Anyway, one thing we thought made Cool look Cool is that he had a beautiful young girlfriend and a Marlboro sticking out the driver's-side window from which he waved to us ordinary guys, even as he blew second-hand smoke on his two beautiful “possessions.”
The kid who moved thought to himself, “I'm much faster than this kid. True, I'm smaller, but I can last longer because I don't smoke.”
As he flew down the field trying to make up a 20-yard deficit, he had to admit to himself that his girlfriend wasn't nearly as beautiful as Cool's.
He didn't have a Ford Galaxie with a continental kit, either. He was, in fact, still dependent on the use of his dad's uncool, '55 Pontiac four-door sedan.
Yet here he was, making up dramatic yardage, as if he was an equal to his slow-footed rival.
Somewhere about the 30-yard line, he caught up with Cool. He wanted to be extra careful, because his best friend Gary had told him how frustrated he was from the season before when he caught up with a player like this, only to have him break out of his grasp and go on for a touchdown.
With that in mind, the kid that moved waited a couple of more steps until he knew he could slam his shoulder pads into Cool's lower back or hip, simultaneously sliding his head to the left and wrapping both arms and hands about Cool's bigger body, taking care to keep running full speed, as if Cool wasn't there.
It had the effect of sending both players flying into the air. As gravity will invariably impose, both bodies soon came crashing back to earth with painful thuds.
The kid that moved felt one of Cool's shoes kicking him in the ribs at the same time, and that kick would leave a scar for him to brag about when old players got together to make wound comparisons, like in that "Jaws" movie.