Date: November 21, 1987.
Event: District Championship Game.
Location: Henderson High School Stadium (Neutral Site).
The locker room smelled of nervous sweat and icy-hot.
"Gassers," Coach Wilkins said, pacing the concrete floor.
The team flinched at the word. To a civilian, a "gasser" sounds funny. To a football player, it's torture. It's sprinting from one sideline to the other—four times—without stopping. It's the feeling of your lungs burning and your legs turning to jelly.
"You hated them," Wilkins said, looking at Tiny. "You complained every time I blew the whistle. But you ran them."
He turned to the whiteboard. He wrote one word: CARTHAGE.
"These guys? They beat Odessa 35-0. They're fast. They're mean. They haven't run a gasser in their lives because they win by halftime. They don't know what it's like to be tired."
Wilkins stopped. The room was dead silent.
"Nobody expects you to win," Wilkins said softly. "The papers picked Carthage. The guy selling popcorn picked Carthage. Hell, half your parents probably packed a consolation snack."
Miller chuckled nervously.
"But talent doesn't win in the fourth quarter," Wilkins roared, slamming his hand on a locker. "Conditioning does! Heart does! Now, who's ready to suffer?"
"YEAH!" The team screamed, the tension breaking.
I stood up. I tightened the laces on my new high-top Reeboks.
My hands weren't shaking.
[Passive Skill Activated: The Clutch Gene]
* Source: Patrick Mahomes Template.
* Effect: Lowers heart rate in high-pressure environments.
* Status: Ice Cold.
Kyle Benson, the backup QB, was vibrating with anxiety. "Cooper, aren't you scared? They haven't given up a point in two months."
I looked at him. I thought about all the YouTube videos I watched in my old life. The speeches by Ray Lewis. The interviews with Tom Brady.
I channeled a quote that wouldn't be famous for another twenty years.
"Pressure," I said calmly, grabbing my helmet, "is something you feel when you don't know what the hell you're doing."
Kyle blinked. "What?"
"We know what we're doing," I said. "Let's go."
***
The First Punch
The game started with a disaster.
Carthage came out in all-black uniforms. They looked like a SWAT team. They looked like they belonged in a high school movie as the villains.
They won the toss and elected to receive.
On the opening kickoff, their return man—a kid named "Speedy" Gonzalez (I wish I was kidding)—caught the ball at the five. He made one cut, accelerated past our coverage team, and ran 95 yards for a touchdown without being touched.
Score: Carthage 7, Medford 0.
Time Elapsed: 12 seconds.
The Medford sideline deflated instantly.
"It's over," Miller muttered, throwing his hands up. "35-0, here we come."
I grabbed Miller's facemask.
"Hey!" I barked. "That was special teams. The offense hasn't even taken the field yet. Wake up!"
I trotted onto the field. The Carthage defense was dancing. They were pointing at us, laughing.
"Fresh meat!" their defensive end yelled. He was a lean, twitchy kid with tape on his wrists. "I'm gonna break your legs, pretty boy!"
I lined up in the shotgun. I looked at him.
He wasn't in a normal stance. He was leaning forward, his weight entirely on his toes. He looked like a sprinter coming out of the blocks.
*He's coming low,* I realized. *Dale Ballard was right.*
"Blue 80! Set! Hut!"
I took the snap.
The defensive end didn't rush upfield. He launched himself like a torpedo directly at my left knee.
It was happening. The chop block.
If I had been a normal 12-year-old, instinct would have made me jump back. I would have tried to retreat. And because my foot would have been planted, my knee would have snapped sideways.
[Physics Calculation: Disrupt the Vector]
* Advice: Sheldon Cooper / Dale Ballard.
* Action: Step into the force.
I didn't back up.
I stepped *forward*.
I drove my new high-top Reebok into the turf and stepped directly into the path of the diving lineman. I dropped my hip and drove my thigh into his helmet.
*CRACK.*
It hurt. A dull thud echoed through my leg. My "Durability" bar flashed yellow.
But I didn't buckle.
By stepping in, I jammed his neck. He crumpled to the ground, the momentum killed instantly.
I was still standing.
I looked downfield. The cornerbacks had bailed out, expecting a sack. Miller was standing alone in the flat.
I flicked my wrist. The ball zipped out.
Miller caught it, turned upfield, and gained eight yards before the safety laid him out.
I looked down at the defensive end. He was rolling on the ground, clutching his neck.
"Get up," I said, channeling my inner 'King Slayer.' "If you're gonna cheat, do it harder."
***
The Magic
The first quarter was a brawl.
Carthage played dirty. They pinched at the bottom of piles. They twisted ankles. But every time they tried to break us, we just... absorbed it.
Score: Carthage 14, Medford 7.
Time: 2nd Quarter. 0:45 left.
We were driving. Ball on the Carthage 30-yard line. 4th and 5.
Coach Wilkins signaled for a punt, then stopped. He looked at me. He saw I wasn't panicked. He signaled "Go for it."
I nodded.
"Trips Right. Kansas City Special."
The defense showed blitz. All of them.
"Hut!"
The pocket collapsed instantly. Carthage sent six guys. Tiny got beat on the edge. A linebacker came free up the middle.
This was it. A sack meant turnover.
But this was the Mahomes Moment.
[Active Skill: Mahomes Magic]
* Effect: Chaos creates Opportunity. Time slows down.
I felt the pressure before I saw it. I ducked under the linebacker's grabbing arms. I spun to my left—directly into the path of the defensive end.
He dove low again.
I didn't step into him this time. I hurdled.
It wasn't a clean hurdle—my foot clipped his helmet—but I stumbled out of the tackle, keeping my balance with a hand on the ground.
I was scrambling left. My body was moving toward the sideline. The entire defense chased me.
But my eyes were downfield.
I saw Miller. He was running across the back of the endzone, shadowed by a defender.
A normal QB stops and runs out of bounds.
I didn't stop.
I planted my left foot, twisted my torso against the momentum, and threw the ball.
I didn't throw it overhand. I threw it sidearm, whipping it around the defender's helmet like I was skipping a stone.
*The No-Look Pass.*
I was looking at the safety, freezing him in place with my eyes, while the ball flew to the back pylon.
Silence.
Then...
*Thud.*
Miller caught it. He tapped two feet in bounds before tumbling out.
The referee raised his arms.
TOUCHDOWN.
The Medford sideline erupted. I saw George Sr. in the stands—he jumped up so fast his red cap fell off.
I jogged to the endzone.
The Carthage players looked confused. They had done everything right. They had blitzed. They had hit me. They had covered the receivers.
"How did he do that?" the Carthage safety screamed at his coach. "He wasn't even looking!"
I adjusted my shoulder pads. I looked at the scoreboard.
Carthage 14, Medford 14.
I walked over to Tiny. He was panting, his jersey covered in grass stains.
"They're tired," I said, pointing to the Carthage defensive linemen. They were hands-on-knees, gasping for air. They weren't used to chasing a quarterback who wouldn't go down.
"So what do we do?" Tiny asked.
I smiled.
"We stop being cute," I said. "Second half, we go tempo. No huddle. We run those gassers for real."