Date: November 14, 1987.
Location: Ballard's Sporting Goods.
My cleats were dead.
The clay from the "Mud Bowl" had dried into a concrete-like substance that cracked the leather. The soles were separating. They were honorable casualties of war, but they weren't going to survive the Championship.
"You smell like a locker room," Meemaw said, fanning her face as we walked into the store.
"It's the smell of victory," I said, limping slightly.
The bell above the door jingled.
Ballard's Sporting Goods smelled of rubber, gun oil, and indifference.
Behind the counter stood Dale Ballard. He was reading a newspaper, looking exactly like he did on TV—grumpy, weathered, and bored.
He looked up over his reading glasses.
"Connie," he grunted. "If you're here to return that cooler again, I told you, you already used it."
"I'm here to spend money, you old goat," Meemaw smirked. "My grandson needs shoes. His fell apart."
Dale looked at me. He squinted at the "M" on my jacket.
"You're George Cooper's kid," Dale said flatly.
"Yes, sir."
"Heard you won in the mud," Dale said, turning back to his paper. "Sloppy game. 7-6? That's not football. That's a bar fight."
"We won," I said defensively.
Dale stood up and walked around the counter. He looked at my destroyed cleats.
"You need high-tops," he muttered, kicking a box toward me. "Unless you want ankles like your daddy. Weak."
He wasn't trying to be helpful. He just hated seeing bad equipment.
While I laced up the stiff new Reeboks, Dale leaned against the counter, ignoring me and staring at Meemaw.
"You going to the Championship?" Dale asked.
"I might," Meemaw said. "Who they playing?"
"Carthage," Dale said. The name came out like a curse word.
I looked up. "You know them?"
Dale laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "Everybody knows Carthage. They're the only team in the district that plays dirtier than I used to."
He looked at me, his eyes cold.
"You think you're hot stuff because you beat Odessa in Week 2?" Dale asked.
"We beat them 21-7," I said.
"Yeah," Dale nodded. "Well, Carthage played Odessa last week in the other semi-final."
He paused for effect.
"Carthage won 35-0."
The room went silent.
35-0?
Odessa had almost killed me. Linebacker #54 had hit me so hard I saw stars for a week. And Carthage shut them out?
"Odessa is big," Dale explained, looking bored again. "But they're slow. Carthage is fast. And they chop block. They cut you at the knees while the ref is looking at the ball."
He pointed at my new shoes.
"Tie 'em tight, kid. If you try to stand in the pocket like a statue, you're leaving on a stretcher."
He rang up the register. "Forty bucks."
"Thirty," Meemaw countered. "Or I tell everyone you wear a girdle."
Dale glared at her. "Thirty-five. And get out of my store."
***
The Physics of Survival
We got home at 4:00 PM.
The news about Odessa had rattled me. If Carthage beat the team that almost broke me, my stats weren't high enough.
[Logic Check]
* Odessa Strategy: Pure Power (Strength 50).
* Carthage Strategy: Speed + Dirty Play.
* Georgie's Weakness: Knees/Joints (Durability 51 is okay, but joints are weak points).
I went to the room I shared with Sheldon. He was sitting at his desk, building a model of a DNA double helix out of colored pasta.
"Sheldon," I said. "I need a consult."
Sheldon didn't look up. "My rate is one Red Vine per minute."
"Put it on my tab."
I grabbed a piece of paper. I drew a crude diagram of a defensive lineman diving at a quarterback's knees.
"Hypothetically," I said. "If a player is diving at my knees at full speed... how do I not die?"
Sheldon spun in his chair. He adjusted his bowtie. He looked at the drawing with clinical interest.
"Ah," Sheldon said. "The chop block. Illegal in the NFL since 1979, but I assume middle school regulations are lax."
"Very lax," I said.
Sheldon picked up a red marker. He drew a vector line.
"It is a simple fulcrum problem," Sheldon said. "If you retreat, your leg becomes a fixed lever. Impact here—" he pointed to the knee "—causes catastrophic ligament failure."
I winced. "Okay. So what do I do?"
"You must disrupt the vector before it reaches the fulcrum," Sheldon said. "You cannot back up. You must step *forward*."
"Forward?"
"Yes. You must meet the force early, at the shoulder or helmet, before they reach the lower extremity. Aggression," Sheldon said, sounding weirdly like a football coach, "is the only variable that reduces the probability of injury."
I stared at the drawing.
Dale Ballard was right. Sheldon was right.
If I played scared, I would get hurt. I had to attack the attackers.
"Thanks, Shelly," I said.
"You owe me three Red Vines," Sheldon said, turning back to his pasta.
***
The Night Before
That night, the house was quiet.
I sat on the back porch, staring at the dark yard. The new cleats sat next to me, white and stiff.
The door opened. George Sr. stepped out. He held two Dr. Peppers.
He handed one to me.
"Thanks, Dad."
He sat in the lawn chair next to me. He looked tired.
"You hear about Odessa?" George asked quietly.
"Yeah," I said. "Dale told me. 35-0."
George nodded. He took a long sip of soda. "Carthage is the real deal, Georgie. They're fast. And they're mean. Coach Wilkins is worried."
"Are you worried?" I asked.
George Sr. looked at me. He didn't give me the "Coach" speech. He gave me the Dad look.
"I'm always worried," he admitted. " Every time you get hit, I hold my breath. Your mom... she can't even watch sometimes."
He squeezed the can.
"But I watched you against Kilgore," George said. "You didn't win that game because you were fast. You won it because you refused to go down."
He looked me in the eye.
"Carthage is gonna try to scare you. They're gonna hit you late. They're gonna talk trash. If you let them in your head, we lose."
"I know," I said.
"Don't play their game," George said. "Play your game. You're the smartest kid on that field. Use it."
He stood up.
"Go to sleep. We leave at 8:00 AM."
"Yes, Coach."
I watched him go inside.
I looked at the cleats. I thought about Odessa. I thought about the 35-0 score.
The System flickered to life.
[Quest Updated: The Championship]
* Opponent: Carthage (The Villain).
* Difficulty: Extreme.
* Objective: Survive. Win.
I picked up the shoes.
"Let's go to work."