Date: January 27, 1990 (Saturday).
Location: Highlander Stadium.
Event: The Red vs. White Scrimmage (The "Proof of Concept").
It was 40 degrees and overcast, but the stands were half-full. In Medford, a scrimmage drew fifty people—mostly dads and stray dogs. In Highland Park, it drew the Board of Directors.
Men in camel-hair coats and women in furs sat in the reserved section. They weren't cheering. They were auditing. They were here to see if George Cooper—the man who fired the Booster President's son—was a genius or a lunatic.
Mary Cooper sat in the front row, wearing her "Pity Smile" like armor. Serena sat next to her, whispering intel.
"That's Mr. Davidson," Serena whispered, nodding at a man in a grey suit. "He hates the spread offense. And that's Mrs. Galloway. She thinks Larry Allen is 'too big' for the uniforms."
"Well," Mary said, smoothing her blanket. "Larry is too big for the uniforms. That's a logistical fact, not an opinion."
Sheldon sat nearby with his notebook, stopwatch ready. "Based on the mass-to-force ratio of the new recruits," Sheldon announced to a nearby booster, "the kinetic energy output of this team has increased by 48%. I advise you to move back from the railing."
The booster looked at the nine-year-old in a bowtie. "Who is this kid?"
"That's the Statistician," Meemaw said, pouring 'coffee' from her thermos. "Pay attention. You might learn something."
***
George Sr. stood at midfield. He wore his headset, even though he was coaching both sides. He blew the whistle.
"Alright! Red Team is First Offense/Defense! White Team is the Scout Team! Full contact! Let's see who wants a spot on the bus!"
The Red Team huddled. It was a terrifying collection of human beings. I looked around the circle. Jimmy Smith, the glider. Braden, the convert. Larry Allen, the wall. Zach Thomas, the psycho.
We broke the huddle and walked to the line. The White Team defense was made up of good players—seniors, legacy kids—but they looked nervous. I saw their defensive end take a half-step backward when Larry Allen put his hand in the dirt.
"Down!" I yelled. "Set!"
The White Team safety crept up. He was trying to blitz. I changed the play with a simple nod. Jimmy Smith checked his stance. Braden shifted his weight.
"HUT!"
The snap hit my hands, and the chaos started.
The defensive end tried to speed-rush Larry. It was a bad idea. Larry didn't just block him; he swallowed him. Larry got his hands inside the pads and drove the defender five yards, then ten yards, finally planting him into the turf like a lawn dart.
With that kind of protection, I had all day. I could have made a sandwich in the pocket.
I looked left. Jimmy was running a go-route, but the safety had the angle. I looked middle. Braden was running a crossing route against a linebacker. It was a mismatch. Braden's feet were too quick. He did a little head-fake, planted, and cut inside.
He was wide open.
I stepped up and threw a dart. Braden caught it in stride. A safety came down to hit him, but Braden didn't go down. He spun—a move he learned from watching me—and fought for five extra yards. First down.
I jogged up to him. "Nice hands, Receiver One."
Braden grinned, spinning the ball. "This is way easier than playing quarterback. I just run where you tell me."
***
The drive continued. We were marching, but George Sr. wasn't satisfied with "efficient." He wanted a show.
"Spread formation!" George yelled. "Empty backfield!"
The crowd murmured. In 1990, an empty backfield was heresy. It was reckless.
I stood alone in the shotgun. Five receivers wide. I saw the defense shift. They were bringing the house—a corner blitz.
"Hut!"
The snap was low. I scooped it off the shoelaces. The blitzer, a fast senior named Miller, was free. He was coming for my head. Standard 1990 protocol was to fall down, take the sack, and punt.
I chose the Mahomes Protocol: *Make him look stupid.*
I didn't fall. I stepped back and spun to my left, away from the blitzer. Miller grabbed my jersey, but I used my core strength to rip away. Now I was scrambling left, rolling out toward the sideline. The defense flowed with me. Everyone was watching my eyes.
I saw Jimmy Smith in the back of the endzone. He was covered. But I saw Braden cutting across the back line, moving against the grain.
I was running full speed to the left. I planted my left foot. I didn't turn my shoulders. I didn't reset. I threw the ball across my body, back to the right.
The ball defied physics. It zipped past the earhole of a linebacker who froze, thinking I was running out of bounds. It hit Braden right in the chest.
Touchdown.
The stadium went silent. The boosters in the camel-hair coats stood up. They weren't clapping yet. They were processing. They had never seen a quarterback throw across his body thirty yards for a score.
"Unconventional!" I heard a coach yell. "But... effective!"
I jogged to the endzone. Braden spiked the ball. Larry Allen ran downfield and lifted me into the air like I was a ragdoll.
"Good throw, little man!" Larry roared.
***
The scrimmage wasn't over. Now, the White Team offense had the ball. They had to face Zach Thomas.
The White Team QB took the snap for a run play. Before he even handed the ball off, Zach Thomas was moving. He shot the gap between the center and the guard, a blur of neck-roll and violence. He hit the running back the instant he got the ball.
*CRACK.*
The sound echoed off the metal bleachers. The running back went down instantly, and the ball popped loose. Zach didn't celebrate. He just stood over him.
"Get up," Zach barked. "We got another rep."
The crowd gasped. This wasn't high school football. This was organized assault.
***
The final score was something like 42-0. We stopped counting.
George Sr. gathered the team at midfield. The players were exhausted, but the "White Team" players weren't looking at the "Red Team" with jealousy anymore. They were looking at them with relief—relief that they were on the same side.
George turned to the stands. He looked at the boosters. He looked at the doubters. He took off his hat and waved it once.
A slow clap started. It was Mr. Remington, standing in the owner's box area. Then the other boosters joined in. It wasn't a roar. It was polite applause. But it was the sound of money getting on board.
I walked over to the sideline where Serena was waiting by the fence. Her eyes were wide.
"You guys look terrifying," she said.
"We are," I said, taking off my helmet. "We're the villains, Serena. Look at them."
I pointed to the White Team. They were battered. "We just beat up our own teammates. Imagine what we're gonna do to the rest of Texas."
"Are you okay with being the villain?" she asked.
I looked at Larry Allen, who was signing an autograph for a kid (using the kid's entire back as a table). I looked at Zach Thomas, who was still practicing his stance.
"Villains win," I said. "Heroes usually just play nice and lose."
She reached through the fence and squeezed my hand. "Well," she smiled. "I always liked the bad guys in the movies."
---
**Quest Update: The Exhibition**
* **The Team:** Validated.
* **The Play:** The "Cross-Body" Throw unlocked.
* **The Boosters:** Silenced (for now).
* **Braden:** Fully Integrated as Slot WR.
* **Status:** The Target on our Back just got massive.
Ì.