Date: November 10, 1989.
Location: The Locker Room / The Mud Pit.
Event: Regular Season Finale vs. The Jasper Bulldogs.
In football, there is a phenomenon known as the "Trap Game."
It happens when a team beats a giant (Highland Park) and starts believing their own hype. They stop watching film. They start reading the newspaper clippings. They start thinking about the State Championship before they've even won the District.
And that is exactly where the Medford Wolves were.
"Check it out," Bullard said, leaning back in his locker. He was a Senior and one of the Team Captains, so he felt entitled to read the paper during prep time. "They have us ranked number four in the state. Number four! We're basically celebrities."
Tiny, sitting next to him, was eating a Snickers bar. Being a Freshman, he was just happy to be on Varsity.
"Does that mean we get jackets?" Tiny asked, mouth full of chocolate. "My cousin said State Champs get leather jackets."
"Focus, Tiny," I said, taping my left wrist. "We haven't won anything yet. The paper says 'Dark Horse.' That means they think we're lucky, not good."
"Luck, skill, whatever," Bullard shrugged. "We beat Highland Park. Jasper is gonna roll over and play dead. I bet I get three sacks tonight."
"Yeah," Tiny nodded, crumpling the wrapper. "And their line is small. I saw them in warmups. I'm gonna pancake 'em."
I looked around the locker room. It was loose. Too loose.
They had forgotten the golden rule of Texas High School Football: On any given Friday, any team can kick your ass.
George Sr. walked out of his office. He didn't look happy. He was holding a clipboard like he wanted to break it over someone's head.
"You boys having fun?" George asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Yes, Coach!" the team shouted, oblivious to the danger.
"Good," George said. "Because Jasper runs the Wishbone offense. It's ugly. It's boring. And if you don't stay in your lanes, they will run the ball down your throat for forty-eight minutes."
He threw the clipboard onto a bench. Clatter.
"But hey, you guys are 'Number Four in the State,' right? You don't need to focus. Let's just go out there and sign autographs."
He stormed out.
The room went silent.
"He's just grumpy because of his cholesterol," Bullard whispered.
"No," I said, standing up. "He's right. We're about to get punched in the mouth."
***
The First Half: The Sludge
It had rained all day. The field wasn't grass anymore; it was a swamp.
And Jasper didn't care about rankings. They were farm boys. They were big, slow, and mean. They didn't pass. They didn't run trick plays. They just lined up and ran right at us.
Dive. Pitch. Dive. Pitch.
Our defense, expecting a glorious aerial battle, was getting ground into paste.
On offense, it was worse.
"Hut!"
I took the snap. The ball was wet and slick like a bar of soap.
I turned to hand off, but the pocket collapsed.
Tiny, my Freshman center, got blown up. The Jasper nose tackle—a senior with a beard and breath that smelled like onions—shoved Tiny straight backward into my lap.
"Oof!" Tiny grunted as he fell on top of me.
We went down in a heap of mud.
SACK.
I lay face down in the sludge, spitting out dirt. Tiny rolled off me, looking terrified.
"He's strong, Georgie!" Tiny gasped, eyes wide. "He's like a tractor!"
"Get up, Tiny," I groaned. "Stop trying to out-muscle him. He's eighteen. You're fourteen. Use your leverage!"
By halftime, the score was Jasper 10, Medford 0.
***
The Halftime Speech
We walked into the locker room covered in filth. The arrogance was gone. Bullard was bleeding from his lip. Tiny looked like he wanted to cry. The "State Championship" leather jackets felt a million miles away.
We waited for George Sr. to scream. We waited for him to throw a chair.
But he didn't.
He just stood there, arms crossed, staring at us.
"Well," George said calmly. "The celebrities showed up. But where's the football team?"
Silence.
He looked at Bullard. "You're a Captain, Bullard. You said you were gonna get three sacks. You have zero. And two missed tackles."
Bullard looked at the floor.
"You thought you were done," George said to the room. "You thought because you beat the rich kids, you earned a ring. You haven't earned jack squat."
He pointed to the door.
"The playoffs start next week. If you lose tonight, you go in as the second seed. You play Lufkin in the first round. And Lufkin will murder you."
He turned his eyes to me.
"Cooper. You run this offense. Do you want to play Lufkin in round one?"
"No, sir," I said.
"Then fix it," George said. "I'm done coaching. You guys figure it out."
He walked into his office and shut the door.
The team looked at me. Panic was setting in. Tiny was shaking his head. "I can't block him, Georgie. I can't."
I stood up. I wiped mud off my face.
"Okay," I said. "Forget the rankings. Forget Highland Park. We're back in the mud. And the mud is where we live."
I looked at Tiny.
"Tiny, stop trying to be a hero. Just fall on him. Literally. Be a speed bump. Buy me two seconds."
I looked at Bullard.
"Stop head-hunting for sacks. Just do your job."
I grabbed my helmet.
"We win this ugly. Or we go home losers. On three. Mud Dogs on three."
***
The Second Half: The Grind
We didn't play pretty. We played angry.
We stopped throwing the ball. The rain was too hard. So we ran.
I handed it off. Smash. 3 yards.
I ran a keeper. Smash. 4 yards.
I handed it off again. Smash. 2 yards.
First down.
We marched down the field, four yards at a time, eating the clock, eating the mud.
Score: Jasper 10, Medford 7.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. We were on their 40-yard line.
"They're stacking the box," Kyle Stevens yelled from the sideline. "They know we're running!"
"I don't care," I panted in the huddle. "We're running it anyway."
"They have nine guys in the box, Cooper!" Bullard argued.
"Then we need to be smarter," I said.
I looked at the formation.
"Fake the dive," I told the running back. "I'm keeping it."
"You're gonna get killed," Tiny warned.
"Just block the Onion Guy," I said. "Please, Tiny. Just get in his way."
The Play.
"Hut!"
I faked the handoff. The entire Jasper defense collapsed on our running back.
Tiny didn't block pretty. He basically just dove at the nose tackle's ankles. It was ugly, but it worked. The tackle tripped.
I pulled the ball back. I tucked it tight.
I ran to the outside.
There was one man left. The safety.
He was waiting for me. He lowered his shoulder.
My knee throbbed. My ribs ached.
Durability Check: Passed.
I lowered my own shoulder. I didn't try to juke him. I didn't try to hurdle him. I became a battering ram.
CRACK.
The collision echoed over the field.
I spun off the hit. I kept my legs churning. The mud flew.
I fell forward.
I looked at the sideline marker.
First Down.
Three plays later, we punched it in.
Final Score: Medford 14, Jasper 10.
***
The Bus Ride Home
There was no cheering on the bus. No singing.
Everyone was exhausted. We were bruised, muddy, and humbled.
I sat near the front, icing my knee. Tiny was asleep in the seat behind me, snoring loudly, clutching a bag of ice to his shoulder.
George Sr. stood up in the aisle.
"That," George said, nodding slowly. "That was a football game. You played like garbage for twenty-four minutes. But you woke up."
He looked at us.
"Regular season is over. We are District Champs."
A tired cheer went up.
"Don't celebrate yet," George warned. "Because now the real season starts. Playoff football. One loss, and your locker gets cleaned out."
He sat back down.
I leaned my head against the cold window.
We survived the Trap Game. We survived the arrogance.
Now, we had to survive the bracket.
[Quest Complete: Regular Season]
* Record: District Champions.
* Lesson Learned: Humility (Especially for Tiny).
* Status: Playoff Bound.