Date: November 21, 1987.
Event: District Championship Game.
Score: 14-14 (Start of 3rd Quarter).
"Tempo," I said in the huddle.
The guys looked at me like I was speaking Greek. In 1987 middle school football, you didn't run "tempo." You huddled, you walked to the line, you let the clock bleed.
"We don't huddle anymore," I explained, my voice calm but urgent. "As soon as the play ends, you sprint to the line. You look at me. I call the play. We snap it before they can breathe."
Tiny wiped sweat from his forehead. "We're gonna die, Cooper."
"No," I said, pointing at the Carthage sideline where their defensive tackles were sucking oxygen from a tank. "*They* are gonna die. We ran the gassers. Remember?"
Tiny nodded grimly. "I hate you. Let's do it."
***
The Suffocation
We broke the huddle for the last time.
"Green 18! Go!"
We ran a sweep. 4 yards.
Before the pile was even untangled, I was screaming. "Line up! Line up!"
The Medford offense scrambled back to the line of scrimmage. The Carthage defense was still high-fiving, walking slowly, talking trash.
They looked up and realized we were already set.
"Set! Hut!"
I snapped the ball while their defensive end was still adjusting his helmet. I hit Miller on a quick slant. 12 yards. First down.
"Line up!" I screamed again.
We did it again. And again.
The "Mahomes Template" wasn't just about throwing; it was about processing speed. I could read the defense in two seconds. The Carthage kids needed ten.
By the middle of the third quarter, the swagger was gone from the Carthage sideline. Their "Chrome Skull" helmets were hanging low. Their hands were on their hips.
[Enemy Status: Fatigued]
* Speed: -20%.
* Reaction Time: Slowed.
* Reason: They aren't conditioned for a track meet.
We marched down the field in three minutes. I punched it in on a QB sneak.
Score: Medford 21, Carthage 14.
***
The Cheap Shot
Carthage didn't quit. They were champions for a reason.
In the fourth quarter, they mounted a drive. Their running back broke two tackles and scored. They missed the extra point (middle school kickers are terrible).
Score: Medford 21, Carthage 20.
Time: 2:00 left.
Possession: Medford.
We just needed a first down to ice the game.
3rd and 8.
"Spread formation," I called at the line.
Carthage knew they were in trouble. Their coach was screaming. "Kill the quarterback! If he throws it, bury him!"
I took the snap.
The pocket held—Tiny was playing out of his mind, fueled by the adrenaline of winning.
I saw my receiver open on a deep cross.
I stepped up. I threw the ball. Perfect spiral.
*Wham.*
A split second after the ball left my hand, a Carthage linebacker drove his helmet into my ribs. It was late. It was dirty. It was meant to break me.
The air left my lungs in a violent *whoosh*. The ground rushed up to meet me.
[Critical Hit Received]
* Damage: High.
* Ribs: Bruised.
* Iron Chin: ACTIVATED.
I lay in the grass, staring at the stadium lights. The pain was blinding. It felt like I had been kicked by a horse.
I heard the whistle. I heard the flag.
"Personal Foul! Roughing the Passer!"
I rolled over. The Carthage player was standing over me, sneering. "Stay down, runt."
In the stands, I saw Mary cover her mouth. I saw George Sr. grip the railing so hard his knuckles turned white.
I thought about the tire flips. I thought about the mud in Kilgore. I thought about the diet.
*Pain is information,* I told myself. *And the information says I'm not broken.*
I grabbed Tiny's hand. I pulled myself up.
I didn't stagger. I didn't limp. I stood tall, ignoring the fire in my ribs.
I walked right up to the linebacker who hit me. I got in his facemask.
"Is that all you got?" I asked, my voice steady. "My little sister hits harder than that."
The linebacker blinked. He looked at me like I was a ghost. He had hit me with everything he had, and I was mocking him.
His eyes dropped. He looked away.
[System Update: Enemy Morale Broken]
***
The Dagger
The penalty gave us a first down, but we needed one more to run out the clock.
1:10 left. 3rd and 3.
If we didn't convert, we had to punt, and Carthage had a chance to win.
I walked to the huddle.
"Coach wants a run," Miller said. "Hand off to the back?"
I shook my head. "No. They'll blitz the gap. They'll crash inside."
I looked at the defense. They were expecting a safe handoff. They were bunching the line.
"Empty backfield," I said. "QB Draw."
The team looked at me. A QB Draw meant I was the running back. It meant I was running straight into the teeth of the defense.
"You sure, Cooper?" Tiny asked, looking at my ribs.
"I'm sure. Block the edges. I'll get the three yards."
We lined up. Empty set. Five wide receivers.
The Carthage defense spread out, terrified of the pass. The middle of the field was wide open... except for the middle linebacker—the guy who had just hit me.
"Blue 80! Hut!"
I took the snap.
I waited one second. I let the defensive ends rush upfield.
Then I took off.
I burst through the A-gap.
It was just me and the Linebacker. One on one.
He lowered his shoulder. He was ready to finish what he started.
I didn't juke. I didn't slide.
[Stat Check: Strength]
* Current: 32.0.
* Momentum: High.
* Desire: Maximum.
I lowered my shoulder.
*BOOM.*
We collided at the line to gain. It was the loudest hit of the game.
For a second, we were deadlocked. Stalemated.
Then, I heard Mr. Givens' voice in my head. *Drive your legs, boy! Use the mud!*
I drove. My Reeboks dug into the turf.
The linebacker stumbled back. One step. Two steps.
I fell forward.
The referee ran in. He spotted the ball.
First Down.
I lay on the ball, gasping for air. My ribs were screaming. My legs were burning.
But the clock was ticking.
0:50... 0:49...
The Carthage players didn't get up. They stayed on the ground, defeated.
I stood up. I looked at the sideline.
Coach Wilkins was throwing his hat in the air. George Sr. was hugging a random stranger in the stands.
I took a knee.
0:00.
FINAL SCORE: Medford 21, Carthage 20.
***
The Banner
The celebration was a blur.
Tiny lifted me onto his shoulders. The team poured the water cooler on Coach Wilkins. The parents rushed the field.
I slid down from Tiny's shoulders and looked for one person.
I found him near the endzone.
George Sr. was standing there. He wasn't cheering like the other parents. He was just watching me.
I walked over to him. I was dirty, bruised, and exhausted.
"We did it," I croaked.
George Sr. looked at the scoreboard, then back at me. His eyes were shiny.
"You ran the tempo," George said. "That wasn't Wilkins' playbook."
"They were tired," I shrugged. "Seemed like the smart play."
George Sr. laughed. He pulled me into a hug. It wasn't a gentle hug; it was a bear hug that smelled of Dr. Pepper and pride.
"You're a hell of a quarterback, son," he whispered.
I closed my eyes.
[Quest Complete: The District Championship]
* Reward: 500 XP.
* Stat Upgrade: Strength +1 (New Total: 33).
* Family Bond: George Sr. (Maxed).
* Reputation: Legend.
"Cooper! Cooper!"
The team was calling me. They were holding the trophy.
"Go," George said, pushing me toward them. "Go get your hardware."
I ran back to my team. I grabbed the cheap plastic trophy like it was the Lombardi.
I raised it in the air.
And in that moment, 38-year-old Michael faded away.
I was just Georgie Cooper. And I was a Champion.