Date: November 24, 1989.
Location: The Cooper Living Room / Stephen F. Austin University Stadium.
Event: Playoff Round 2 (Area Round) vs. The Carthage Bulldogs.
In Texas High School Football, the state is too big to play everyone. You stay in your District. You dominate your local area.
But eventually, the bracket forces you to cross the line.
Medford was 11-0, the Kings of our District. We felt invincible.
Then we looked at the bracket for Round 2 and saw the monster waiting for us from the East Texas region: The Carthage Bulldogs.
Carthage was a program, not a team. They hadn't lost a game in three years. Their winning streak was at 44 games. They were ranked #1 in the state. Because they were in a different district, we had avoided them all year.
But now, the roads had converged.
It was Friday morning—the day after Thanksgiving.
But honestly, nobody felt thankful. Yesterday's "Holiday Dinner" had consisted of cold turkey sandwiches eaten in silence while George Sr. watched game film in the living room.
Now, the mood was even worse.
George Sr. sat in his recliner, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. The VCR hummed.
"They don't have a weakness," George muttered, rewinding the tape. "Look at their nose tackle. He's 280 pounds and moves like a dancer. How do I block that?"
Meemaw was sitting on the couch, knitting aggressively.
"You could pray," Meemaw suggested, blowing smoke at the TV. "Though I called my bookie, and he said even God is taking Carthage minus the points."
"Not helping, Connie," George snapped.
Missy was lying on the floor, flipping through a Tiger Beat magazine. "Can we just lose quickly? I want to go to the mall on Saturday."
"Missy!" Mary scolded from the kitchen entrance. She looked tired. She hated it when George got like this—obsessive, scared, and distant.
"George," Mary said softly, walking over to him. "You're scaring the children. It's just a game."
"It's not just a game, Mary," George sighed, rubbing his red eyes. "If we get blown out... if they hang fifty points on us... the Boosters will forget the 11-0 record. They'll say I can't win the big one. They'll start looking for my replacement."
The room went quiet. Even Missy stopped reading. This was the reality. Job security in this town was measured in scoreboards.
Sheldon walked into the room, holding a calculator.
"I have an inquiry regarding the 'Streak,'" Sheldon stated.
George rubbed his temples. "Not now, Sheldon."
"But it is statistically relevant," Sheldon persisted. "You say they have won 44 games in a row. In probability theory, this is known as a 'Gambler's Fallacy' scenario. The longer a streak continues, the human mind believes a loss is 'due.' However, the events are independent."
"Sheldon, go to your room," George said tiredly.
"However," Sheldon continued, ignoring him. "There is also the concept of 'Regression to the Mean.' No system maintains peak efficiency forever. Entropy is inevitable. Statistically speaking, Carthage is overdue for a collapse."
George looked at Sheldon. He blinked.
"You saying they're gonna lose because of... entropy?"
"I am saying that perfection is unsustainable," Sheldon nodded. "The universe prefers chaos. You just need to be the agent of that chaos."
George stared at the TV screen. He looked at the Carthage defense—perfect, disciplined, robotic.
"Chaos," George whispered.
He sat up. The color returned to his face.
"They're disciplined," George said, his brain firing up. "They read their keys. They go exactly where they're supposed to go."
"So?" I asked from the floor, where I was stretching my knee.
"So," George grinned, a dangerous glint in his eye. "We lie to them."
***
Friday Night: The David vs. Goliath
The stadium was neutral ground—Stephen F. Austin University Stadium in Nacogdoches. It was massive.
The Carthage crowd was a sea of red. They had banners, a 200-piece marching band, and an air of absolute superiority. They expected to win. It was a formality.
Our side was loud, but nervous. We were the sacrificial lambs.
I stood in the tunnel. The wind was biting.
"Listen up!" George Sr. gathered us. He didn't look tired anymore. He looked crazy.
"Nobody thinks we can win," George yelled. "The papers say Carthage by 21 points. They say we're just a speed bump on their way to State."
He looked at Bullard. He looked at Tiny. He looked at me.
"Carthage is perfect. They do everything right. So tonight, we're gonna do everything wrong."
He held up the play sheet.
"We're scrapping the playbook. Tonight, we run the lonesome polecat."
The team looked confused.
"Just follow Cooper," George said. "And have fun. Let's introduce a little chaos."
***
The First Quarter: Confusion
Carthage kicked off. I caught it and took a knee.
First Drive.
We broke the huddle.
Normally, we lined up in the I-Formation. Quarterback, Fullback, Tailback. Standard.
Instead, the entire offensive line shifted to the far left side of the field. Tiny, the guards, the tackles—they all stood near the sideline.
Only Tiny (the Center) remained in the middle.
I stood five yards behind him in the Shotgun. To my right, isolated way out wide, was Bullard.
It was the "Swinging Gate" formation. A bizarre, gimmick alignment designed to confuse defenses.
The Carthage defense froze. They pointed. They shouted checks. Their linebacker looked at the sideline for help.
"They don't know what to do!" I yelled, clapping my hands. "Hut!"
Tiny snapped the ball.
The Carthage nose tackle—the 280-pound freak—hesitated. He didn't know who to hit.
I didn't run. I didn't pass.
I threw a quick lateral screen to the cluster of linemen on the left.
Our running back caught it behind a wall of 1,000 pounds of beef.
He rumbled forward. The confused Carthage defenders were blocked by angles they had never seen on film.
Gain of 12. First Down.
The Medford crowd went wild. The Carthage coach threw his headset.
***
The Second Quarter: The Brawl
We kept it up. We ran trick plays. We ran double reverses. We ran the flea-flicker.
George Sr. called the game like a madman playing Madden.
But Carthage was a dynasty for a reason. Once they adjusted, they hit hard.
Score at Halftime: Carthage 14, Medford 10.
We were losing, but we were in the fight.
In the locker room, the mood was electric. We weren't scared anymore. We realized they bled.
"My ribs are broken," Bullard wheezed, sitting on a bench. "That linebacker hits like a truck."
"Tape it up," I said, re-tying my cleats. "30 minutes left, Bullard. Don't you dare quit on me."
***
The Fourth Quarter: The Wall
The gimmick plays stopped working in the second half. Carthage played disciplined. They shut us down.
Score: Carthage 21, Medford 17.
Time: 1:58 remaining.
We had the ball on our own 20. We needed a touchdown.
"No more tricks," George Sr. told me on the sideline. "They're waiting for the gimmicks. Now we have to beat them for real."
I trotted out.
My knee was screaming. Durability 60 was flashing red in my mind. Every step sent a jolt up my spine.
"Huddle up!"
I looked at the guys. They were battered. Tiny's jersey was ripped. Higgins was limping.
"This is it," I said. "The Streak ends tonight. Or our season ends tonight."
I looked at the Carthage defense. The Red Wall. They looked fresh. They were smiling.
Mahomes Vision.
I didn't see weakness. I saw arrogance.
The Drive.
I dropped back. The pocket collapsed instantly.
I stepped up. A defensive end grabbed my ankle.
I didn't go down. Iron Chin. I kicked free.
I scrambled right.
"Go!" I pointed.
Higgins broke off his route. I threw it on the run.
Caught. First down.
We moved the ball. 40 yard line. 30 yard line.
0:30 seconds left. Ball on the Carthage 12.
"Timeout!" I yelled. We had one left.
We gathered on the sideline.
"They're in Cover 2," George said, sweating profusely. "They're protecting the endzone boundaries. The middle is clogged."
"I can run it," I said.
"No," George said. "You'll get killed. Your knee is shot."
"Dad," I said. I didn't call him Coach. "Trust me. The Universe prefers chaos."
George looked at me. He saw the adult in my eyes.
"Draw play," he whispered. "Delayed draw. Sell the pass."
***
The Final Play
We lined up. Empty backfield.
The Carthage crowd was deafening. DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!
"Hut!"
I took the snap. I dropped back three steps. I looked left. I pumped my arm.
The linebackers dropped back into coverage. The defensive ends rushed wide to contain me.
A lane opened up. A small, narrow lane in the A-Gap.
I tucked the ball.
I ran.
It wasn't fast. It was pure will.
A linebacker saw me. He stepped up to fill the hole. He was bigger than me. Stronger than me.
I lowered my shoulder.
CRASH.
We collided at the 5-yard line.
He didn't wrap up. He tried to blow me up with a big hit.
I bounced off him. I spun.
I saw the goal line.
Three yards. Two yards.
A safety flew in from the side. He dove low. He wasn't trying to tackle me; he was trying to chop me down.
He hit my bad knee. Hard.
I felt it pop.
A bolt of lightning shot up my leg. My ankle felt like it had been crushed in a vise.
I started to fall.
But I didn't go down.
Durability Check: Critical Success.
I hopped on my good leg. One hop. Two hops.
I lunged forward, dragging my useless left leg behind me like dead weight.
I stretched the ball out.
The ball crossed the white line.
TOUCHDOWN.
Final Score: Medford 24, Carthage 21.
The stadium exploded.
I didn't get up to celebrate. I rolled onto my back, clutching my ankle, grimacing.
George Sr. ran onto the field faster than I'd ever seen him move.
"Georgie! Georgie!"
He knelt beside me. "Is it broken?"
I gritted my teeth, fighting back the tears. It felt like fire, but I could wiggle my toes. It wasn't broken. It was just the worst sprain of my life.
"No," I wheezed. "High ankle. Just like... just like we practiced."
"You idiot," George said, his voice shaking. "You crazy idiot."
Bullard and Tiny ran over. They didn't cheer. They saw my face.
"Help him up," George ordered. "Don't let him walk."
Tiny grabbed my left side. Bullard grabbed my right. They hoisted me up.
I couldn't put weight on it. I hopped on my right foot.
From the stands, I saw Mary pushing her way through the crowd, her face pale with terror. Meemaw was right behind her, yelling at a security guard to let them through.
But as I looked at George Sr., I saw something I hadn't seen in years.
Pride. Pure, unfiltered pride.
"We did it, Dad," I whispered. "We beat the monster."
"Yeah, son," George choked out, putting a hand on my shoulder. "We beat the monster."
[Quest Complete: The State Path]
* Result: Victory.
* Status: Regional Champions.
* Injury Update: High Ankle Sprain (Mahomes Style).
* Mobility: Severely Reduced.