Date: September 28, 1990 (Friday).
Location: Ratliff Stadium, Odessa, Texas.
Event: The "Mojo" Game (The Final Play).
Part 1: The Two Fingers
The scoreboard read: Permian 21, Highland Park 20.
The game clock read: 0:00.
Because the touchdown had occurred as time expired, by Texas UIL rules, we were entitled to the point-after attempt. An untimed down.
The logical, safe, High School Football decision was to kick the extra point, take the tie, and get out of Odessa alive. A tie against the mighty Mojo was as good as a win for the rankings. It was the smart play.
George Sr. walked a few steps onto the field. He looked at the screaming fans. He looked at the Permian sideline, where Stoney Case was nervously gripping his helmet.
Then, my dad looked at me.
He didn't call for the kicking unit.
He held up two fingers.
We were going for the win.
The stadium saw the signal. The collective gasp from twenty thousand people sucked the oxygen out of the air. Then, the noise returned, but it wasn't the rhythmic chanting from before. It was a chaotic, desperate roar.
Permian called their final timeout to set their defense.
I jogged to the sideline.
"We're going for two," George said, his voice completely steady. The beta-blockers had worn off, but he didn't need them anymore. He was in his element.
"I saw the signal," I said, grabbing a water bottle from Eric. I squeezed the water over my face. The hits I had taken in the third quarter were a distant memory. Adrenaline and the System's physical conditioning had flushed the pain out. I felt loose. I felt dangerous.
"They are going to send the house, Georgie," Zach Thomas said, wiping blood from his chin. "They have to. They can't let you sit in the pocket."
"Let them send it," I said.
George grabbed his whiteboard.
"We run the Sprint Out right," George drew the lines quickly. "Get you on the edge. Larry pulls and seals the corner. Jimmy, you run a flag route to the back pylon. If it's covered, Georgie, you throw it in the dirt. We lose, but we go down swinging. Understand?"
I looked at the board.
The Sprint Out was a good play. But Permian's linebackers were incredibly fast. If they scraped over the top, they would outrun Larry and trap me on the sideline.
"Coach," I said.
George stopped. "Yeah?"
"They know we're going to Jimmy," I said. "Clifton Abraham's cousin is going to sit on that flag route. The Sprint Out cuts the field in half. It makes me easy to defend."
"You have a better idea?" George asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Empty backfield," I said. "Five wide."
The offensive coordinator choked on his gum. "Empty? On the two-yard line? With no blockers in the backfield against a zero-blitz? They'll murder you."
"They won't get there in time," I said. I looked at my dad. "I need the whole field to read them. Put Zach in the slot. Spread them out. Force their linebackers to cover in space."
George Sr. looked at me. He wasn't looking at a fifteen-year-old kid anymore. He was looking at a quarterback who saw the matrix.
"Five wide," George said. "Do it."
Part 2: The Chess Board
I trotted back onto the field.
The Permian defense was huddled up, helmets touching. They broke the huddle and jogged to the line, screaming at each other, hyping themselves up for the final collision.
"Huddle!" I barked.
Larry, Zach, Jimmy, and two other receivers gathered around me.
"Listen up," I said. My voice was calm. The noise around us faded into static. "Empty backfield. Spread formation. Larry, you are on an island at left tackle. Do not let the end cross your face."
"He won't," Larry rumbled.
"Jimmy, you're on the far right. Run a slant. Zach, you're in the left slot. Run a drag across the middle."
"I'm a decoy?" Zach asked.
"You're the bait," I corrected. "They're going to blitz the A-gaps. I need you to clear out the middle. I am going to hold the ball as long as I can. Do not stop running."
"Break!"
We walked to the line of scrimmage.
When we split into five wide receivers with no running back, the Permian defense panicked. High school teams in 1990 did not run Empty. It was considered a gimmick, something reserved for desperate Hail Marys.
The Permian middle linebacker started pointing and screaming, trying to adjust their blitz packages.
"Check! Check! They're spread!"
I stood in the shotgun.
I scanned the defense.
Safety rolling down to the right. That meant they were bringing pressure from the strong side.
Cornerback playing off-coverage on Jimmy.
Linebackers shifting into the gaps.
They were bringing six. We had five blockers.
There would be a free rusher.
I didn't care. I wanted the free rusher. He was part of the equation.
"Blue 80! Blue 80! SET! HIKE!"
Part 3: The Mahomes Template
Larry snapped the ball.
The instant the leather hit my hands, the Permian defensive line surged forward like a tidal wave.
The noise peaked.
I didn't drop back. Dropping back against a zero-blitz is how you get sacked.
I took half a step right.
Just as I predicted, the Permian middle linebacker shot through the A-gap completely unblocked. He had a free run at me. He lowered his head, anticipating the massive hit that would win the game and make him a local legend.
He was fast.
But I knew he was coming.
Instead of bracing for impact, I casually side-stepped to my left.
The linebacker flew past me, grasping at air, his momentum carrying him out of the play entirely.
I stepped up into the pocket.
But the pocket was collapsing. The defensive end had beaten our right tackle and was diving at my legs.
I didn't panic. I didn't look down at the rush.
I kept my eyes downfield.
Zach Thomas was running his drag route across the middle. A Permian defender was draped all over him.
Jimmy Smith was running his slant, but the safety had jumped it perfectly. Covered.
Three seconds had passed. In the red zone, three seconds is an eternity.
A defensive tackle broke free from his block. He lunged at my chest.
I rolled to my right, breaking containment.
I was running toward the sideline. Two Permian defenders peeled off their coverage and sprinted toward me, forcing me toward the boundary.
I was out of time. I was out of space.
I looked at the back corner of the end zone.
Our tight end, a kid named Davis, had chipped a blocker and leaked out late. He was standing in the back corner.
But there was a Permian linebacker standing directly between me and Davis. If I threw an over-the-top pass, the linebacker would jump and bat it down. If I tried to lob it, the safety would close the distance and intercept it.
The angles didn't exist for a traditional throw.
So I didn't use a traditional throw.
I was running full speed to my right. The defender was two yards away, launching himself into the air to tackle me.
Without planting my feet, I dropped my arm angle.
I didn't bring the ball up to my ear. I dropped it down by my hip.
I flicked my wrist.
It was a sidearm throw. A baseball shortstop turning a double play.
It defied the mechanics taught by every quarterback coach in Texas.
The ball shot out of my hand like a laser beam.
It zipped past the earhole of the leaping defender, bypassed the outstretched arms of the middle linebacker, and threaded a needle between the closing safety and the boundary line.
It was a window the size of a shoebox.
Davis didn't even have to move.
The ball hit him square in the numbers. He instinctively hugged it to his chest just as he fell backward out of bounds.
But his feet were in the painted grass.
Part 4: The Silence
The referee standing on the sideline stared at Davis.
He looked at the ball. He looked at Davis's feet.
Then, he raised both arms straight up into the air.
Conversion Good.
Highland Park 22, Permian 21.
The game was over.
For exactly three seconds, Ratliff Stadium was the quietest place on planet Earth.
Twenty thousand people simply stopped breathing. The legendary "Mojo" mystique, the decades of dominance, the intimidation, the charter flights, the ESPN cameras—all of it collided with a sidearm throw from a fifteen-year-old kid.
And the throw won.
Then, the Highland Park sideline erupted.
Eric van der Woodsen threw the water cooler into the air.
Larry Allen let out a roar that sounded like a grizzly bear and hoisted me onto his shoulder with one hand.
Zach Thomas tackled Davis in the end zone.
I sat on Larry's shoulder, looking around the stadium.
The Permian players were lying on the turf. Some had their helmets off. Some were crying.
Stoney Case was standing on the sideline, staring at the field. He wasn't arrogant anymore. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost.
George Sr. walked onto the field. He didn't run. He didn't jump.
He walked straight toward the Permian Head Coach.
They met at midfield. The Permian coach looked shell-shocked. He shook my dad's hand.
"Hell of a play," the Permian coach said. "I've never seen a kid throw like that. He didn't even have his feet set."
"He's special," George said simply. "Good game, Coach."
Larry put me down.
Stoney Case walked over to me. The ESPN cameras followed him. This was the moment the media wanted—the passing of the torch.
Stoney looked at me. He was taller, stronger, and bound for a Division 1 college.
But right now, he was the loser.
He held out his hand.
"I tipped my pitches," Stoney said.
"Yeah," I said, shaking his hand. "Your left foot."
Stoney shook his head, a wry smile crossing his face. "We thought you guys were soft. A bunch of rich kids who couldn't take a hit."
"We aren't the old Highland Park," I said.
"I see that," Stoney said. He looked at my right arm. "That sidearm throw. Where did you learn that?"
"Just improvising," I said.
"Keep improvising, Sophomore," Stoney said, tapping my helmet. "You're going to win State."
He walked away.
Part 5: The Equation
I walked toward the tunnel.
The Permian fans weren't booing anymore. They were just watching us leave. We had earned their silence. That was better than applause.
Sheldon was waiting by the tunnel entrance. He had his clipboard tucked under his arm. He looked incredibly relieved that the noise had stopped.
"The trajectory of that final pass was highly unorthodox," Sheldon noted as I walked up. "By dropping your release point, you altered the parabolic arc, sacrificing height for velocity. It was a risky calculation, Georgie."
"But it worked, Shelly," I smiled, putting my arm around his narrow shoulders.
"Yes," Sheldon admitted. "The physics were sound. Unconventional, but sound. I suppose there is a certain... efficiency... to your methods."
"Thanks, Statistician."
We walked into the locker room.
It wasn't a wild party. It wasn't the arrogant celebration the Seniors had thrown after the Jesuit game.
It was the quiet satisfaction of men who had done a job.
Larry was sitting by his locker, eating a peanut butter sandwich Eric had given him.
Zach was getting his chin taped up by a trainer.
Jimmy was untying his cleats.
They looked at me as I walked in.
They didn't cheer. They just nodded.
I nodded back.
We had gone into the Badlands, and we had conquered them.
George Sr. stepped to the center of the room.
He looked at the scoreboard clock ticking down on the wall.
"Bus leaves in forty minutes," George said. "Get showered. Get packed. Be proud of what you did tonight. But remember..."
He looked around the room.
"We play again next Friday. And now, every team in Texas knows who we are. We just put a target on our own backs."
I opened my locker.
A small, blue holographic text box hovered over my helmet.
[Quest Complete: Kill the Mojo]
* Objective: Defeat Odessa Permian. (Success)
* Performance: Elite.
* Archetype Unlocked: The Improviser (Sidearm mechanics unlocked).
* Reward: National Ranking (Calculating...)
I swiped the box away.
I wasn't tired. I wasn't hurting.
I was just getting started.
***
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