Date: August 31, 1990 (Friday).
Location: Highlander Stadium, Dallas.
Event: Season Opener vs. Dallas Jesuit.
Part 1: The Country Club Huddle
There is a specific smell to the first game of the season. It smells like freshly cut grass, Deep Heat muscle rub, and—in Highland Park's case—expensive cologne.
I sat in front of my locker, tightening the laces on my cleats.
My hands weren't shaking.
Last year, as a Freshman transfer, I was terrified. I was the impostor.
This year? I was the starter. I had a State Ring (even if it was from Medford). I had the job.
But I didn't have the "C".
"Alright, boys! Listen up!"
**Derek Hollingsworth** stood in the center of the room. Derek was a Senior. He was the starting Center. He drove a BMW 3-Series his dad bought him for making the varsity team. He was decent at football, but he was great at politics.
He wore the Captain's "C" on his jersey.
"We got Jesuit tonight," Derek shouted, slapping his helmet. "They're a bunch of private school nerds! We own this town! We are the Scots! Let's go out there and show them who runs Dallas!"
"YEAH!" The seniors roared.
I looked at **Larry Allen**.
Larry was sitting next to me. He was staring at the floor. He didn't yell. He didn't hype himself up. He just looked like a man about to clock in for a shift at a slaughterhouse.
"You good?" I whispered.
"Derek missed two blocks in practice yesterday," Larry mumbled, his voice a low rumble. "If he misses a block tonight, you get hit. I don't like it when you get hit."
"Just do your job, Larry," I said, grabbing my helmet. "Let me worry about Derek."
**George Sr.** walked in. The room went silent.
Dad looked stressed. The "Health Conspiracy" had improved his physical stats, but the political pressure was eating him alive. The Boosters wanted a blowout. The parents of the Seniors wanted their kids to shine.
"Focus," George said. "Do your assignments. Don't get cute. Just play football."
He looked at me. A quick nod.
*Don't die out there.*
We ran out of the tunnel. The crowd noise hit us—a wall of cheers, cowbells, and the brass section of the band playing "Scotland the Brave."
Volume 4 had begun.
***
Part 2: The Rust
The scoreboard said we were winning.
The scoreboard was a liar.
**Highland Park: 21**
**Dallas Jesuit: 7**
**Time: 3rd Quarter.**
To the fans in the stands, it looked like a solid performance.
To me? It was a disaster.
"Hut! Hut!"
I took the snap. It was a simple "24 Power" run. Hand the ball to the running back, watch him hit the hole.
But there was no hole.
Derek (the Senior Center) had engaged the nose tackle, but he didn't drive his feet. He leaned. He was lazy. The Jesuit tackle shed the block and stuffed our running back for a loss of three.
"Dammit!" I yelled, clapping my hands.
"Relax, Georgie," Derek said, jogging back to the huddle. "We're up by two scores. We got this."
"You missed the assignment, Derek!" I snapped. "You stepped left, the play was right!"
"I got held up," Derek shrugged. "Chill out, Sophomore. Don't tell me how to play."
I looked at him. I wanted to scream.
This was the culture of the "Old" Highland Park. *We're winning, so it doesn't matter how we play.*
It was the mindset that got teams killed in the playoffs.
"Huddle up!" I barked.
We lined up for the next play. 3rd and 12. Passing down.
"Blue 80! Blue 80! SET-HIKE!"
I dropped back three steps.
I looked for **Jimmy Smith**. Jimmy was technically the #3 receiver, rotating in because the Senior receiver needed a water break.
Jimmy ran a perfect post route. He was open.
But I couldn't throw it.
Because the pocket collapsed.
Derek got bull-rushed. He planted his feet, but he had no leverage. He got walked backward right into my lap.
I tried to scramble.
**WHAM.**
A Jesuit linebacker came off the edge untouched. He buried his facemask into my ribs. The ball popped loose (luckily, I fell on it).
The crowd groaned.
I lay on the grass, trying to remember how to breathe. My ribs felt like they had been kicked by a mule.
Suddenly, a shadow blocked out the stadium lights.
**Larry Allen**.
Larry reached down and picked me up with one hand.
"You okay?"
"Fine," I wheezed. "Just... wind knocked out."
Larry turned around. He looked at the Jesuit linebacker who had hit me. The linebacker was celebrating.
Larry didn't say anything. He just stared.
Then he looked at Derek.
"Block someone," Larry said.
It wasn't a request. It was a threat.
Derek swallowed hard. "I... I slipped."
We punted.
We won the game 35-14.
But as I walked off the field, clutching my ribs, I didn't feel like a winner. I felt like we had just survived a car crash.
***
Part 3: The Party
The post-game locker room was a party.
Music was blasting. The Seniors were snapping towels and high-fiving.
"Did you see that catch?" Brad (Senior Safety) yelled. "I totally mossed that kid!"
"We crushed 'em!" Derek shouted, holding a can of Coke like a trophy. "Undefeated baby! State Champs here we come!"
I sat in my corner. I had an ice pack taped to my ribs.
George Sr. was in his office with the coaches, probably drinking Maalox.
"Yo, Georgie!" Derek called out. "Keg party at my place. My parents are in Aspen. It's gonna be legendary. Serena is coming."
I looked up.
"I'm good," I said.
The room went quiet.
"What?" Derek laughed. "You too good for us, Hollywood? Come on. Celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" I asked. "We had six penalties. We gave up 200 yards passing to a private school. If we play like that against Carter, we lose by twenty."
Derek rolled his eyes. "Dude, lighten up. A win is a win. Look at the scoreboard."
"The scoreboard doesn't play defense, Derek," I said. "Have fun at the party."
I cut the tape off my ankles, grabbed my bag, and walked out.
I didn't look back. But I heard the door open behind me.
I walked to my truck.
**Larry Allen** was leaning against it.
**Zach Thomas** was sitting on the tailgate.
**Jimmy Smith** was standing next to them.
"You guys not going to the party?" I asked.
"I don't like Derek's music," Larry said. "And they don't have enough food."
"I hate losing," Zach said. "And giving up 14 points to Jesuit feels like losing."
"I just go where the Quarterback goes," Jimmy shrugged.
I smiled. It hurt my ribs, but I smiled.
"Get in," I said. "We're going to my house. My mom made pie."
***
Part 4: The Shadow Cabinet
11:30 PM. The Cooper Residence.
The house was dark. Mary and Meemaw were asleep. George Sr. wasn't home yet—he was still at the field house, breaking down film with the staff.
In the living room, the VCR was whirring.
We were watching the game we had just played.
"Pause it," Zach Thomas said.
I hit pause on the remote. The grainy footage froze.
"Look at the linebacker," Zach pointed at the screen. "He tipped the blitz. See his foot? He turned it outward right before the snap. I should have called an audible."
"You weren't even in the game on that play, Zach," I said. "That was Brad."
"Brad is an idiot," Zach muttered. "He was looking at the cheerleaders."
"Rewind to the sack," Larry said quietly.
I rewound the tape. We watched Derek get bull-rushed again.
Larry watched it with cold intensity.
"His stance is too high," Larry analyzed. "He's playing on his toes. He has no anchor. Next week, I'm going to make him do squats until he pukes."
"He's the Captain, Larry," Jimmy laughed. "He won't listen to you."
"He'll listen," Larry cracked his knuckles. "Or he'll fall down."
We sat there for an hour, dissecting every mistake. No music. No beer. Just four kids trying to figure out how to be perfect.
The front door opened.
**George Sr.** walked in. He looked exhausted. His tie was undone. He was carrying a briefcase full of stress.
He expected to find the house empty. He expected his son to be at the keg party, being a normal teenager.
He stopped in the doorway.
He saw me with an ice pack on my ribs.
He saw Larry Allen taking up half the sofa.
He saw Zach Thomas sitting on the floor with a notebook.
He saw Jimmy Smith eating a slice of rhubarb pie.
And he saw the game film on the TV.
"Dad," I said, hitting pause. "You're home late."
George stood there. He looked at the Seniors' party in his mind—the noise, the entitlement.
Then he looked at us. The Sophomores. The Recruits.
Working at midnight.
He let out a long breath. The lines in his forehead smoothed out just a little.
"Rough game," George said, walking over. "Derek played like garbage."
"We know," Zach said. "We're fixing the protection schemes for the Carter game."
George looked at Zach. A Sophomore linebacker correcting the scheme.
In any other timeline, George would have told him to go to bed.
In this timeline, George walked to the kitchen, grabbed a water (no beer, thanks to the Conspiracy), and sat down in his recliner.
"The protection isn't the problem," George said, pointing at the screen. "It's the slide. If the nose tackle shades left, the guard has to help. Rewind it. Let me show you."
I handed him the remote.
For the next hour, the Head Coach and the "Shadow Council" broke down the film.
We weren't the Captains. We weren't the Seniors.
But as I looked at my dad teaching Larry and Zach the nuances of the blocking scheme, I realized something.
We were the Team.
***
Part 5: The Notification
At 1:00 AM, the guys left.
I walked Dad to the stairs.
"You okay, son?" George asked, looking at my ribs. "That was a hard hit."
"I'm fine," I said. "Just a reminder."
"Of what?"
"That we aren't in Medford anymore," I said. "Jesuit was soft. If we play like that in Odessa... we die."
George nodded grimly. "Odessa is four weeks away. We'll be ready."
"We have to be," I said.
He went up to bed.
I turned off the lights.
As I stood in the dark foyer, the text appeared.
**[Quest Update: The Rust Remover]**
* **Result:** Victory (35-14).
* **Performance Grade:** C- (Sloppy).
* **Leadership Status:** The Shift has begun.
* **Recruit Loyalty:** 100% (They chose Work over Party).
I touched my ribs. They throbbed.
Good. The pain was useful. It kept me awake.
Next week: The Date.
Then: The Desert.
**[System Notification: 28 Days to Permian.]**
.