Date: November 17, 1989.
Location: The Film Room / The Practice Field.
Event: Playoff Preparation (Round 1).
The locals called it "The Second Season."
The regular season was just a warm-up. A ten-game resume. But in Texas, nobody remembers your resume. They remember how you died.
I sat in the dark film room, the projector clicking rhythmically.
"Pause that," George Sr. barked.
The image froze on the screen. Grainy black-and-white footage of a team in red jerseys.
"Look at their safety," George said, pointing a laser pointer at the screen. "He cheats up on every run fake. Cooper, do you see it?"
"Yes, sir," I said, squinting. "He's aggressive."
"He's reckless," George corrected. "Burn him."
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my knee.
It felt strange to be here. November.
The last month—October—had passed in a blur. We played six games between the Highland Park miracle and the Jasper mud bath. Games against Gilmer, Tatum, Henderson.
I honestly couldn't remember the details of those games. They blended together into a montage of yellow bus seats, the smell of diesel, and the sound of pads cracking.
We won them all. Some were blowouts (Gilmer: 42-7). Some were ugly (Henderson: 13-6). But they were just... work. Punch the clock. Throw the touchdowns. Go home and ice the knee.
The only thing that stood out from October was the Geller invasion. Everything else was just the "Grind."
But the Grind was over. We were 10-0. District Champions.
And our reward?
We got to play the Tyler Lions.
***
The Matchup
"They're fast," Kyle Stevens whispered to me as the lights came back on.
"They're track stars in pads," I agreed.
Since we beat Jasper and secured the #1 Seed, we avoided Lufkin (the monster team George Sr. was terrified of). Lufkin was the #1 seed from District 12.
Instead, we drew the #4 Seed from District 12: Tyler.
But in East Texas, a #4 seed could still run a 4.4 forty.
"Okay, listen up!" George Sr. stood at the front of the room. He looked tired. The season was aging him. The grey in his mustache was spreading.
"Regular season means nothing now," George said. "You go 10-0? Great. You lose on Friday? You're 10-1 and you're cleaning out your locker."
He looked at the seniors. Bullard. Higgins.
"For some of you," George said softly. "This is the last week of organized football you will ever play. Think about that."
The room got quiet. Bullard stopped chewing his gum.
"Tyler is fast," George continued. "They like to spread the field. They want to get you in space and make you miss. If you try to hit them hard, you'll whiff. Break down. Wrap up. Do your job."
He looked at me.
"Cooper. You're the field general. Keep the offense on the field. Keep their speed off the field. Control the clock."
"Yes, sir."
***
The Home Front
That night, the tension in the Cooper house was different.
Usually, Friday week was loud. Meemaw making bets. Missy asking about gossip.
But Playoff Week was somber.
Meemaw was at the kitchen table, but she wasn't counting money. She was knitting. Aggressively.
"You nervous, Moonpie Number Two?" she asked without looking up.
"A little," I admitted, grabbing a glass of milk. "Playoffs are different. One mistake and it's over."
"Good," Meemaw said. "Fear keeps you sharp. Overconfidence is what kills you. Look at Custer. Look at Napoleon. Look at Mr. Henderson when he tried to double-or-nothing me on the Cowboys game."
She took a sip of her beer.
"I have two hundred dollars on you to win, by the way. Don't make me break your other knee."
"Thanks for the support, Meemaw."
Sheldon walked in. He was holding a notebook.
"I have calculated the probability of victory," Sheldon announced.
"I don't want to know," I said immediately.
"Based on Tyler's average points per game and our defensive yield," Sheldon ignored me, "the statistical model predicts a Medford victory. However, the margin of error is significant due to the variable of... 'Momentum.'"
He looked disgusted by the word.
"Momentum is a psychological fiction," Sheldon sniffed. "Physics does not care about your feelings."
"Sports isn't physics, Shelly," I said, ruffling his hair. "It's biology. Adrenaline. Fear. Heart."
"Heart is a muscle that pumps blood," Sheldon corrected. "If you are using it to win football games, I suggest you consult a cardiologist."
I smiled. Having Sheldon treat the biggest game of my life like a math problem was surprisingly comforting.
***
Friday Night: The Coin Toss
The stadium was packed. Not just full—overflowing. People were standing on the track.
The air was cold. November in Texas meant the humidity finally broke. It was "football weather." Crisp. Clear.
I stood on the sideline next to George Sr., blowing into my hands to keep them warm.
At midfield, Bullard and Higgins (our Captains) shook hands with the Tyler captains. The Tyler guys looked lean and twitchy. They wore dark visors that made them look like robots.
"They look fast, Coach," I muttered.
"Speed kills, Cooper," George grunted, chewing his gum nervously. "That's why we're gonna run right at them. Make them tackle."
The ref flipped the coin.
Bullard pumped his fist. We won the toss.
"We want the ball," Bullard mouthed.
George Sr. nodded. He turned to me.
"Alright. You're up. Punch them in the mouth early. Don't let them get comfortable."
I strapped on my helmet.
I looked at the stands. Mary was praying. Meemaw was smoking. Missy was waving.
This was it.
The Grind of October was gone. The "Blur" was over.
Now, every snap mattered.
I trotted onto the field. The grass was painted with the playoff logo.
"Huddle up!" I yelled.
The team gathered around. Their breath fogged in the cold air.
"Tyler is fast," I said, looking at them. "But fast guys break when you hit them. Let's make them regret getting off the bus."
I clapped my hands.
"Ready... Break!"
[Quest Update: The State Path]
* Objective: Win Round 1 vs. Tyler.
* Condition: Win or Go Home.
* Current Streak: 10-0.