Last chance

At least a twinge of sentimentality had apparently run through several of Joe T. Robinson High School's football coaches. Their team had played in a new stadium for several years, and the old field, located on a ridge above the school, had eroded away to no more than a thirty-yard stretch of dirt.
As Rock watched a few of Robinson's assistant coaches play a pickup game on the old site, another coach told him plans were underway to remove it. The coach said his friends were afraid this might be their last chance to play on the field they had used when they played for the school.

No clear stakes

This was as bizarre as any of the critical, early-morning games Rock had either participated in or witnessed. In this one, Rock watched as two versions of a cat named Joe argued over which had been more precise in their measurements of molecules intertwined in a bundle of wires under Rock's back-bedroom bed.
Atypical of these contests, there were no clear stakes beyond bragging rights. No valuable things—including lives—were at stake, at least as far as Rock could tell.

Progressive worry

An earthquake was scheduled to strike the western edge of Los Angeles at an unspecified time later in the day. Rock woke up that morning confident he was safe in the enormous house he had slept in at least fifteen miles from the coastline, but as the day passed by, a progressive worry began to creep through him.
He wondered if he would feel safer outside and wished he had a city map.