Date: September 19, 1989.
Location: The Cooper Kitchen / Medford High Library.
Event: The Eligibility Crisis.
In Texas, there are three branches of government: The Governor, The Church, and The UIL (University Interscholastic League).
And in 1989, the UIL had a rule that terrified my father more than heart disease: "No Pass, No Play."
If your grade dropped below a 70—in any class—you were ineligible for three weeks. No games. No traveling. Nothing.
"It's a sixty-eight," Mary said, holding my Spanish progress report like it was a death certificate.
"It's just a progress report," I argued, shoveling cereal into my mouth. "I have one test left to pull it up."
"It is a failing grade!" Mary cried. "Georgie, if you don't get at least an 80 on this next exam, your average stays below 70. You can't play against Highland Park. Your father will have a stroke."
George Sr. walked in, looking tired. He poured coffee.
"Who's killing who?"
"Georgie is failing Spanish," Mary announced. "He has a 68."
George froze. The coffee pot hovered in mid-air. He looked at me with genuine terror.
"Son," George said, his voice deadly serious. "You can wreck the car. You can burn down the shed. But you cannot fail a class before District play starts. A sixty-eight means you are benched. Period."
"I'll fix it, Dad," I said. "I just struggle with the conjugations."
"I don't care if you struggle with the alphabet," George grunted. "Fix it. Or you're running gassers until you vomit."
He grabbed his keys and left.
I looked at Sheldon, who was reading a textbook on Advanced Thermodynamics.
"Hey, Shelly," I said. "You got a minute?"
Sheldon didn't look up. "I am currently calculating the entropy of the universe. It is increasing. Much like my annoyance."
"I need help with Spanish," I said. "Just quiz me for ten minutes."
Sheldon finally looked up. He adjusted his bow tie.
"Georgie, Spanish is a Romance language derived from Vulgar Latin. Its rules are illogical and full of irregularities. Unlike the binary perfection of mathematics, it is messy. I have no interest in it."
"I'll buy you a new train set," I offered.
"I am not a prostitute for model locomotives," Sheldon sniffed. "Besides, my time is allocated for winning a Nobel Prize. You are on your own."
He went back to his book.
"Thanks for nothing," I muttered.
***
The Library
"You're late."
Veronica Duncan was sitting at a corner table in the library, popping gum. She had her boots up on a chair.
"I had to negotiate with a tiny dictator," I said, dropping my bag. "He refused to help."
"Your brother?" Veronica smirked. "He looks like he'd be good at homework."
"He's too smart for homework," I sighed. "He's moved on to solving gravity."
I sat down. We had been doing this for a week. I bought her lunch (usually a burger from the diner), and she grilled me on Spanish vocabulary.
It was a strange arrangement. The "Golden Boy" Quarterback and the "Goth" Transfer Student. People stared. Bullard had made a few jokes about me "dating a witch," but I shut him down by hitting him in the facemask with a pass during practice.
"Okay," Veronica said, opening the book. "Let's go. El Pretérito Indefinido."
"The what?"
"The past tense, idiot. Use it."
She pointed to a word. Comer (To eat).
"Yo... comí," I said slowly.
"Tu?"
"Comiste."
"Nosotros?"
"Com... emos?"
Veronica slapped the table with a ruler she had stolen from the front desk. Whack.
"Wrong!" she hissed. "It's Comimos. Comemos is present tense. Are you eating the taco now, or did you eat it yesterday?"
"I don't know!" I rubbed my forehead. "Why are there so many versions of one word? In football, a 'Dig' route is always a 'Dig' route."
Veronica rolled her eyes. She leaned forward. Her eyeliner was smudged, but her eyes were sharp.
"Listen to me, Cooper," she said. "You treat this like it's school. It's not school. It's a pattern. Like your stupid plays."
She grabbed my playbook (which I always carried) and flipped it open.
"Look," she said, pointing to a diagram. "Receiver goes here. Quarterback goes here. If the safety drops back, you throw short. If he steps up, you throw deep. Right?"
"Yeah."
"Spanish is the same thing," she said. "The ending is the safety. If it's 'Yo', the ending drops back to 'í'. If it's 'Nosotros', it steps up to 'imos'. Stop trying to memorize it and just read the defense."
I blinked.
My 40-year-old brain, which had been fighting the rote memorization, suddenly clicked.
Pattern recognition.
"Wait," I said. "So 'Ar' verbs are like a Cover 2 defense?"
"Sure," Veronica shrugged. "Whatever that means. Just conjugate Hablar."
"Yo hablé," I said confidently. "Tu hablaste."
Veronica smiled. It wasn't her usual smirk. It was a genuine, albeit small, smile.
"Not bad, College Boy. Not bad."
***
The Test
Two days later, I sat in Mrs. Cortez's classroom. The test was in front of me. I needed an 80 or higher to pull my average up to a passing 70.
Question 4: Translate 'We walked to the library yesterday.'
I closed my eyes. I didn't see words. I saw a football field.
Subject: Nosotros (The Formation).
Verb: Caminar (The Play).
Tense: Past (The Defense).
I visualized the safety dropping back. 'We' requires the 'amos' route.
I wrote: Nosotros caminamos a la biblioteca ayer.
I moved down the list. It wasn't easy—my brain still hurt—but it wasn't impossible anymore.
***
The Result
Friday morning. Game Day vs. the Plano East Panthers.
I walked into the kitchen. George Sr. was pacing. Mary was praying over the toaster.
"Well?" George asked. "Did you pass? Or am I starting Kyle tonight?"
I pulled the folded paper out of my pocket and slid it across the table.
George opened it.
Spanish I - Exam 2: 84 (B).
Current Class Average: 72 (Passing).
George let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. He slumped into a chair.
"Thank God," he whispered. "Seventy-two. That's a passing grade. You're playing."
"I passed?" Mary asked, rushing over. "Oh, Georgie! You're brilliant!"
"I'm not brilliant," I said, grabbing a piece of toast. "I just had a good coach."
"Sheldon?" Mary asked.
"No," I said. "Veronica."
Mary's smile froze. "The... the girl with the boots?"
"Yeah," I said. "She taught me to treat verbs like linebackers. She's smart, Mom. You should give her a chance."
Mary looked conflicted. She wanted to hate the "Bad Girl," but that "Bad Girl" had just saved her son's eligibility (and her husband's blood pressure).
"Well," Mary sniffed. "I suppose... the Lord can use anyone. Even... Goths."
***
The Lockers
I saw Veronica by her locker later that day. She was back in the leather jacket, looking unapproachable.
I walked up to her.
"Got an 84," I said. "Average is up to a 72."
She didn't look at me. She just kept organizing her books.
"Cool," she said flatly. "Does that mean I get a burger?"
"Double cheeseburger," I said. "And fries."
I pulled a crisp ten-dollar bill out of my wallet (junkyard money) and tucked it into her locker vent.
"Thanks, Coach," I said.
I walked away.
As I turned the corner, I looked back.
Veronica was holding the ten dollars. She was looking at it, and for a second, the tough "Bad Girl" mask slipped. She looked like a lonely kid who finally found someone who didn't want anything from her except help with homework.
She pocketed the money and slammed her locker shut.
[Quest Complete: Academic Eligibility]
* Reward: Start vs. Plano East.
* Relationship Update: Veronica (Level 2: Trusted Tutor).
* Skill Unlocked: Pattern Recognition (Applies to Language & Defense).