Date: December 6, 1989 (Wednesday Night).
Location: The Cooper Living Room.
Event: Two Days Before the State Semi-Finals (vs. Lufkin).
George Sr. was a football man. He wasn't some math teacher who got roped into coaching because the school needed a warm body. He was a player. He had taken hits, delivered hits, and broken bones for the game until his body—and life—forced him to the sideline.
He knew what winning looked like.
And right now, looking at the glowing TV screen in the dark living room, he knew what losing looked like.
Whirrrrr-click.
He rewound the tape again.
"They're too fast," George whispered, rubbing his neck. "Georgie, look at that linebacker. Number 55. He runs a 4.5 forty. At 240 pounds. That ain't natural. I can't coach against genetics."
I was sitting on the arm of the couch, icing my ankle. The swelling was down, but my mobility was still trash.
"Maybe we trap him," I suggested. "Let him over-pursue. Hit him from the side."
"I've run the X's and O's a hundred times," George grunted. "He runs right through the trap block. He'd hit Tiny like a freight train. He'd put Tiny and Bullard on their butts in the same play. He's too big and too fast."
He dropped the remote. It hit the table with a defeated thud.
This was the fear. Not that we would lose, but that we would be exposed. That all the work, the 13-0 record, the sacrifice... it would all look like a fluke the moment we stepped onto the field with a team that belonged in a higher weight class.
"I need an edge," George muttered. "I need a tell. But they don't have one. They just play chaotic, athletic ball."
***
The Variable
"The auditory frequency is becoming intolerable."
George jumped.
Sheldon was standing in the hallway entrance, wearing his blue plaid pajamas and clutching a flashlight.
"Sheldon!" George hissed. "Go to bed! It's midnight!"
"I cannot sleep," Sheldon stated flatly. "The VCR mechanism emits a high-pitched whine at 15,000 Hertz every time you rewind. It is piercing my eardrums."
"Close your door," George snapped.
"It permeates the drywall," Sheldon countered. He walked into the room, shining his flashlight on the mess of notebooks and play diagrams. "You appear to be in distress."
"I'm working, Sheldon. It's complicated."
Sheldon looked at the TV screen, where the Lufkin quarterback was frozen in mid-throw.
"Is the objective to determine the future actions of the subjects on the screen?" Sheldon asked.
"Yes," George sighed, rubbing his temples. "But they don't have a pattern. They're random."
Sheldon let out a short, condescending laugh. "Ha."
George stopped rubbing his head. "What's funny?"
"The concept of randomness in human behavior," Sheldon said. "It is a fallacy. True randomness is difficult to achieve. Most biological organisms operate on sub-routines and neurological habits."
Sheldon walked closer to the TV. He squinted at the grainy footage.
"For example," Sheldon pointed a small finger at the screen. "Why does that large individual in the backfield change his center of gravity every time the clock is an even number?"
George blinked. "What?"
"Rewind," Sheldon ordered.
George was too tired to argue. He hit Rewind.
Sheldon watched. "Stop."
"Observe the feet," Sheldon said. "The angle of the left foot is obtuse. Approximately 110 degrees."
George looked. The running back's foot was turned out slightly.
"Play," Sheldon said.
The running back ran to the left.
"Rewind," Sheldon said. "Find a play where he runs to the right."
George fast-forwarded. He found a play.
"Stop," Sheldon commanded. "Look at the foot."
George squinted. The foot was straight. Parallel.
"Acute angle," Sheldon noted. "He is preparing to push off the opposite leg to generate torque."
George sat up. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a jolt of electricity.
"He's tipping the play," George whispered. "He's pointing his foot where he's gonna go."
I watched from the couch, a grin spreading across my face. In my old life, in the future, we called this a Cheat Code.
"He's a secret weapon," I said aloud. "Dad, he's a living secret weapon."
"It is basic biomechanics," Sheldon shrugged. "Even a chaotic system follows the laws of physics."
George looked at Sheldon. Then he looked at the stack of tapes.
"Sheldon," George said, his voice trembling. "Can you... can you see other things? Like with the quarterback?"
Sheldon looked at the pile of VHS tapes with disdain.
"It would require a significant amount of data entry," Sheldon sighed. "And the resolution is poor. I have my own projects..."
"I'll buy you a train," George said instantly.
Sheldon froze.
"A model?" Sheldon asked.
"Lionel," George promised. "O-Gauge. With the steam whistle and the authentic coal tender."
Sheldon's eyes widened. He dropped his flashlight on the couch.
"I require a notepad," Sheldon announced. "And a protractor. And cocoa. Hot. With exactly three marshmallows."
George Sr. scrambled out of the recliner.
"Georgie!" Dad yelled at me. "Wake up! Get your brother a protractor! We're pulling an all-nighter!"
***
The Morning After
Sunlight streamed through the living room curtains.
Mary Cooper walked into the room, holding a laundry basket, ready to yell at someone for leaving lights on.
She stopped.
The living room was a disaster of papers, graph charts, and empty cocoa mugs.
But it was also peaceful.
George Sr. was asleep in his recliner, snoring softly. Sheldon was asleep on the floor, clutching a clipboard like a teddy bear. Georgie was asleep on the couch, a pencil behind his ear.
Mary smiled. It was rare to see the men in her life this quiet. And this united.
"Well, look at this," Mary whispered.
Small footsteps came down the hall. Missy walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair was a bird's nest. She looked grumpy.
"Why is the TV static?" Missy grumbled.
Then she saw them.
She looked at Dad. She looked at Sheldon.
A wicked smile slowly formed on her face.
"Mom," Missy whispered. "Do we have a marker?"
Mary hesitated. She looked at George's snoring face.
"On the counter," Mary whispered back.
Missy grabbed a black felt-tip marker. She tiptoed over to George Sr. With the surgical precision of an artist, she drew a pair of cat whiskers on his cheeks.
She moved to Sheldon. She hovered the marker over his forehead.
"Not the face," Meemaw whispered, appearing in the doorway. "Draw a mustache on the clipboard."
Missy giggled and drew a giant mustache on Sheldon's beloved data chart (in the margins, of course).
"Okay, okay," Mary said, clapping her hands softly. "Wake up, you bums. It's a school day."
George Sr. snorted and woke up. "Wha—? What time is it?"
"Time for coffee, Whiskers," Meemaw grinned.
Sheldon sat up. He blinked, looked at the mustache Missy had drawn on his data, but didn't get mad. He stood up and walked over to George Sr., handing him the clipboard.
"I have completed the analysis," Sheldon said, his voice raspy with sleep. "Here is your data... Coach."
George took the clipboard. He looked at the numbers. He looked at his son.
"Thanks, Shelly," George said softly. "You earned that train."
***
Thursday Practice: The Consultant
The next afternoon, the practice field was freezing. The wind cut right through the jerseys.
George Sr. walked onto the field. He wasn't alone.
Sitting on the bench, wrapped in a parka, a scarf, mittens, and a wool hat, was Sheldon Cooper. He looked like a miserable burrito. He was holding the clipboard.
"Listen up!" George yelled to the team. "We aren't running gassers today. We are running a lab experiment."
He looked at Bullard, our defensive captain.
"Bullard, you're the smartest hitter I got. I need you to trust me on something."
"Yes, Coach," Bullard said, eyeing Sheldon suspiciously. "Why is your kid here?"
"He's the consultant," George said. "He cracked the code."
George turned to Sheldon. "Tell 'em, Shelly."
Sheldon stood up, shivering.
"The Lufkin running back has a kinetic tell," Sheldon announced, his voice muffled by the scarf. "When his left foot is obtuse—pointed out—he runs left 94% of the time. When his hands are wiped on his towel, he runs. When he licks his fingers, he passes."
Bullard stared at Sheldon. Then he looked at George. "Seriously?"
"Do you want to win?" George asked. "Because that kid just stayed up all night watching six hours of game film to save your butt."
Bullard looked back at Sheldon. Sheldon nodded solemnly.
"Just watch the foot," Sheldon said. "It is statistically inevitable."
We ran the play. I was standing in for the QB (immobile, just taking snaps).
I pointed my foot out.
"Hut!"
Bullard didn't hesitate. He shot the gap.
Whack.
He met the running back in the backfield instantly.
"Again!" George yelled.
We did it again. I kept my feet parallel.
"Pass!" Bullard yelled, dropping back.
I tried to throw, but the coverage was perfect.
"Holy cow," Tiny whispered. "It works."
George Sr. grinned. He walked over to Sheldon and patted him on the wool hat.
"Good job, Consultant."
"My feet are numb," Sheldon complained. "Can I go to the car now?"
"Not yet," George said. "We gotta make sure they don't mess up your math."
For the next two hours, the Medford Wolves didn't practice football. They practiced timing. And on the sideline, a miserable 9-year-old boy with a clipboard watched them like a hawk, making sure his data was respected.
[Quest Update: The State Path]
* Status: Prep Complete.
* New Asset: The Secret Weapon (Sheldon).
* George Sr.: Locked In.
* Next Opponent: Lufkin (The Final Boss).
Next Up: Chapter 54. The Semi-Finals Game. Medford vs. Lufkin. The Chess Match.
VOTE NOW!