by Paul Cude
"What's wrong?"
"Straps on the kicker are broken," replied Peter innocently, fiddling around with the kicker and its perfectly good straps. "Give me a few minutes. I think I can fix it."
"Well... try and make it snappy. We've had enough stoppages in this one game to last a whole season," said the umpire haughtily.
He knew he'd only bought himself a couple of minutes at best. He had to figure out what was wrong with everyone, and he had to do it now.
Meanwhile, Richie had just finished describing the first team's goal to Tank.
"It looks as though someone's stunned them all using some kind of mantra," uttered Tank, frowning.
"Well," whispered Richie, "you're the mantra expert... why don't you see if you can... undo everything."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Oh... I don't know. How about using a mantra to negate the mantra that's already been used? It's only an idea of course," remarked Richie, sarcastically.
"You know we're not supposed to use mantras out in the open, willy nilly, like that. What happens if the Council find out?"
"When has that ever bothered you before?" objected Richie, shaking her head and turning to look in the direction of the pitch, where Peter appeared to be fiddling about with part of the goalkeeper's kit. Abruptly turning on Tank, getting right up close to his face, she said,
"Whatever that is out there, it's not a natural phenomenon. You have a duty to get rid of it if you can. If that's not enough for you, you should do it for Peter. Ultimately he's the one that's being affected the most by this. Right at this very moment he's out there buying time, trying to figure out what's going on. By the time he does, it will be way too late."
Tank already knew he'd lost. When had either of them ever won against her?
'If I had access to the Mantra Emporium's vast resources, then getting rid of whatever's out there would be a piece of toasted charcoal,' he thought. Limited by the number of mantras he knew, he quickly racked his brain to find one that might help.
Peter had run out of time. Both umpires had lost their patience and had told him that unless the kicker was fixed immediately, they were going to award a win to the first team. Not knowing what else to do, and having tried everything he could to figure out what an earth was going on, he reattached the kicker and moved gingerly back in position, preparing for what he knew would be nothing short of an onslaught. Looking around, he could quite clearly see that unlike himself, none of the others had shrugged off whatever it was that was still affecting them.
Tank thought he knew what pressure was, with some of the things that Gee Tee had got him to do at work. Although he thought the world of the old dragon, at times he could be a really harsh taskmaster. That, however, paled in comparison to what he now felt with Richie standing over him, well... not exactly over him, more... staring up at him from chest height, hands on hips, and a frown on her face that was going to be mighty hard to turn... upside down.
'She could intimidate the king himself,' he thought, small beads of sweat running down his neck, which was quite something in the cool autumnal air. Then, out of nowhere... it came to him. Of course, why hadn't he thought of it sooner? The tornados. Not two weeks after joining Gee Tee at the world renowned emporium, Tank had been given the mundane task of filing away some old mantras. He'd been told one key thing: to keep his mind totally blank while doing this, because the occasional mantra will respond to the merest thought in a dragon's mind. At first, things went well, he did a sterling job, just as he'd been instructed to do, and being full of enthusiasm and endeavour, he was keen to show his new employer just how useful he could be. It was a little boring, but he seemed to be getting through it at quite a rate. However, as time progressed, he became more and more fascinated by the language and the words that made up the mantras. They were so unusual. He'd never seen anything like them, and he prided himself on his language skills. Unfortunately, being so distracted culminated in him setting one of the mantras off with a stray thought, unleashing a plague of magical, mischief making monkeys throughout the shop. They were everywhere, turning over bookcases, eating scrolls, playing chase and, the thing that the other staff members will always remember from that day... they were peeing off the rafters in the ceiling into a giant vat of freshly made mantra ink that Gee Tee had spent two weeks preparing. When he came downstairs to see what all the noise was, he went absolutely ballistic, particularly about the part with the ink. What he did do, however, was cast a brilliant mantra that Tank had never seen before, that created a series of tiny tornados that sucked in anything magically active and made short work of getting rid of the rampaging monkeys. He'd been too amazed by the mantra that the old shopkeeper had cast to be afraid of the consequences of his mistake, and had been so dumbfounded by the magic that he'd gone off and found out all about it, before committing it to memory. That was what he needed now. It should in theory get rid of everything magically wrong, but he needed to make sure it was the powerful rhyming version of the mantra that he cast. Noting that the umpires were just about to restart the game and with Richie standing next to him, glaring, he closed his eyes, combed his memory and found the words he needed. Using the full force of his mind, and with absolute belief, he whispered very carefully:
Round and round and round you go,
Tall and powerful you must grow,
Suck up magic in your path,
Don't hold back, let loose your wrath.
Opening his eyes, he stood transfixed with Richie and watched with his mantra vision as four waist height tornados zoomed through the fence in front of them, heading straight onto the Astroturf pitch. As the tornados zigzagged back and forth, he felt a little disappointed at what he'd achieved. Gee Tee had effortlessly cast the mantra back in the shop to clean up the mischievous monkeys, creating no less than eleven tornados, while his best attempt produced just four. Despite what he sometimes thought, he still had a lot to learn. Luckily he was based in just the right place, being nurtured and taught by the very best. If he took away anything from this, it would be that.
Leaves and sand scattered across the pitch didn't move an inch as the oily black vapour got sucked into each of the tornados as they tore past the players who, amazingly, suddenly started to come back to their senses, just in time for the game to restart once again. Tank turned to Richie, winked and smiled.
"Not bad, huh?"
Richie patted her friend on the back as they continued to watch the tornados, all of which had now grown as tall as Tank, finish cleansing the pitch, knowing that they were the only ones that had seen anything at all. Or were they?
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter had caught sight of his friends watching behind the tiny metal fence. He'd sorted out the kicker rather quickly after the threat from the umpires to award the match to the first team, and as he stood waiting for the inevitable assault from the opposition’s forward line, willing to battle them on his own if he had to, he had the peculiar feeling that his friends were... up to something. It wasn't anything obvious, well not to anyone else anyway, it was just that they looked like they were conspiring. 'Conspiring to do what?' was the million dollar question that circled through Peter's head. Those two scheming could mean anything from the human police arriving, to an all out war to save the planet, or indeed anything in between. He didn't know what was going on, but he was sure he'd find out later.
As all this weaved through his muddied brain, his teammates for no apparent reason turned back into their normal selves from the zombie like states they'd been in for the last few minutes. To say Peter was surprised was an understatement. In each and every one of them, the swaying stopped and the blank looks were replaced by puzzled ones, just momentarily, until they realised where they were and what was going on. Peter's feeling of doom turned to elation, at the prospect of not having to face the opposition on his own. He shouted across to the nearest defender.
"We've let one back in. It's now two one. Tell everyone else!" Travelling throughou
t the team like wildfire, the message was reluctantly accepted by everyone, despite them having no recollection of it happening.
The game restarted with the second team pushing back; however the first team soon gained possession of the ball and began another overwhelming attack. With the rest of the second XI still shaking off their fuzzy heads and heavy legs, Peter knew the rest of the match was going to be hard fought if they were going to get anything from it. He and his team managed to weather the next three attacks, mainly due to luck rather than judgement. But as every minute passed, the second team played more like themselves, holding out hope that not only could they get something from the game, but they might just be able to hold onto their lead and win it.
More than ever now, the game was end to end, with the second team on the attack, forcing the first team players to get behind the ball. As Peter rallied his defenders, making sure they were goal side of their players for fear of the obvious counter attack, he noticed the umpires signal to each other that there were only two minutes of the game remaining. Knowing that they only had to last a couple of minutes, he became even more vocal, his croaky voice encouraging the team and urging them on to greater things. Everything looked fine until a foul by a first team player went unnoticed by both umpires, thus giving possession of the ball and a rather big advantage to the first team. They surged forward and with a couple of clinical passes, carved open the second team defence. Peter himself had been beaten by a nifty dummy and was now duly sprinting back into the 'D' to get round behind the onrushing second team keeper and provide cover on the goal line. The first team attacker with the ball reached the top of the 'D' as the second team goalie threw himself towards the ball. Peter would have bet his tail that the forward in question would have chosen to take on the keeper but, much to his utter horror, right at the last second, the player slipped the ball under his arm, straight into the path of... MANSON! And in doing so, totally took the goalkeeper out of the equation. The ex-army Major picked up the ball on his open side and stepped into the 'D'. His mad dash back to cover behind the keeper had left Peter standing squarely in the middle of the goal, two footsteps in front of the goal line. He'd never felt more alone and vulnerable than he did now. As he watched his fellow defenders give all they had left to get back and help, it was obvious no one would get anywhere near Manson before he had a chance to unleash his shot. It was now about just the two of them.
Surprisingly, as all this flicked through Peter's clumsily organised brain, rather than paralysing him with fear, he realised he was actually looking forward to the next few seconds and although it was against the odds, he felt confident he could thwart the ever nearing Manson.
Not normally having an over-abundance of confidence, he had in his short hockey playing career made some excellent goal line saves. Diving saves, one handed saves, reverse stick saves, even saves that, had he not stopped the ball it would either have taken off his head, or in one rather noticeable case, something far more precious, let's just say his... ears, for example (not really). Ears (you know what I mean) were very important to a dragon, much like other things are very important to... humans (especially male humans).
Basically, he knew what to do when it came down to goal line saves. It was almost as if it were engrained in his very DNA to do so. (Perhaps that was something he'd have to talk to Gee Tee about. Would it be possible for a mantra to make you good at one very specific part of a sport? An interesting question for another time.) In the here and now, he was going to stop Manson scoring a goal, thus levelling up the match. In a unit of time so small it would have been barely measureable, he briefly considered using the magic that was his birthright. But before the thought had even finished, the rest of his body had screamed, ”CHEAT!”' at him, knowing just how wrong it was, and just how disgusted his friends would have been with him for even considering it. It was fine though. With his tried and tested reflexes, he didn't need to rely on anything dragon related. He'd stop Manson in this form... a battle of equals, and one he was determined to win.
As the moment came, and with all of his senses heightened, time once again slowed. Manson was five feet into the 'D' now, his stick drawn back behind him, knees bent, eyes firmly on the ball, ready to strike. Peter tightened the grip on his stick, making sure his hands were apart on the shaft, ready to stop the ball wherever it should go, legs one in front of the other, fully balanced, his cat-like reflexes itching to be let loose. Still moving forward, Manson's stick cut through the air in a sizzling arc, about to make contact with the ball.
Focused only on the ball, Peter could just see in the periphery Manson mutter something as his stick sweetly struck the dimpled ball. A rocket powered by a god, that's how fast the ball moved, or so it seemed to Peter. Not once did he blink, or take his eye off the ball's trajectory, knowing with every molecule in his being that he was going to stop the ball going into the goal, and reward his team with a hard earned victory. Lining up his stick, he loosened his lower hand slightly, so that he would stop the ball cleanly and not let it bounce away from his stick. Inside his head, he'd already played the pass out wide to one of his defenders, who would no doubt take it up the field in time for the final whistle to be blown.
With the blur that was the white ball only a fraction of a second from the end of his stick, Peter felt all warm inside at what he knew to be HIS victory over Manson. Everything that had gone on over the previous months, all the bullying, silent threats, the mistreatment of Al Garrett, the dismissal of Dr Island... this he knew was the start of the fight back. From here on in, it changed. From here on in, he was in charge, and it would end with Manson's imprisonment and the return of a fit and healthy Al Garrett, with Cropptech back to the way it was supposed to be.
Looking down at his stick, he waited expectantly for the comforting impact of the ball, knowing that its course would put it right on the end of his stick, ready to pass it out of harm's way to one of his defenders. As he watched, filled with the thrill of the game, to his utter amazement, just as the ball was about to hit the end of his stick, it disappeared and, without warning, reappeared six inches off to one side, still travelling at the same speed. Instantly he moved his stick to try and get a touch, any touch. His reflexes were good, better than good in fact, but he never stood a chance. No one would have. It was too late. A resounding 'THUD' later as the ball smashed against the back board, he just caught sight of Manson wheeling away in celebration, a massive cheer from the first team igniting the air all around.
Rooted to the spot, Peter played out the events again in his mind. He'd watched the ball all the way. It should have arrived on the end of his stick. At the last instant it just... moved over to the right. Impossible! Absolutely impossible! But it had happened... just like that. Reluctantly striding towards the top of the 'D', passing his goalkeeper on the way, he shook his head at the injustice of it all, still convinced it had played out the exact way he'd seen it. Then it hit him. Manson had been saying something just as he was about to strike the ball. Who on earth did that? Nobody! What the hell was going on? Out of nowhere an arm appeared around his shoulder.
"It's alright Peter, it's not your fault. We should have got back quicker," put in Mark, the second team's left back.
Peter was still in a daze. He looked over at his friends on the sideline, hoping that maybe they'd seen something, but they just shrugged their shoulders in his direction.
"You must have seen what happened?" he pleaded with Mark.
"It was just a good shot mate, one of those things. Nothing you could have done. Don't beat yourself up."
"But the ball, it changed places. You must've seen it?"
"Don't worry Pete. A draw for us today is as good as a victory. Head up."
Shaking in downright frustration, he caught sight of Manson on the halfway line getting ready for the restart. The smug, arrogant sneer on his face told Peter everything he needed to know. Somehow the mysterious Major had power, magic... something. In that single moment on the goal line, every
thing he'd feared and suspected had been confirmed. Not only that, but Manson had risked revealing it just to take Peter down a peg or two in a hockey match.
It only then occurred to him.
'What on earth is going to happen when we get back to work?' he thought. Manson knew that Peter knew. What did it all mean?
With only a matter of seconds left in the game, the umpires blew their whistles to restart, moments later blowing them again to end the game. Each team gave the other three cheers, albeit begrudging ones on both sides, as players shook each others' hands, including the umpires. For the first time in a hockey match, he was reluctant to shake the hands of his opponents. He'd often thought the sportsmanship side of hockey had been one of the key lures for him, and before today had never had any qualms about shaking an opponent's hand, but all that seemed to have gone out the window during the ill tempered last seventy minutes. Aimlessly shaking the first team player's hands without thinking, another was thrust in his direction from off to one side. Reaching out for the hand, he looked up into the face of... MANSON! Peter's hand shot back faster than a man peeing against an electric fence. Manson walked right up to Peter and stood head to head. The two of them gazed into each other's eyes for what seemed like the lifespan of a new universe.
"Not very sporting," commented the ex-army Major.
“No... you’re not,” was the witty reply that Peter came back with. Manson’s face was a picture... almost worth every ounce of trouble Peter was bound to get into, back at Cropptech.
