I had made a miscalculation. A painful, arrogant miscalculation.
In my previous life, I watched football evolve for thirty years. I saw the rules change to protect the players. I saw the birth of "Targeting" penalties, "Roughing the Passer" calls, and concussion protocols. I assumed that coming back to 1987 meant I would be the shark in a tank of minnows.
And technically, I was right about the skill level. They *were* slower. Their technique was sloppy. They over-pursued and ran bad angles.
But I forgot one crucial thing.
The violence.
In 2024, the game is a collision sport. In 1987, it was a combat sport.
Odessa wasn't trying to sack me. They were trying to retire me.
On second down, a defensive end raked his forearm across my facemask after the whistle. The ref didn't even blink. On third down, someone stepped on my ankle at the bottom of the pile.
*I underestimated the brutality,* I thought, limping back to the huddle. *The players are less athletic, but the game is harder. It's raw. It's a street fight in pads.*
My body was screaming. My left elbow was swollen. My ribs felt like a jigsaw puzzle that had been dropped on the floor. I was a Ferrari engine trapped inside a go-kart chassis, and the go-kart was falling apart.
"Huddle!" I barked, spitting out a piece of rubber from my mouthpiece.
The team gathered. They looked like survivors of a shipwreck. Tiny was bleeding from a cut on his nose. Miller was holding his side.
"We need yards," I rasped. "Ball is on the 25. Clock is ticking."
"They're teeing off, Georgie," Dave panted. "The linebacker... 54... he's shouting that he's gonna break your leg."
"I heard him," I said.
I looked at the defense. They were in a frenzy. The smell of blood was in the water. They knew I was hurt. They knew we were tired. They were going to blitz every single down until I didn't get up.
A rational Quarterback would curl up into a ball. A rational Coach would run a draw play and punt.
But I wasn't rational. I was pissed off.
I looked at the play I had promised Coach Wilkins. The Magic Trick. The one play that uses a defense's aggression against them.
"Statue of Liberty," I whispered. "On two."
The huddle went dead silent. You could hear the wind rattling the facemasks.
"Are you crazy?" Tiny whispered. "That takes too long to develop. You'll get killed."
"I know," I said calmly. "That's the point."
I looked at Dave. "You know what to do?"
"Yeah," Dave nodded, though he looked terrified. "Act like I'm blocking, then take the handoff behind your back."
"Exactly. Sell the pass. Everyone else, sell the pass. Make 54 believe I'm throwing it. Make him believe he has a free shot at the Quarterback."
"But Georgie..." Miller started.
"Break!" I shouted, cutting him off.
We walked to the line.
The crowd noise was a physical weight. The Odessa band was playing something frantic, a war drum beat that vibrated in my teeth.
I stood in the shotgun.
Number 54 was foaming at the mouth. He was right over the center. He wasn't even hiding the blitz. He was clawing the turf like a bull.
"I'm coming for you, Cooper!" he screamed. "I'm gonna put you in the hospital!"
I didn't say anything. I just stared at him. I locked eyes with the predator.
*Come on,* I thought. *Take the bait.*
"Blue 80! Blue 80!"
I raised my arm, signaling a pass. I pointed to the right, screaming a fake audible. "Rocket! Rocket! Check Rocket!"
54's eyes locked onto my arm. He bought it. He thought I was changing the play to a quick pass.
"Hut!"
The ball snapped.
54 exploded through the line. He came untouched. The center let him go. The guard let him go.
He had a clear, unblocked path to my chest.
I took the snap and immediately cocked my arm back to throw. I looked downfield, my eyes wide, selling the panic. I flared my elbow out.
54 launched himself. He left his feet. He was a 160-pound missile aiming for my ribs.
Time seemed to slow down.
I saw the gold tooth in his mouth. I saw the wild excitement in his eyes. He thought he had me. He thought he was about to end the game.
*Hold it... Hold it...*
I waited until I could smell the wintergreen on his breath. I waited until it was too late for him to change course.
Then, I brought the ball down behind my back.
*WHAM.*
54 hit me.
He hit me harder than I had ever been hit in my life. The air exploded out of my lungs instantly. My helmet snapped back, whiplashing my neck. I felt my ribs bend terrifyingly far.
I went down in a heap. 54 landed on top of me, driving my shoulder into the hard Texas dirt.
"Gotcha!" 54 roared, scrambling up to celebrate the sack. He pumped his fist. "Yeah! How do you like that! Sit down, little man!"
He danced over me. The crowd screamed.
But then, the screaming changed.
It shifted from a roar to a gasp. Then to a confused murmur.
54 stopped dancing. He looked around. He saw the referee running past him.
"Where's the ball?" he muttered.
He spun around.
While 54 was busy celebrating my murder, Dave had taken the ball from behind my back.
Dave was currently strolling into the end zone, untouched. There wasn't a defender within twenty yards of him. The entire Odessa defense was in our backfield, celebrating a sack that didn't matter.
The referee raised his arms.
**Touchdown.**
I lay on the grass. My chest felt like it was on fire. I tasted copper in my mouth. Every breath was a jagged knife.
But I started laughing. A wheezing, painful, breathless laugh.
54 looked down at me. His face went from triumph to horror. He looked at the scoreboard.
**Medford: 20 - Odessa: 7**
"You..." 54 stammered. He looked at my crumpled form. "You let me hit you."
I sat up, wincing as a bolt of pain shot up my spine. I tapped my temple.
"Precision," I gasped. "Beats power."
***
**The Aftermath**
The rest of the game was a blur of adrenaline and pain management.
Odessa didn't recover. The Statue of Liberty play didn't just score points; it broke their spirit. They realized they had been played. 54 was so angry he started making mistakes, overrunning plays and missing tackles.
Our defense, energized by the lead and the sheer audacity of the fake, held the line. Billy got another sack. The secondary batted down desperation heaves.
When the clock hit 0:00, the scoreboard read:
**Medford: 21 - Odessa: 7**
The Medford sideline emptied. The team rushed the field. Tiny picked me up—which was a terrible idea because my ribs were definitely bruised—and hoisted me into the air.
"We did it!" Tiny yelled, tears streaming down his face. "We beat Odessa! We beat the giants!"
I looked around. The Odessa fans were silent. They were filing out of the stadium, heads down. The "Vatican of Football" had been silenced by a bunch of nobodies from East Texas.
Coach Wilkins was crying. Actually crying. He hugged the Assistant Coach like he'd just won the Super Bowl.
I felt a vibration in my mind.
[System Notification]
[Mission Complete: The Giant Killers]
[Grade: S]
[Rewards:]
1. +2000 XP
2. New Title: "The King Slayer" (Intimidation +20 against favored teams)
3. Skill Unlocked: "Iron Chin" (Pain resistance increased by 15%)
I grinned. *Iron Chin.* I was going to need that.
The adrenaline was starting to fade, and the pain was coming in waves now. My shoulder throbbed. My neck was stiff. I limped toward the sideline, just wanting to sit down.
As I reached the bench, I saw a shadow loom over me.
It was George Sr.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't cheering like the other parents. He looked serious, his hands tucked into his pockets.
He walked up to me, looked at my bruised face, and the grass stains on my jersey. He looked at the way I was holding my ribs.
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"You got beat up pretty bad out there," he said. His voice was gruff, but not angry.
"I'm fine," I lied.
"No, you ain't," he said. "You're gonna feel that tomorrow. And the day after."
He paused, looking awkward. Emotional moments weren't his thing. He looked at the scoreboard, then back at me.
"But you took it," he said softly. "You took the hit to make the play. That takes guts."
He gave my shoulder a squeeze—gentle this time.
"Proud of you, son," he mumbled. Then he patted my shoulder twice and walked away quickly, heading toward the parking lot before it got too weird.
I watched him go.
For the first time since I woke up in this timeline, I felt it.
I wasn't just surviving. I wasn't just a System user gaming the mechanics. I was a football player.
I looked up at the dark Texas sky. The stars were bright.
Odessa was down. The legend was dead.
But as I limped toward the locker room, I knew one thing.
This was just the beginning.