There is a helpless feeling that comes with being a Quarterback. You can lead the drives, you can score the points, but when the other team has the ball, you are just a spectator with a good view.
I stood on the sideline, holding my helmet. My ribs throbbed in time with the drumline from the Odessa band.
"Defense! Bow up!" Coach Wilkins screamed, pacing the white line.
Odessa's offense was simple. They didn't run fancy plays. They didn't use motion or deception. They just lined up in the "I-Formation"—Quarterback, Fullback, Tailback—and ran right at you.
It was caveman football. *Me big. You small. I crush you.*
"First and Ten! Ball on the 40!"
The Odessa quarterback handed the ball to their tailback, a kid named 'Tank' who looked like he had a mortgage and two kids.
Tank hit the hole.
*CRACK.*
Our linebacker met him. It sounded like a car crash.
But Tank didn't stop. He churned his legs, dragging our linebacker for five yards before two other Medford players jumped on his back to bring him down.
"Gain of six!" the announcer boomed. "Second and Four."
"They're too big," Kyle Benson whispered, standing next to me. He was chewing his fingernails. "Look at the size of their legs."
"Physics, Kyle," I said, though I didn't fully believe it myself right now. "Low man wins."
"Tank is the low man," Kyle countered.
On the next play, they ran the exact same thing. Tank up the middle. Four yards. First down.
Then again. Tank off-tackle. Eight yards.
They were bludgeoning us. It was a slow, painful death. They were eating the clock and grinding our defense into dust.
I looked at the System overlay.
[Opponent Momentum: High]
[Medford Fatigue: Rising Rapidly]
[Probability of Scoring: 88%]
"We gotta do something," I muttered.
I walked near the defensive huddle as they came off for a timeout. They looked shell-shocked. Hands on hips, gasping for air.
Coach Wilkins and the Assistant Coach, Mr. Tate, were arguing.
"We need to stack the box! Put nine guys in there!" Wilkins yelled.
"If we do that, they'll throw play-action over our heads for a touchdown," Tate argued. "We have to respect the pass."
I looked at the field. I looked at Tank. Then I looked at their Quarterback.
He was standing on the Odessa sideline, drinking water, looking bored. He wasn't even talking to his coach.
I tapped into the "Adult Mind." I stepped closer.
"Coach," I said.
Wilkins spun around. "Cooper, get back on the bench."
"Look at their QB," I said, pointing. "He's drinking water. He hasn't thrown a warm-up pass in ten minutes. He's laughing."
Wilkins looked. I was right. The kid was joking with a lineman, completely unconcerned with the game.
"So?" Wilkins snapped.
"They don't respect us," I said quickly. "They aren't going to pass. They want to humiliate us. They want to run it down our throats every single play to prove a point."
Wilkins stared at the Odessa sideline. He watched the QB laugh.
Something clicked in Wilkins' eyes. The fear was replaced by anger.
"You're right," Wilkins growled. He turned to the defense.
"Forget the pass!" Wilkins ordered. "60 Defense! Everyone on the line! If they throw it, they score. But they ain't throwing it!"
The defense ran back out.
It was a gamble. If Odessa threw the ball, there was nobody back there to stop them.
**Third and Two. Ball on the 15-yard line.**
The crowd was screaming. *Touchdown! Touchdown!*
Odessa lined up. They saw our defense stacking the line. The smart move would be to check to a pass.
But I was right. They were arrogant.
The Odessa QB laughed. He tapped his helmet. "Run it! Run it anyway!"
They snapped the ball. Handoff to Tank.
Tank lowered his shoulder, expecting to plow through the line like he had all drive.
But this time, there were no gaps. We had eight guys shooting the gaps instantly.
Tank stutter-stepped, looking for a hole.
That split-second hesitation was all it took.
Our safety, a wiry kid named Billy who usually shied away from contact, came flying off the edge unblocked.
He didn't tackle Tank. He launched himself like a missile.
*WHAM.*
The sound was different this time. It wasn't a dull thud. It was a sharp crack of pads.
Billy hit Tank right in the hip. The impact spun the big runner around. The ball popped loose.
It tumbled on the grass.
"Fumble!" I screamed. "Ball!"
Bodies dove onto the pile. It was a chaotic mess of limbs and jerseys. The referees dug into the pile, pulling players off one by one.
The stadium went quiet.
The ref stood up. He pointed toward the Medford end zone.
"Defense recovers! First down Medford!"
"YES!" I punched the air.
Billy came running off the field, screaming. He looked like he had just won the lottery.
"Did you see that?!" Billy yelled, slamming his helmet into mine. "I knocked the shit out of him! I totally knocked the shit out of him!"
"Great hit, Billy!" I shouted.
I grabbed my helmet. The offense was up.
We had survived the first wave. But now we were backed up on our own 10-yard line, against an angry Odessa defense that had just been embarrassed.
I trotted onto the field.
The Odessa linebacker—the one with the gold tooth—was waiting for me. He wasn't smiling anymore.
"You got lucky," he snarled.
I looked at the scoreboard. **7-0.**
"Luck is for people who don't know the math," I said, channeling Sheldon.
I stepped into the huddle.
"Alright boys," I said. "90 yards to go. Let's make them quit."
[System Update]
[Momentum Shift: Medford]
[New Quest: The Long March]
[Objective: Drive 90 yards without a turnover]
I clapped my hands.
"Ready... Break!"