Date: August 7, 1989.
Location: Medford High School Practice Field.
Temperature: 102°F (Humidity: 90%).
If you've never experienced "Two-A-Days" in East Texas, you haven't experienced hell.
The air was so thick you could chew it. The grass was dead and brown, crunchy under our cleats. The heat radiated off the ground in shimmering waves, making the goalposts look like they were melting.
I stood on the sideline, holding my helmet.
I wasn't wearing the "M" jacket anymore. I was wearing a mesh practice jersey that smelled like twenty years of unwashed sweat. It was too big for me.
"Freshmen!" a senior yelled, spitting tobacco juice near my new cleats. "Water! Now!"
That was the hierarchy.
In Middle School, I was the "King Slayer." I was the Champion.
Here? I was a Freshman. I was pond scum. I was the guy who carried the water cooler for the Seniors who had beards and drove pickup trucks.
"Yes, sir," I said, jogging over to grab the bottles.
Tiny was next to me, struggling to carry a rack of water. He looked terrified.
"That guy," Tiny whispered, nodding at a defensive lineman with a neck roll and a mullet. "That's Bullard. He benches 300 pounds. He said if I mess up a block, he's gonna eat me."
"Just hold your ground, Tiny," I said. "They bleed just like we do."
"Easy for you to say," Tiny grumbled. "You're the Coach's son."
I looked at George Sr.
He was standing at midfield, wearing his trademark polyester shorts and a whistle. He wasn't looking at me like a father. He was looking at me like a drill sergeant waiting for a recruit to drop his rifle.
"Alright!" George Sr. blew the whistle. "Offense! Skeleton drills! Quarterbacks, warm up!"
This was it.
***
The Incumbent
I jogged over to the QB line. There were two of us.
[Target Analyzed: Kyle Stevens]
* Role: Senior Starter.
* Build: Lanky.
* Arm Strength: D-
* Personality: Nice guy. Valedictorian candidate.
Stevens smiled at me. He had perfect teeth and a haircut that belonged in a boy band.
"Hey, Georgie," Stevens said. "Glad you're out here. Just try to keep the ball low so it doesn't get picked off, okay?"
He was patronizing me. He didn't see me as a threat. He saw me as a mascot.
"Right," I said. "Keep it low."
George Sr. walked over. "Stevens, you're up first. Post corner."
Stevens stepped up. "Blue 42! Hut!"
He took a three-step drop. His footwork was clean. But when he threw the ball, it came out like a wounded duck. It wobbled through the air. The receiver—a fast senior named Higgins—had to slow down to catch it.
"Nice spiral, Stevens!" one of the linemen lied.
George Sr. grimaced. He marked his clipboard. "Cooper! Get in there!"
The seniors groaned.
"Come on, Coach," Bullard complained. "We gotta catch passes from the freshman? I don't want to bend down to pick up ground balls."
"Shut up, Bullard," George snapped. "Run the route."
I stepped to the line. I felt the weight of thirty pairs of eyes.
I gripped the ball. My new hand size (from puberty) made the high school ball feel comfortable.
"Green 19! Hut!"
I took the drop. Fast. Explosive.
I saw Higgins running the post. He was jogging, expecting a short throw.
I planted my back foot.
*Torque.*
The Mahomes mechanics kicked in. The hip rotation. The arm angle.
I unleashed it.
The ball hissed. It spun so tight it looked like a line drawn in the air. It flew forty yards in a heartbeat.
Higgins realized too late that the ball was actually coming. He had to sprint to catch up.
The ball hit him in the chest numbers with a loud *THWACK*.
Higgins stumbled, almost dropping it because of the velocity, but he hauled it in.
Silence.
Absolute silence on the practice field.
Bullard lowered his water bottle. Stevens stared at me, his nice smile frozen.
George Sr. stared at the receiver. Then he looked at me. His face was stone cold.
"Little high, Cooper," George grunted. "Don't kill my receivers. Next rep."
He didn't praise me. But the silence spoke loud enough.
***
The Dinner Table Politics
That night, the air conditioning in the Cooper house was struggling to keep up with the heat.
We were eating meatloaf. The mood was weird.
"So," Mary asked, looking between George and me. "How was the first day? Did everyone play nice?"
"It was hot," George mumbled, shoveling potatoes into his mouth. He was avoiding eye contact.
"Georgie?" Mary pressed.
"It was fine," I said, reaching for the salt. "Carried a lot of water."
"I heard different," Missy said. She was poking her peas with a fork. "Billy Sparks told me his brother is on the team. He said Georgie threw a ball so hard it left a bruise on Higgins' chest."
Mary dropped her fork. "George! Is that true? Are you letting him hurt people?"
"It's football, Mary," George sighed. "People get hit."
"But he's a freshman!" Mary argued. "Those boys are eighteen years old. They have facial hair!"
"Speaking of biology," Sheldon interrupted, looking up from his plate. He was wearing a napkin tucked into his shirt like a bib. "I have analyzed the social hierarchy of the football team based on Georgie's description. It is essentially a primate troop. The 'Seniors' are the Silverbacks. Georgie is the encroaching younger male. Violence is inevitable."
"Thank you, Sheldon," I said dryly. "Very comforting."
"You are welcome," Sheldon nodded. "I suggest you display submission behaviors. Perhaps grooming Bullard's mullet would establish a bond."
Missy snorted milk out of her nose.
George Sr. finally looked at me. There was a weird look in his eye—half pride, half fear.
"Nobody's grooming anyone," George said. "But Sheldon's not wrong about the target. You turned some heads today, son. Stevens isn't gonna like that. And neither are his friends."
"Is Stevens the nice boy who helped carry the hymnals at church?" Mary asked.
"Yes," George said.
"Oh, I like him," Mary said. "He has lovely manners."
I looked at my dad. We shared a silent look. *Manners don't win football games.*
***
The Locker Room Reality
The next day, the "Nice Boy" mask fell off.
Practice ended. I walked into the locker room, exhausted.
I found my locker. It was in the corner, next to the bathroom. The "Freshman Corner."
I sat down and started unlacing my cleats.
A shadow fell over me.
It was Higgins, the receiver I had hit with the laser beam. He was a Senior. A captain.
He wasn't smiling.
"Cooper," he said.
"Yeah?"
Higgins pulled down the collar of his shirt. There was a red mark where the nose of the football had hit him.
"You throw that hard again," Higgins said quietly, "you better make sure it's accurate. Because if you lead me into a safety with that much heat, I'll kill you."
It was a threat. But it was also acceptance. He wasn't telling me to stop throwing. He was telling me to *lead* him.
"Yes, sir," I said.
Higgins nodded and walked away.
I looked over at Stevens' locker. He was laughing with his friends, but I saw him glancing at me. The nice guy from church was gone. He knew.
He knew his job was gone.
[System Update]
* Reputation: "The Arm."
* Rivalry: Active.
* Family Status: Mary worries; George knows the truth.
I closed my locker.
Day 1 survived.