.
Odessa was coming. And for the first time, I felt like I had the weapons to fight back.