For the rest of the week I endure being the butt of an extremely large joke. It seems like everyone was in on it. I will say that if you want a team-building exercise, terrorizing the coach and playing off his fears of having even more body parts replaced than his arm, and watching him make a fool of himself in front of everybody – well, mission accomplished. Even people I know to be involved in active clan feuds worked together on the field in ways I never thought possible. Jager either, he comments on it often. It seems to be a big deal. I don’t think of myself as a peacemaker, but here I am, doing the good work. Ha! It was fortuitous, I suppose, since our second game is a lot harder than the first.
We play the Albraxan Bulldogs. They haven’t won a Tournament in over a hundred years, ever since their kicker, a guy named Marty Brooke, whiffed a 220 meter attempt in overtime and turned his last name into a verb. The Bulldogs are desperate for a win, and desperate people do awful things.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I ask Laura on game day. She’s helping me into my armor.
“It was me, what?” she asks with a smile.
“You know exactly what.”
“And what’s that?”
“It was you who took off my pants.”
“Oh, it wasn’t me,” she says. “We found a little old man named Bernie to do it. He’s ninety and wrinkly and he smells. But his eyes lit up like—”
“Stop! Why won’t anyone give me a straight answer? It’s been four days since your horrible prank. It’s not funny anymore.”
“Oh, it’s still funny. You not knowing who saw you without pants is very funny. In you go, funny man.”
***
When we get out onto the field, the Bulldogs are already there and ready for us. They win the coin toss and elect to receive. Cribbens not only kicks it to the 3 meter line, this time he arcs it so high that by the time a Bulldog does catch it, he has to wave fair kick or get annihilated.
I’m hoping for another touchback. Two games in a row will start a trend, but no love. The Bulldogs start running the ball. And continue to run it. And again. They find all sorts of holes in our defense. It’s nice when teams are eager to show you all of your weaknesses early in the season, but it’s still frustrating to watch.
After the Bulldogs push past midfield, and I key up a CC channel to Bucky. “I thought your job was to stop their advance.”
“Working on it, boss.”
“Really? Because it looks to me like you’re trying to ask them nicely. You know, like a pussy.”
“That helps a lot, thanks for your incredible insight.”
The Bulldogs methodically pick us apart and drive all the way down into the endzone and score. It’s like watching a giant boulder roll down a hill. You know where it’s going, but you can’t do a damn thing to stop it.
Touchdown. 0-7.
***
The Bulldogs always blitz the quarterback on their first defensive play. It’s kind of their thing. They use all eleven players and they want you to feel fear or some shit like that. I think it’s dumb because when the opposing team knows exactly what you’re going to do, they can plan all sorts of nasty things. And I have the nastiest nasties on my side of the line of scrimmage.
The Bulldog Blitz meet an immovable wall and bounce off. Instead of attacking them, the Blood Suns don’t move. The Bulldogs try to get through again and fail. I get the impression that the offensive line is sending a message to their defensive counterparts. When the Bulldogs try a third time, we let them through. Kissy is all by herself with the ball. The Bulldogs charged ahead, thinking they’re taking candy from a baby with a fleet of battle tanks.
Kissy waits for them in her sexy suit. I’m not sure what she’s going to do. All she said before the game was “let them through.” I’d refused at first.
***
“You want to what?” I shouted when Kissy told me what she wanted while getting ready for the game in the armory. “Are you crazy?”
“I’ll be fine. You do what we planned, block The Blitz, but after the first couple of tries, let them through.”
“How many of them?”
“All of them.”
“ALL?!”
“Stop yelling, I’m standing right here.”
“I can’t help it when people say crazy things to me.”
“Let them all through,” she repeated. “Do you really think I’d ask you for this if I thought I would be in danger?”
“I think you’re underestimating exactly that. What are you planning?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I need a hint before I agree to something like this,” I say.
“No hints. And this is really just a courtesy, you know. I’m calling an audible. The offensive line will do anything for me after Victor. Just agree. It will be easier for everyone if you do.”
“Fine. Just don’t get yourself hurt.”
Kissy raises an eyebrow. “What would you do if I was?”
“Jesus, you’re killing me.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
***
So the Bulldogs roar through our offensive line and I have no idea what’s about to happen. Sure, you could say that nobody knows what’s about to happen next at any given moment, and with all the random things that can happen in a spaceball game, surely I would be prepared for the unknown. But there’s a difference between wondering which of a set of probable outcomes I’ll see, and wondering which of all the possible outcomes in the universe is going to happen. I hold my breath and watch a train of destruction barrel straight at Kissy.
And then I see kung fu in space.
With one hand still holding the ball, Kissy executes an incredible acrobatic dance between, around, over and under each Bulldog. It seems like she barely touches any of them, but they all go spinning away from her. She’s using more force than a regular suit, too, because the Bulldogs sail quite a distance before each player can regain control of his position. They don’t have any time to get back into the action. Kissy slides around them all in a matter of seconds and then whizzes up the field unimpeded to score.
TOUCHDOWN! 7-7!
***
When it comes to my offensive and defensive coordinators, I have a hands-off approach. I tell them things like “score” and “stop their fucking ground game,” respectively. Respect is the keyword here. I’m very respectful with Jager. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I talk to him like I talk to Bucky. Seriously, I have no idea. My mind keeps coming up with colorful scenarios that end poorly for me. I don’t like to think about it.
When Bucky fields our porous defensive line again, all I say is “Try not to be as useless as the last drive.”
“If you’d like to do this, be my guest.”
“A gerbil would do better than you at this point.” Before he can retort, I say, “Do you remember the tryouts?”
“Yeah, but – oh. Oh!” Bucky pauses, as he realizes I’m talking about the maneuver the defensive line used in tryouts to get their jobs. The field AI didn’t see it then, it probably won’t see it now. I’m glad Bucky caught my meaning, because it’s not something I’d want to actually spell out on the air. The CC is closed to prevent eavesdropping, sure, but only an idiot assumes that the field AI can’t brute force the encryption and listen in. “Are you sure you want to try that?”
“Did you have anything better planned?”
“Nothing as dumb as that, boss.”
“Give it a whirl.”
The Bulldogs run another ground play – why change what’s successful – and get stuffed. They run again and actually get negative meters. They call a timeout, during which the Bulldogs’ coach has a furious discussion with the bees. After the timeout is over and the Bulldogs are lined up on third down, the bees are in real close to the players. The Bulldogs probably figured out what was going on, but can’t prove it without hard evidence.
I could’ve called it off at that point, but I want to see if my guys will get caught. It’ll be serious if they do. I’ll have to crucify the whole squad to save the team. As in, “We had no idea when we hired this foul person that they would behave in such an unsportsmanlike way.” Nobody will believe us, but the Blood Suns won’t get banned from the Tournament.
After the snap, the Blood Suns charge through the Bulldogs’ offensive line like they’re asleep. We get to their quarterback before he even has time to hand off the ball. There’s a big crash, a tangle of arms and legs. The ball goes flying. Another huge pile of players fall on it.
I wait to see who comes up with it. “They were even faster on third down,” I comment to Bucky.
“Didn’t happen,” he says.
“How come?”
“No need. With the bees in so close, I figured they thought they saw something and were trying to spring a trap or something. They froze on the line.”
“Nice work.”
“Yeah, but we won’t be able to use that play again, boss.”
“It’s not something we want to be trotting out in every game, anyway.”
Let me be clear: I have nothing against cheating so long as I’m the one doing it and nobody’s getting killed. Spaceball isn’t a gentleman’s game. Popular teams generate more credits for their economies than the gross domestic product of entire planets, and the idea that everyone lets something that big ride on the fickle whim of chance is naïve fantasy. Losers fight fair, and then limp home on their loser feet to their loser houses and loser severance payments. I’m certainly not going to fight fair and be that loser guy. My rule for cheating is this: if the bees and field AI didn’t see it, then I didn’t do it.
The Bulldogs recover their own ball, but it’s fourth down and they punt. We return it to midfield and Kissy goes back to work.
They try to blitz again – not The Blitz, a regular one. Kissy still has enough time in the pocket to find a receiver down the field. She throws a pass and hits Huck Fitzberg while on the move in man-to-man coverage. Fitzberg doesn’t even slow down. He stiff-arms the defender, who can’t catch up fast enough to grapple him, and scores.
TOUCHDOWN! 14-7!
***
The Bulldogs open up their next drive on their 320 meter line with a pass play. First one I’ve seen all game. They connect for 120 meters. The next play is another pass and they get 100 more meters. They throw again. 150 meters.
“Bucky,” I say on the CC.
“I know!”
“Do you need Kissy to take over for you?”
“That hurts, boss, that really hurts.”
“Seriously, man, you need to stop them.”
“I can see that, I’ve got eyes.”
It’s like that for the whole drive. The Bulldogs score again.
Touchdown. 14-14.
***
We score on the next drive. Then they score. We score. Back and forth like that for the entire game. At the two-minute warning, it’s tied 35-35 and we have the ball on their 300 meter line. It’s third down and 50. We have to convert and eat up more clock time, or kick a field goal and hope our sieve – I mean, defense – can stop them before they score again. They know the same thing. If they stop us here, we’re toast.
“Kissy,” I say on the CC.
“Yes?”
“How are you feeling about a quarterback sneak?”
“It’s 50 meters,” she answers. “That’s not a sneak, that’s a run.”
“Fine, it’s a run. Are you up to it?”
“I’ve never done it before.”
“Just do what you did during the blitz,” I say.
“Oh. I can do that.”
“Except don’t score.”
“I know that, I’m not an idiot.”
“Well, if I thought you could take your time, I’d tell you to score, but that won’t happen.”
“Right.”
Kissy takes the snap directly on the next play. Her offensive linemen part the ways for her, and she uses her judo to deal with the two remaining defenders who are very surprised to see her. The Bulldogs’ safeties realize what’s happening and close in on her, but not before Kissy gets the requisite 50 yards. She doesn’t stop, though.
She turns around and comes back.
“What are you doing!?” I scream at her.
“What did I tell you about the yelling?” she says.
“Now you’re behind the line of scrimmage! Go back!”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?!”
“I’m taking my time, just like you said.”
Kissy leads the Bulldogs on a merry chase back down the field towards our own endzone. Her teammates follow her and block as best as they can. Kissy zips along, pauses, watches the Bulldogs close in, and then zips to the next spot. After a minute and a half or so, when the game clock is down to 0:08 and I think I’m having an actual heart attack as Kissy hovers dangerously close to our own fucking goal line, she turns around and heaves the ball.
I’d been watching her so closely that I never noticed the lone Blood Sun standing in the Bulldog’s endzone.
Kissy’s throw is a like a laser. An entire kilometer, straight and true.
TOUCHDOWN! 42-35!
***
“Bucky,” I say after Cribbens puts the ball on their 10 meter line.
“Yes?”
“You really didn’t do anything else all game, so do you think you can hold them for eight seconds?”
“I think I can do that, yes.”
He does. The Bulldogs throw a Hail Mary. Crazy Eddie intercepts it.
Game over!
***
The win celebration at the KornerStone club is wilder than the first one. Someone installed a series of hooks on the far wall, and amid feral bellows and howls, the Blood Suns installed a Joomit and Bulldog helmet. Like trophies. I don’t know where they got the helmets, and I don’t ask. I also don’t ask if the helmets are still occupied. I wouldn’t put it past them. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, right? Right.
Bucky and Janine are off doing their own celebration. Jager is standing behind the bar with a drink in hand. He offers one to me but I decline. I instead turn to Laura, who is watching the pagan helmet ritual, and say “So, I won.”
“We won.”
“Okay, we won.”
“Yes, we did.”
“You said that maybe you’d, well, kiss my other ear.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She stands up.
“Oh,” I say. Crestfallen.
She leans in. “I was the one who took off your pants. View was nice.”
I look up at her and see her mischief smile. I reach out for her but she slips away. I watch her go.
“Follow her, you idiot,” Jager says.
“That’s not how the game is played,” I tell him.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, not this game.”