Date: September 29, 1989.
Location: Medford High Stadium.
Event: Medford Wolves vs. Highland Park Scots.
The difference between a rich school and a poor school isn't just the uniforms. It's the nutrition.
The Highland Park players looked like they were fed a steady diet of premium steak and growth hormones. Their linemen were 250 pounds of solid muscle. Their quarterback was 6'3" and looked like he was already pre-approved for a mortgage.
Across the field, our offensive line looked like a collection of spare parts. Tiny (our center) was fat, not muscular. Bullard was mean, but undersized.
"Look at the size of them," Kyle Stevens whispered on the sideline. "That Number 55 has a mustache. He's a grown man."
"He's just a kid with good genetics," I said, tightening my chinstrap. "Big trees fall hard, Kyle. Just be ready."
The stands were packed.
On the Home side: Denim, trucker hats, and Meemaw smoking a cigarette with the intensity of a dragon guarding gold.
On the Visitor side: Fur coats (in September?), suits, and a cheerleading squad that did flips in perfect unison.
Up in the VIP box—usually reserved for the Superintendent—I saw a flash of blonde hair. Serena. Sitting next to a man in a cowboy hat (Bob Sterling). She looked bored.
Let's wake her up.
***
The First Half: Reality Check
The game started exactly how the experts predicted.
Highland Park punched us in the mouth.
Their defensive line didn't just rush; they swarmed. On the first drive, I got sacked twice. The second time, their linebacker (the one from Houston) drove me into the dirt so hard my teeth rattled.
"Stay down, farm boy!" he barked.
I spat out a blade of grass. Durability 60. It hurt, but nothing was broken.
"Nice hit," I grunted, helping myself up.
By the second quarter, it was 14-0 Highland Park.
The crowd was quiet. George Sr. was pacing the sideline, his face a dangerous shade of purple. The Boosters were already whispering.
"We can't block them, Coach!" Tiny yelled, gasping for air. "They're too fast!"
"Stop making excuses!" George roared.
I walked over to the offensive huddle. They looked defeated. They were intimidated by the wealth, the size, the reputation.
"Hey!" I clapped my hands. "Look at me."
They looked up.
"They're faster than us," I admitted. "They're stronger than us. But they're disciplined. They do exactly what their fancy coaches tell them to do."
I grinned.
"So let's stop running plays. Let's start playing football."
***
The Second Half: Street Ball
The third quarter began.
I dropped back to pass. The pocket collapsed instantly. The Highland Park defensive ends crashed in.
Normally, a QB would curl up and take the sack.
But I wasn't a normal QB. I was a 40-year-old soul with the spatial awareness of an NFL MVP.
Mahomes Vision activated.
I felt the pressure from the left. I spun out—a full 360-degree pirouette. The linebacker grabbed at air.
I rolled right. The structured Highland Park defense didn't know what to do. They were trained to cover specific zones, not chase a ghost.
I pointed downfield.
"Go deep!" I yelled at Higgins.
Higgins, who had given up on the route, suddenly sprinted.
I threw it. Not a perfect spiral, but a laser beam.
Thwack.
Higgins caught it at the 20-yard line. He was tackled immediately, but the damage was done. 40-yard gain.
The Medford stands exploded.
Two plays later, I faked a handoff, hid the ball behind my back (the dark arts of ball handling), and walked into the endzone while the entire defense tackled our running back.
Highland Park 14, Medford 7.
I looked up at the VIP box. Serena was standing up. She was leaning against the glass.
***
The Fourth Quarter: The Bet
With two minutes left, the score was 21-17 Highland Park.
We had the ball on our own 10-yard line. 90 yards to go. No timeouts.
"This is it," I told the huddle. "Two-minute drill. Don't look at the scoreboard. Look at me."
We moved the ball. A slant to Kyle (who was playing slot receiver now). A screen pass to Bullard. I scrambled for a first down, sliding just before their safety could take my head off.
0:08 seconds left. Ball on the 5-yard line.
Highland Park called a timeout.
"They're gonna blitz," George Sr. said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "They want to end this. We should run a draw."
"No," I said. "They expect a conservative play. Let's run 'The Annexation.'"
George looked at me. "The what?"
"Little Giants?" I asked. "Never mind. Just... let me roll out. Give me an option to run or throw."
George looked at the scoreboard. Then at Mr. Stevens in the stands. Then at me.
"Do it," he whispered. "Don't make me look stupid, son."
We broke the huddle.
Highland Park crowded the line. Their linebacker (Mr. Houston Condo) was grinning. He knew he was about to crush me.
"Hut!"
The blitz came. Six guys.
I didn't drop back. I stepped up.
I ducked under the first arm. I stiff-armed the defensive end (Strength 45 isn't much, but leverage is physics).
I was in the open field. The endzone was five yards away.
But the safety was there. He was big. He lowered his shoulder to punish me.
In the VIP box, I imagined Serena wincing. In the stands, I knew Mary was praying.
I didn't slide.
I jumped.
It wasn't a graceful hurdle. It was an ugly, flailing leap. But my knees cleared his helmet.
I crashed into the endzone. The ball hit the grass.
Silence.
Then, the referee threw his hands up.
TOUCHDOWN.
Final Score: Medford 24, Highland Park 21.
***
The Aftermath
The stadium turned into a riot. People were hugging. Meemaw was counting a stack of cash she had just collected from a very unhappy man in a polo shirt.
"That's fifty bucks plus interest!" Meemaw cackled.
I lay on the ground for a second, staring at the Friday night lights. My ribs ached. My knee was bleeding.
I stood up.
The Highland Park players were stunned. They walked off the field without shaking hands, heading straight for their air-conditioned bus.
Except for one person.
I looked up at the VIP box.
Bob Sterling looked furious. He was yelling at someone on his giant brick cell phone.
But next to him, Serena van der Woodsen was clapping.
She wasn't cheering wildly. She was just clapping, a slow, deliberate applause. She caught my eye.
She raised her stolen champagne flute (which she had snuck into the box) in a toast.
Not bad, Mothball, she mouthed.
I gave her a tired salute.
George Sr. grabbed me in a bear hug that smelled like cheap cologne and victory.
"You crazy son of a bitch!" George yelled, forgetting he was a deacon. "You jumped him! You actually jumped him!"
"I told you, Dad," I wheezed. "Big trees fall hard."