Date: December 1, 1990 (Saturday).
Location: Highlander Stadium Locker Room.
Event: The Texas 5A Playoffs Begin.
Part 1: The Bracket
December in Texas does not bring snow. It brings a dry, biting wind that turns the practice field grass into brittle shards of glass and makes a football feel like a frozen river rock. When you catch a pass in December, it stings right down to the bone.
This is playoff weather.
It was Saturday morning. The regular season was officially over. We had finished 10-0, securing the District Championship and a spot in the Texas 5A State Playoffs. Now, the math changed. There were no more comfortable leads, no more trap games, and no more tomorrow. It was single elimination. Win, and you practice on Monday. Lose, and you turn in your pads for the rest of your life.
I was sitting at the massive granite kitchen island in our Highland Park house. Eric van der Woodsen and Sheldon were sitting across from me. They were not currently paying attention to football. They were intensely focused on a gray brick of plastic—the original Nintendo Game Boy, connected by a gray link cable. They were aggressively playing Tetris against each other.
Eric had placed a large piece of poster board on the kitchen island between us. It was the official University Interscholastic League playoff bracket.
Sixty-four teams. Six rounds. One State Champion.
"I still maintain that a single-elimination tournament is a statistically flawed method of determining a true champion," Sheldon said, furiously mashing the buttons on his Game Boy. "A single anomalous variable, such as a localized weather event or a gastrointestinal issue among the offensive line, can eliminate the mathematically superior team. A round-robin format would yield a much more accurate dataset."
"A round-robin format would take three years to complete, Sheldon," Eric replied calmly, not taking his eyes off his screen. "And it makes for terrible television ratings. The American public craves the adrenaline of sudden death. Also, I just cleared four lines. I am sending garbage blocks to your screen."
"Drat," Sheldon muttered as his game beeped frantically.
I looked at the poster board. Eric had meticulously highlighted our path in blue marker. First round: Arlington High. Second round: likely Southlake Carroll. If we survived that, we would eventually run into the giants from the Houston and Austin areas. And looming on the completely opposite side of the bracket, highlighted in black, was Odessa Permian.
If we both made it to the end, we would see them again at Texas Stadium for the State Championship.
"Arlington High," George Sr. said, walking into the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee. He looked at the bracket. "They run a split-back veer. It's a heavy running offense. Going to be a physical game."
"We can handle physical, Dad," I said, tracing the blue line with my finger.
"I know we can," George sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "But we have a personnel issue to deal with first. Derek Hollingsworth was officially cleared by his private doctor yesterday. He's going to be in pads at practice on Monday."
I stopped looking at the bracket.
Derek's miraculous recovery from his fake knee sprain had timed up perfectly with the start of the playoffs. He had sat out the grueling, violent middle of the season, and now he wanted to swoop back in and claim his captain's spot for the glory run.
"Where are you going to put him?" I asked.
"Larry Allen is our starting Center now," George said, his voice flat and tired. "I'm not moving him. Derek is going to take reps at second-string right guard. He isn't going to like it, and his father is going to raise hell."
George took a slow sip of his coffee.
"But the rule stands," George grunted. "You earn your spot on my grass. If Mr. Hollingsworth wants to try and fire me for benching his kid in the playoffs, let him try. But I'm not putting a liability on the offensive line just to keep the Country Club happy."
Part 2: The Return of the Ghost
Monday afternoon practice. The temperature was hovering right around freezing. Our breath plumed in the air as we ran through calisthenics.
Derek Hollingsworth jogged onto the field. He was wearing his helmet, his shoulder pads, and a very light, prophylactic knee sleeve that completely betrayed the idea that he had suffered any serious structural damage.
He expected a welcome back. He expected a few high-fives from the Seniors.
He got absolutely nothing.
The Cold War was still in full effect. Larry Allen, Zach Thomas, and Jimmy Smith didn't even look in his direction. The other Seniors, who had bled and bruised their way to an undefeated district title without him, simply ignored him. He was a tourist who had shown up for the victory parade.
When we broke into offensive line drills, the humiliation became official.
George Sr. blew his whistle. "First team offense, on the ball! Larry, you're at Center. Zach, you're at right tackle. Let's run the inside zone!"
Derek stood near the water cooler, freezing in his tracks. He had been a three-year starter. He had been the Captain of the Highland Park Scots. Now, a Sophomore from California and a Sophomore linebacker from the Panhandle were taking his spot on the offensive line.
Derek's face flushed bright red, a stark contrast to the freezing air. He looked at George Sr., waiting for the coach to correct his mistake.
George Sr. didn't even look at him. He just kept his eyes on Larry, correcting the giant's hand placement on the football.
Derek swallowed his pride, put his helmet on, and walked over to the second-string group. He spent the entire two-hour practice blocking the junior varsity defensive line. He looked completely miserable.
I didn't gloat. I didn't say a word to him. I ran the offense, focused on my footwork, and practiced dropping my arm angle to throw around incoming rushers. The Improviser archetype required constant mechanical repetition, and I wasn't going to waste mental energy on a disgraced Senior.
When practice ended, the sun was already down, and the stadium lights cast long, harsh shadows across the frozen turf.
Part 3: The Empty Hallway
By six o'clock, the locker room was mostly empty. The players had showered quickly, eager to get out to their heated cars. George Sr. was in his office with the defensive coordinator, breaking down film of Arlington High's split-back veer.
I was sitting in front of my locker, completely alone, slowly unlacing my cleats. My body was humming with the low-level exhaustion of a long season, but my mind was completely locked in on Friday night.
The heavy metal door of the shower room swung open.
Derek Hollingsworth walked out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He walked over to his locker, which was three down from mine.
For a full minute, the only sound in the room was the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights and the metallic clatter of Derek shoving his shoulder pads into his locker.
I didn't look at him. I pulled my practice jersey off and threw it into the laundry bin.
Derek slammed his locker door shut. He didn't lock it. He turned and leaned against the cold metal, crossing his arms. He stared at the side of my head.
"You think you're the leader now?" Derek asked. His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was just tight. It sounded like a guy who was trying very hard to hold onto the last scrap of his ego.
I stopped unlacing my left cleat. I didn't tense up. I didn't stand up to face him down. I just kept my eyes on my shoelaces.
I thought about his fake injury in Odessa. I thought about the cowardice of quitting on his team because the defensive tackle was too strong. But I also thought about the fact that we were entering a six-game gauntlet, and at some point, someone was going to get hurt, and we were going to need depth.
I finally looked up. I met his eyes.
I didn't demand an apology. I knew he would never give one. His Highland Park pride wouldn't allow him to admit he was scared. An apology would just lead to an argument, and I didn't have the time or the energy for high school drama.
"I think we want to win State," I replied calmly, my voice echoing slightly in the empty locker room.
Derek blinked. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. He expected me to brag, to rub his face in the dirt, to tell him that this was my team now.
I stood up. I grabbed my jacket off the hook.
"The letters on your jersey don't matter anymore, Derek," I said, zipping up my jacket. "The 'C' on your chest is gone. The rankings don't matter. The only thing that matters is Friday night. If you want to help us win a ring, then block. If you don't want to block, then sit down and stay out of our way. It's your choice."
I grabbed my gym bag and walked past him toward the exit.
"I can still block, Georgie," Derek said quietly to my back.
I stopped. I didn't turn around.
"Then be ready on Friday," I said. "Because Arlington hits hard."
I walked out the door into the freezing Texas night. There was no dramatic handshake. There was no tearful reconciliation. The Cold War hadn't ended in a truce; it had stabilized into a ruthless business transaction. He wanted a State Championship ring, and I needed bodies to put between me and the defensive line.
It was an apology that wasn't an apology, and an acceptance that wasn't forgiveness.
It was just football.
Part 4: The First Round
Friday Night. Bi-District Playoff Round.
Highlander Stadium was completely sold out. The temperature was twenty-eight degrees. You could feel the nervous, electric tension vibrating through the concrete bleachers. This wasn't a regular-season festival. This was a playoff execution. One team was going to leave this field and turn their equipment in on Monday.
Arlington High was exactly as advertised. They were massive, mean, and perfectly disciplined.
By the third quarter, the game was a brutal, grinding slugfest. We were up 14-7, but every single yard felt like pulling teeth. My improvisational scrambling was keeping us alive, but Arlington was bringing immense pressure up the middle to flush me out of the pocket.
With two minutes left in the third quarter, disaster struck.
We were backed up on our own ten-yard line. 3rd and 12.
Larry Allen came out of the previous play holding his helmet. The top buckle of his chinstrap had completely snapped off after a violent collision with the Arlington nose tackle. By UIL rules, he had to leave the field for one play to get his equipment repaired.
George Sr. looked down the sideline. His starting Center was out. We were standing in our own end zone. If the backup Center got blown up, it was an automatic safety, or worse, a strip-sack for a touchdown.
George looked at Derek Hollingsworth.
Derek was standing near the heaters, wearing his cape to stay warm.
"Hollingsworth!" George barked over the crowd noise. "Get your helmet on! You're in at Center! One play!"
Derek's eyes went wide. He threw the heavy winter cape off. He strapped his helmet on and sprinted onto the field.
He ran into the huddle. The Recruits looked at him with absolute disdain. Zach Thomas actually took a step away from him.
"Just snap the ball," I said, grabbing Derek's facemask to focus him. "The nose tackle is shading to your left. He's going to try to bull-rush you into the end zone. Do not let him cross your face."
"I got him," Derek said, his breath pluming out of his facemask. He looked terrified, but he didn't look like he was going to fake an injury. He knew this was his last chance to exist on this team.
We walked to the line.
I stood in the shotgun, deep in my own end zone. I looked at the Arlington nose tackle. He was smiling. He saw the backup Center come in. He saw blood in the water.
"Blue 80! Set! Hike!"
Derek snapped the ball. It was a little low, but I fielded it cleanly.
The Arlington nose tackle exploded off the line of scrimmage. He lowered his helmet, fully intending to drive Derek Hollingsworth backward and crush me against the goalpost.
Derek didn't back down. He didn't lean away.
For the first time since the season began, the wealthy kid from the country club actually planted his cleats in the frozen dirt, dropped his hips, and fired his hands directly into the chest plate of the oncoming defender.
The collision echoed over the crowd.
Derek got pushed back two yards, his cleats sliding against the turf, but he held his ground. He didn't quit. He locked his elbows out and fought like a rabid dog to keep the nose tackle out of my lap.
Because Derek held the middle for exactly two seconds, the Arlington defensive ends crashed down hard off the edges to compensate.
That was exactly what I wanted.
I stepped up into the tiny pocket Derek had created, faked a throw to the left, and then bolted out the right side of the collapsing pocket. I was in the open field.
An Arlington linebacker came sprinting down to cut me off before I could reach the first-down marker.
I didn't try to juke him. While sprinting at an angle, running entirely off my right foot, I dropped my arm slot and whipped a sidearm pass directly over the linebacker's head.
The ball hummed through the freezing air and hit Jimmy Smith right in the numbers twenty yards down the sideline.
First down. We were out of the shadow of our own end zone. The drive was alive.
The crowd went completely insane.
I jogged down the field to the new line of scrimmage. As I passed the line of scrimmage, I looked at Derek. He was picking himself up off the turf. His jersey was covered in dirt. He was breathing heavily, but he looked up at me.
I didn't smile. I just gave him a single, quick nod.
He nodded back and jogged toward the sideline as Larry Allen, wearing a newly strapped helmet, ran back onto the field to reclaim his spot.
Part 5: The Road Ahead
We won the game 24-10.
In the locker room after the game, there was no massive celebration. The music wasn't playing. The boys were quietly icing their joints and wrapping their bruises. They finally understood the reality of the playoffs. Surviving round one just meant you earned the right to get beaten up again next Friday.
I sat at my locker, pulling off my shoulder pads. My right arm felt perfectly loose, thanks to the bizarre mechanics of the sidearm throws, but my legs felt like jelly from scrambling on the frozen turf.
I looked down at the floor. A small holographic text box materialized in front of my cleats.
[Quest Update: The Playoff Push]
* Bi-District Championship: Secured.
* Cold War Status: Resolved (Functional Alliance).
* Archetype Integration: The Improviser is fully operational.
* Next Opponent: Southlake Carroll.
I swiped the box away.
Five more games. Five more frozen Friday nights.
If we won them all, we would be legends. If we lost even one, we were just a footnote in Texas history.
I grabbed my bag, zipped up my winter coat, and walked out to find Serena. The road to the State Championship had officially begun, and it was only going to get colder from here.
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