Date: Summer 1988 – Summer 1989 (The Montage).
Time is a funny thing. When you're a kid, a year feels like a decade. When you're a 38-year-old man trapped in a kid's body, a year feels like a training montage.
1988 was a blur.
Eighth grade was... easy.
We went undefeated again. 8-0. We won another district trophy. But it wasn't the same. The thrill of the "Mud Bowl" wasn't there. I was bigger, faster, and smarter than everyone else. It felt like playing Madden on "Rookie" difficulty.
The real battle wasn't on the field. It was in the kitchen.
[System Alert: Puberty Initiated]
* Caloric Demand: +200%.
* Sleep Requirement: 10 Hours.
* Mood: Irritable.
I ate everything. I ate Mary out of house and home. I ate four eggs for breakfast, two sandwiches for lunch, and whatever George Sr. left on his plate for dinner.
"Boy, you have a tapeworm?" Meemaw asked one day, watching me inhale a meatloaf sandwich.
"Growing," I grunted, my voice cracking mid-word.
And I *was* growing.
The Mahomes Template had been dormant, waiting for my biology to catch up. Now, it was accelerating everything.
In twelve months, I shot up four inches. My shoulders broadened. The baby fat on my face melted away, replaced by a jawline that looked like it was carved out of granite.
My knees ached constantly—growing pains—but I welcomed it. It meant the frame was being built.
***
The Pitcher
Date: April 1989.
Event: Little League Baseball Game.
I wasn't playing. I was sitting in the bleachers next to Sheldon, eating sunflower seeds.
On the mound, a girl with a ponytail was staring down a boy twice her size.
Missy Cooper.
She was wearing the glove I bought her for Christmas. It was broken in perfectly now, the leather dark with oil and dirt.
"Statistically," Sheldon said, reading a comic book, "Missy lacks the upper body mass to generate sufficient velocity."
"Shut up, Shelly," I said, spitting a shell. "Watch the hips."
Missy wound up. She didn't throw hard, but she threw *mean*. She had a natural sidearm delivery—something she picked up from watching me throw footballs.
*Whap.*
"Strike three!" the umpire yelled.
Missy pumped her fist. She looked at the stands. She wasn't looking for mom or dad. She was looking for me.
I tipped my cap.
She beamed.
It was working. In the original timeline, Missy felt invisible. She acted out because nobody paid attention to her. But now? She had a thing. She had confidence.
"She is... adequate," Sheldon admitted.
"She's a killer," I corrected. "Just like us."
***
The Invitation
Date: July 15, 1989.
Location: The Garage.
I was lifting.
I had upgraded the setup over the last year with money from the junkyard. I bought a used bench press from the high school when they got new equipment. The concrete floor was stained with sweat.
*Clank. Clank.*
135 lbs. Easy.
155 lbs. Doable.
185 lbs. The goal.
I racked the weight. I sat up, wiping my face with a towel.
The garage door opened. George Sr. walked in.
He looked older. The stress of the Varsity job was wearing on him. He had more grey in his hair. He was drinking a beer, but he looked serious.
He leaned against the workbench, watching me.
"You're getting big," he said.
"Trying, Dad."
George Sr. kicked a loose dumbbell.
"Varsity camp starts in two weeks," he said. "Two-a-days. Full pads. It's gonna be 100 degrees."
"I know."
"I'm inviting you," George said.
I froze. "I'm a Freshman, Dad. Freshmen play JV."
"I know the rules," George said sharply. "But I also know my roster. My starter from last year, Johnson, graduated. My backup is a senior named Stevens who couldn't hit the ocean from the beach."
He took a sip of beer.
"I'm not promising you the job, Georgie. In fact, I'm gonna be harder on you than anyone else. If you screw up, I'll bench you. If you mouth off, I'll run you until you puke. The boosters are gonna say it's nepotism. The seniors are gonna hate you."
He looked me in the eye.
"But if you're as good as I think you are... you can save my job."
It was the most honest thing he had ever said to me. He wasn't talking to his son. He was talking to his quarterback.
"I'll be there," I said.
George nodded. "Get a haircut. You look like a hippie."
He walked out.
***
The Mirror
Date: August 1, 1989.
Location: The Bathroom.
I stood in front of the mirror.
The transition was complete.
The kid from 1987 was gone. Staring back at me was a young man.
I was 5'10" (and growing). I weighed 165 lbs of lean, farm-boy muscle. My hair was thick and dark, styled in a messy-but-cool way (I refused to do the mullet, no matter what was fashionable).
I checked the System.
[Status Report: Summer 1989]
* Name: Georgie Cooper.
* Age: 14 (Freshman).
* Height: 5'10".
* Weight: 165 lbs.
* Strength: 45.0 (The growth spurt + lifting).
* Speed: 55.0 (Puberty unlocked the fast-twitch fibers).
* Durability: 60.0.
* Throw Power: 70.0 (The "Mahomes Arm" is waking up).
I flexed my right arm. The tricep popped.
I washed my face. I could hear Sheldon in the other room, complaining about his bow tie.
Today was the first day of practice.
Next week was the first day of High School.
And somewhere in this town, a girl named Veronica Duncan was about to transfer in.
I grinned at my reflection.
"Showtime."