Date: September 30, 1990 (Sunday).
Location: The Cooper Residence / "Booster Row".
Event: The Aftermath of Odessa.
Part 1: The Front Page
I woke up on Sunday morning expecting to feel like I had been hit by a cement truck.
I didn't. My right shoulder ached a little from the sidearm throw, and my ribs were definitely stiff, but I wasn't broken. In my old life, a game like Odessa would have put me in an ice bath for three days. But the System's physical conditioning, combined with the new elusiveness I was developing, had done its job. I hadn't taken the massive, catastrophic hits. I had slipped them.
I rolled out of bed, did a few dynamic stretches, and walked downstairs.
The kitchen was absolute chaos. It smelled like frying bacon, dark roast coffee, and Texas high school football politics.
Mary Cooper was standing at the stove, aggressively flipping pancakes. Meemaw was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing her green casino visor, smoking a cigarette, and sorting through a stack of envelopes.
George Sr. was sitting at the head of the table, holding a mug of black coffee, looking ten years younger.
And sitting right in the middle of the table were Sheldon and Eric van der Woodsen.
Eric had a yellow legal pad out and was fielding calls on the kitchen telephone. Sheldon was hunched over the Sunday edition of the Dallas Morning News, holding a red pen and aggressively circling paragraphs.
"Morning, Moonpie 2," Meemaw croaked, tapping a long ash into a saucer. "Look what the cat dragged in. You made the front page, but your brother is finding mathematical errors in the journalism."
I walked over and pulled out a chair.
Spread out across the table was the Sports section. The headline wasn't just about me. It read:
THE SHOCKER IN THE DESERT: HIGHLAND PARK'S NEW BLOOD STUNS PERMIAN.
The photo was a wide shot of the final play. It showed me throwing the sidearm pass, but more importantly, it showed Larry Allen pancaking a Permian lineman in the background, and Jimmy Smith sprinting toward the corner.
"Read what they said, Georgie," George Sr. grinned, taking a sip of his coffee.
I leaned in. The reporter didn't call me a generational talent—that would be ridiculous after only a few 5A games. But the article did call me "a rising star with absolute ice in his veins."
However, the reporter gave the real credit where it was due: "Highland Park has traded their Country Club finesse for inner-city muscle. Sophomore Quarterback George Cooper showed incredible poise, but he was operating behind a brick wall named Larry Allen, while linebacker Zach Thomas terrorized the Permian backfield."
"It is highly inaccurate," Sheldon said, capping his red pen with a snap. "The reporter states that you have 'ice in your veins.' Biologically speaking, if your core temperature dropped to the freezing point of water, your cardiovascular system would cease to function, resulting in immediate death. It is a stupid metaphor."
"It just means he didn't panic, Shelly," I said, grabbing a piece of bacon.
"Then they should write 'George Cooper maintained an optimal cortisol level under duress,'" Sheldon corrected. "Journalists are so imprecise."
"Hang up the phone, Eric," George Sr. said. "Who was that?"
Eric put the receiver down and made a checkmark on his legal pad. "That was a regional scout for Texas A&M, Coach. He wanted to know what summer evaluation camps Georgie is planning to attend next year. I told him we are currently organizing our offseason schedule and took his office number."
"Texas A&M," George Sr. muttered, shaking his head. "The kid is fifteen years old and Southwest Conference scouts are already trying to get him to their camps."
Meemaw slid a neat stack of envelopes across the table toward me.
They weren't official scholarship offers—I was too young for that—but they were glossy camp invitations and introductory letters. One was from Baylor. One was from Texas Tech.
But the top envelope had a red and blue galloping mustang. Southern Methodist University.
"The local boys are waking up," Meemaw said, taking a drag of her cigarette. "The SMU alumni are already calling my private line, bringing up that campus visit we took over the summer. They smell blood in the water, Moonpie."
Part 2: The Anchor
Before I could even open the SMU letter, the doorbell rang.
Missy sprinted to get it, eager for any distraction from her chores. A moment later, Serena van der Woodsen walked into the kitchen.
She was wearing a simple, oversized cashmere sweater and faded blue jeans, her blonde hair pulled up in a messy, effortless bun. She was carrying a white paper bakery bag that smelled heavily of butter and sugar.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper," Serena smiled brightly, her manners flawless. She walked over to the table and dropped the bag right in front of me. "I brought bear claws from the bakery. You look surprisingly healthy, Georgie. I thought you'd be in a full body cast."
"I'm quick," I smiled, pulling a pastry from the bag. "I dodged the big ones."
"Hello, Serena," Eric said, not looking up from his legal pad. "Tell mother I will be home for Sunday dinner. I am currently managing a surge in regional recruiting interest."
"You're a high school equipment manager, Eric, not a sports agent," Serena sighed. She looked down at the table. She saw the front page of the Dallas Morning News. She saw the letters from Baylor, Tech, and SMU.
She didn't look impressed. She didn't even blink.
Instead, she unzipped her designer backpack and pulled out a massive, heavy hardcover textbook. She dropped it on the table right on top of the SMU letter.
"I have an Advanced Placement History exam on Tuesday," Serena said, looking directly at me. "And so do you, because we sit next to each other. Have you read the assigned chapters on the Industrial Revolution?"
I stared at her. "Serena, my team just beat the number one high school football team in the state of Texas. College scouts are calling my house."
"That's really nice," she said smoothly, opening the textbook to page 412. "The cotton gin was invented by Eli Whitney in 1793. It revolutionized the Southern economy and drastically altered labor demands. Read the chapter, Georgie."
"She is correct," Sheldon chimed in, adjusting his shirt collar. "Any potential athletic scholarship will be instantly voided if your grade point average falls below the NCAA required threshold. Your physical achievements are entirely secondary to your academic obligations. I can tutor you on Eli Whitney for a nominal fee."
Meemaw burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she started coughing, pounding her fist on the table.
"Oh, I really like her," Meemaw wheezed, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at Serena. "She's a keeper, Georgie. She's not going to let your head get too big to fit through the front door."
I looked at Serena. She gave me a very small, very secret smile when my mother wasn't looking.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that today, tomorrow, and for the rest of the season, the local media and the wealthy Dallas boosters were going to blow so much smoke my way I would lose sight of reality. Serena was here to be the anchor. She was here to make sure I remembered I was still just a teenager who needed to pass History class.
"Fine," I sighed, taking a bite of the bear claw and pulling the textbook toward me. "The Industrial Revolution. Let's go."
Part 3: The Boundary Line
At noon, after Serena left to go study at the library, George Sr. grabbed his truck keys off the counter.
"Come on, Georgie," he said, tossing me my jacket. "Put your shoes on. We have to make a delivery."
I followed him out to the driveway. Sitting in the bed of his pickup truck were five massive, heavy-duty cardboard boxes. I looked inside one. It was packed to the brim with expensive groceries. Giant ribeye steaks, fresh vegetables, gallons of whole milk, jars of peanut butter, and giant tubs of protein powder.
"The Boosters bought way too much food for the VIP victory party last night," George explained as we climbed into the cab of the truck. "It's a shame to let it go to waste."
I nodded, but I knew exactly what that meant. Nobody buys tubs of raw protein powder for a catered victory party. This was a targeted, highly specific care package paid for by Highland Park oil money.
We drove out of our neighborhood. We left the pristine, tree-lined streets of the wealthy enclaves. We drove past the massive mansions with their iron gates and manicured green lawns. We crossed the main commercial highway that acted as a border for the town.
Immediately, the scenery changed. The houses got much smaller. The lawns turned from chemically treated green to patchy, natural brown. The luxury cars were replaced by beat-up sedans and old work trucks.
We pulled into a sprawling, blocky apartment complex. It was a 1970s brick building with faded paint, a cracked asphalt parking lot, and a chain-link fence.
I looked at the street sign. Then I looked at the zoning map I had memorized from the school administration office. This apartment complex sat literally right on the absolute geographic boundary line of the Highland Park Independent School District. One foot further, and you were in a different, vastly underfunded school system.
"Booster Row," George muttered, putting the truck in park and cutting the engine.
This was the quiet, unspoken reality of Texas high school football. The Highland Park Boosters wanted a State Championship more than anything. But they knew the rich, soft kids raised in the country clubs couldn't physically stop Permian. So, they went scouting. They found Larry Allen. They found Zach Thomas. They found Jimmy Smith.
But those kids had to legally reside in the district to play on the team.
So, the Boosters found this specific apartment complex on the absolute outer edge of the zip code. They quietly paid the rent a year in advance using a dummy corporation, and they relocated the families of the recruits. It was perfectly legal on paper, and perfectly manipulative in reality.
We grabbed the heavy boxes and walked up the concrete stairs to the second floor.
The door to Apartment 2B opened before my dad even had a chance to knock.
A tall, broad-shouldered woman with kind but deeply tired eyes stood in the doorway. She was wiping her hands on a faded kitchen apron.
This was Vera Allen. Larry's mother.
She had moved her giant, quiet son from the dangerous inner city of Compton, California, all the way to Dallas, Texas, desperately looking for a safe place for him to play football and get an education.
"Coach Cooper," Vera said, her face breaking into a warm, genuine smile.
"Morning, Vera," George said, grunting slightly as he handed her the heavy box of steaks and milk. "Just some leftovers from the banquet last night. Thought Larry might be hungry."
"Larry is always hungry, Coach," Vera laughed, taking the heavy box like it weighed nothing. "He's asleep on the living room floor right now. The bed they provided is too small for him, and it hurts his back."
She looked past my dad and locked eyes with me. "You're the Quarterback. You're Georgie."
"Yes, ma'am," I said politely.
"Larry talks about you," Vera said, her voice turning serious and low. "He says you don't treat him like a bodyguard or a piece of meat. He says you treat him like a real teammate. I appreciate that more than you know. He's got a gentle heart. Until you put him on that grass, anyway."
"He's the reason my jersey is clean today, Mrs. Allen," I said honestly. "He's the best lineman in the state."
As we stood there talking, the door to Apartment 2C clicked open.
A burly, thick-chested man with motor grease permanently stained into his hands and a Pampa, Texas trucker hat walked out into the hallway. This was Zach Thomas's dad. He was an oil-rigger who had moved his entire family down from the Texas Panhandle when the Boosters made the call.
"Morning, Coach," Mr. Thomas nodded gruffly, eyeing the boxes. "Hell of a game last night. Zach's inside icing his shoulder. Boy hits way too hard for his own good. Gonna rattle his own brain loose."
"He hits just fine," George smiled, handing the man his box of groceries. "Tell him to rest up. We need him."
Down at the end of the hall, a quiet, dignified older couple stepped out of Apartment 2A. Jimmy Smith's parents. They were hardworking, blue-collar folks from South Dallas who just wanted their son to get a fair shot at a good education and a way out of their old neighborhood. George walked down and handed them their box, exchanging quiet, respectful words.
I stood in the hallway and looked at the three doors.
The Allens. The Thomases. The Smiths.
They didn't belong in Highland Park. They didn't have memberships to the Dallas Country Club. They didn't drive imported German cars. They had uprooted their entire lives and moved to the edge of a wealthy fortress just so their teenage sons could play a violent game.
The pressure on Larry, Zach, and Jimmy wasn't about high school ego. It wasn't about getting a letterman jacket or impressing girls at the mall.
It was about absolute survival. It was about earning a college scholarship so their parents wouldn't have to struggle to pay the light bill anymore.
I realized then why they played so hard. They weren't playing for a plastic trophy. They were playing for a way out.
"Let's go home, Georgie," Dad said gently, pulling me from my thoughts.
As we drove back into the land of mansions, manicured lawns, and unearned wealth, the contrast settled heavy and cold in my chest. I was the Quarterback. I got the letters from the regional scouts. But the Recruits were the actual soul of this football team. I silently swore to myself, staring out the truck window, that I would never, ever let the Old Money crowd look down on them.
Part 4: The Ghost
Monday afternoon.
The locker room at Highlander Stadium was absolutely buzzing. The energy was electric, chaotic, and loud. We were Top 25 in the Nation. Students who hadn't spoken to us all year were suddenly begging for tickets to the next game.
I was sitting in front of my locker, quietly lacing up my practice cleats. Larry Allen was sitting to my left, eating a peanut butter sandwich. Zach Thomas was to my right, staring blankly at the wall, already psyching himself up for a Tuesday practice.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door to the locker room swung open.
The room went dead silent. The music stopped. The chatter died in an instant.
Derek Hollingsworth walked in.
He was on aluminum crutches. He had a heavy, complicated-looking medical brace strapped to his right knee. He looked around the room, pausing to make eye contact. He expected sympathy. He expected the team to rush over, to ask how he was doing, to tell him how much they missed their Captain out there in the second half.
Nobody moved an inch.
Larry Allen took another bite of his sandwich. He didn't even look up.
Zach Thomas stared at Derek with flat, predatory, dead eyes.
Jimmy Smith turned his back completely and started rummaging through his locker.
The Head Athletic Trainer walked in right behind Derek, holding a clipboard and smiling a little too widely.
"Alright boys, listen up!" the trainer said cheerfully, his voice echoing awkwardly in the silent room. "Good news on Derek here. We took him to the orthopedic specialist yesterday morning. Great news. No structural damage at all. No torn ACL. It's just a very mild sprain. He's week-to-week. Rest and ice, and he should be back on the field leading you boys by the playoffs!"
A mild sprain.
The specialist couldn't find a tear because there was no tear. He had faked it to get off the field.
Derek swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed. He leaned heavily on his crutches, trying to look wounded and brave. He looked at the other Seniors—Brad and Mike. They wouldn't meet his eyes. They looked at the floor. Even his wealthy Country Club friends knew exactly what he had done. He had quit in the middle of a war because the guy lining up across from him was too strong.
Then, Derek looked at me.
He was waiting for the explosion. He was waiting for me to stand up, to yell, to call him a coward in front of the entire team, to officially demand that he be stripped of his Captaincy. He wanted me to blow up.
If I yelled, he could play the victim. He could go to his rich parents and tell them I was an arrogant Sophomore bully who was picking on an injured Senior. He could turn it into a political war.
I didn't yell. I didn't say a single word.
I stood up. I picked up my helmet by the facemask.
I walked right past him. I didn't look at his face. I didn't look at his crutches. I didn't acknowledge his existence in any way. I treated him like he was a ghost, a completely invisible entity taking up space in my locker room.
As I walked out the door toward the practice field, the rest of the team immediately followed my lead.
Larry walked past him. Zach walked past him. Jimmy walked past him. And then, slowly, the Seniors followed. They all walked right past Derek, leaving him standing completely alone in the center of the locker room with his fake injury and his useless aluminum crutches.
The silence in the room was absolute. It was suffocating.
And I knew, as I stepped out into the Texas sun, that the silent rejection hurt him far more than a punch ever could.
***
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