by Purple Hazel
The opening kick-off sailed through the air as the crowd screamed with excitement. In Megaball, the home team always kicked off to the visitor to start the game, then the visitor returned the favor at the start of the second half. Dallas’s receiver ran it back about eleven meters before being corralled to the ground by a swarm of Londoners, as Ozzie watched from the sideline. “It’s on, bitch!” yelled a player somewhere behind him.
Ozzie took to standing near the head coach at all times. This was a clever tactic. As Coach Nguyen paced up and down the sidelines, Ozzie knew he needed to be the easiest player to find just in case Assegai went down with an injury—another one of his brother’s little tips before training camp. Unfortunately, however, Assegai was quite resilient.
Speaking of that, it would turn out so was London’s defense! They bent, but they would not break. No matter what Dallas tried, London was just as tough and stubborn as the English had always been known for. Assegai couldn’t get anything going. Coach Nguyen grew increasingly frustrated as the game progressed. Ozzie could hear him screaming into his headset at the Offensive Coordinator. “Haruki? Jesus…are you pickin’ up that run blitz or what? Don’t we got more ’n six fuckin’ plays worked up for tonight? C’mon, man! I know it’s only preseason, but shit! They’re shuttin’ us down!”
In Megaball, there was a running clock. No clock stoppage in the first half. Referees recorded injury delays and other interruptions, then tacked them onto the end of the game for “stoppage time”, just like in rugby or soccer. If the ball went out of bounds, the offense had to set up and run a new play from the new spot, determined by a linesman. Neither the defense nor the offense could delay the game, lest they be penalized. Thus the game kept moving constantly. To finish a forty-five minute half was like one long ordeal of mind over body—playing with mounting exhaustion and the ever-present threat of vicious, bone-crushing impact.
“Oooooh!” the crowd would yell, after a powerful hit. Then they’d cheer wildly, lusting for more. And on this particular night, they weren’t alone in their desire for blood.
“Wow, look at that fucker comin’, will ya’?” a nearby player exclaimed excitedly, as two players closed in for a spectacular collision. “Eeeeeyow!” yelled the man next to him as the horrendous noise of contact echoed from the field up into the stands. Soon the crowd was reacting as well, in one big gasp reacting to the violence. But seconds later, cheers emitted.
Ozzie watched from the sideline as the London player collided with a Dallas Halfback and both men continued to lie on the turf when referees whistled the play dead to establish a new scrum line. Both players were moving…but not much.
“Shit, Ozzie!” yelled Haskeh. “You know ’s well ’s I do…that fuckin’ Limey was trying to knock our Two Back outa the game!” Ozzie agreed. Everything about that tackle reeked of malicious intent. The Brits were clearly targeting the Dallas Halfback and trying to remove him as a threat.
“Ain’t nobody wantin’ shit like that in a fuckin’ preseason game!” bellowed a Dallas player near them. Ozzie suddenly felt an icy chill, and his blood boiled with righteous indignation.
“FUCK NO!” he screamed, and several London players heard him. “AIN’T NO PLACE FOR THAT. Y’ALL AIN’T RESPECTIN’ THE GAME, MOTHER FUCKERS! Y’ALL ‘R TARGETING…’N YOU FUCKIN’ KNOW IT!”
They looked over briefly, those three London players did, and glared at him. Ozzie felt a lump in his throat. It suddenly occurred to him: they weren’t disagreeing. And that begged the question, was he also on their list for the night? Probably. If they could get to him that is…at just the right moment. Take him out just like Dallas’ swift halfback, now lying out there on the ground writhing in pain.
It all sunk in with Ozzie, and made him realize what this really was…what it had become…what it had degenerated into. This “game”…megaball that is…was turning rapidly into just what American football had once been reduced to—before society began to reject it as too dangerous for its participants.
But with Ozzie’s brave tirade now came a swell of support from his teammates, who appreciated him for expressing what they too felt, though they had usually held back in interviews with the media. “That’s right, Ranger! You tell ’em! This shit gotta stop, man! Teams be pullin’ this on us all the time. I’m tellin’ ya’ man…it ain’t cool!” Another one clarified his teammate’s bold words, “Yeah. Ever-where we fuckin’ go they be doin’ this to us!”
Ozzie wondered what he was referring to. Was this normal? Were Dallas players regularly targeted in this manner, because of resentment toward their championship run a few years before? Or was this now league-wide? Was this in fact a common practice…to take out key players who might pose a threat? If so, then the league should have been doing something about it long ago, to make sure the sport remained just that, and not a chaotic spectacle filled with gratuitous, animalistic violence.
Or was this just what Ozzie thought he remembered from when he was a youth? Was the game really a gentlemanly competition between honorable combatants following rules of play as well as assumed standards for conduct? Was it ever? Maybe he’d held onto an image of the game which was now more romanticized. Unrealistic. Naïve. Maybe he’d remembered incorrectly. Maybe this had been some terrible mistake, trying out for the Wranglers!
The first half progressed slowly after that incident. Seemed it would never end. More players got hurt. More players got carted off the field or helped off by training staff. It was completely unnecessary. Too early! The regular season hadn’t even started yet! Coach Nguyen was beside himself. At one point, it even seemed like he’d throw down his headset and run out there to challenge the other head coach to fisticuffs.
“FUCK YOU BART! FUCK YOU!” he kept screaming at the other coach across the field. He’d pace up and down the sideline yelling obscenities, not even caring anymore that Ultravision cameras were upon him the whole time. Ozzie followed him. It kept him loosened up! But, ultimately, the first half came to an end when the referee blew his whistle to signal a break in the carnage. By then, it was still a dead-heat. London had managed two successful “field goals” and trailed 7-6 as the players finally headed into the tunnel for halftime.
But the conflicts didn’t subside as the two teams exited Wembley Stadium field and headed back to their locker rooms.
“Y’all ’r a bunch o’ assholes!” screamed a Dallas player, shoving a London player as the two teams filed off. Ultravision cameras captured it for bloodthirsty viewers around the world.
“Bugger off, you wanker!” retorted the offended Brit. “Stay off the bloody field if you can’t handle it, mate!” blurted another.
“Nah, snowflake,” taunted a different Dallas player. “We be comin’ right back. Comin’ after yo’ lily white asses, let me tell ya’!” To this, a swell of echoing retorts came from the remaining Englishmen as they marched into the tunnel.
“We’ll be seein’ ya’ then, tossers!”
“Come outta this tunnel again ’n we’ll fix ya’ good!”
“Yeah mate! Do yourself a favor and run back to bleedin’ Texas!”
Assistant coaches didn’t even bother trying to quell the arguments. Seemed like they were right in the middle of it as well. “Control yer goddam players, coach!” shouted one of Dallas’ assistants to one of his London counterparts. This only incited more resentment.
“Suit up then, plonker!” exclaimed the Englishman. “Yeah, join us cunt!” yelled another. “When we’re done takin’ these blokes down, we’ll deal with you next!” That’s when a London player caught Ozzie’s eye. He was grinning and pointing toward him.
“And you too, superstar!” he yelled in a Scottish accent. “Ya’ didn’t get all dressed up for nothin’, did ya’? They brought you to the revel, now dance if you can!”
But Ozzie, trying to be the good sport as always, only chuckled and replied, “Lookin’ forward to it, buddy. After I find me a phone somewhere. First I gotta ring yer Momma and see what she’
s up to later on tonight.”
This actually lightened the mood a bit, as players from both teams laughed at his audacious kidding. Probably went as far as anything in preventing a full-scale brawl in that crowded tunnel!
Chapter 6
Magnifique
Back in the locker room, the mood was electric. Part frustration. Part indignation. On the one hand, London was putting up a really good fight. On the other hand, Dallas, at least on paper, was a far superior team talent-wise. A lot of the players resented the very thought that the much slower, less skilled Brits were challenging them.
“Come on guys! This ain’t right! We’re better ’n these chumps!” yelled one. “The Euro division is a joke, man…every fuckin’ year…’n y’all know it!” Another added, “We should be runnin’ all over ’em! Instead, we can’t even get first downs on ’em!”
“Yeah!” responded yet another. “What do we have, like five…the whole first half?!” Coach Nguyen had little to add to that self-evaluation. He was at the very least as frustrated as anyone. Worse, he was particularly miffed by the London head coach Bartholomew Black, also known as Black Bart from his days as a player. Now he was London’s head coach, and his reputation for dirty play had quite apparently rubbed off on his players.
Ultimately, it was Assegai who rose to the fore and took a stand regarding what had been going on all evening along the scrum line. His attitude about the situation was far different, however. In his mind at least, it was his own players’ fault for allowing London to dominate them. Had they been winning the battle in the trenches, things would be mighty different, he believed. Thus, he laid the blame squarely on the Dallas front nine.
“SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!” he suddenly screamed. “You’re all fools!” When he yelled that, he immediately gained their attention. Slowly, the crowd of sweaty bodies lowered their murmurs to listen to their angry leader’s rebuke. London’s targeting of Dallas’ best players meant little to a ruthless warrior like Assegai. That, to him anyway, was just common sense. Eliminate the enemy’s best weapons one by one until the opposing offense can’t move the ball anymore. Simple. It’s an ugly way to win, but it works.
“You men forget what diss really izz! You come into diss lockuh room, whining and crying like a child who’s ’ad eez lunch money stolen from him by a bully on dee playground. You forget dat we have to be dat bully…every time we go out thayuh. You all teenk of diss as a game…with rules and spoats-mahn-ship…played by jent-uh-men. Ha! You are fooling yo’selves. Games are for childrens. Dey argue. Dey get upset. Dey lose. Den dey cry like babies pining fo’ dayuh mothuh’s nuturing. Diss is not a game! It is war! It was nevvah meant to be a game!”
He then looked around and started pointing at people in the locker room, as though personally challenging them. “Now…we go out thayuh and staht taking them out, one by one. In the zone of death, we take no preezuh-nuzz. Usuthu!”
Coach Nguyen not surprisingly disagreed with Assegai’s take on things, and started to interrupt. “Now, now, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, men. This most definitely is a game. It’s a team sport with rules for conduct. The league will most likely review the tactics of our opponent tonight and I’m sure there will be action taken. But for now—”
“For now…it is going to be them or us, coach!” interrupted Assegai, retaking control and exerting his will over the room. “Only one will be the victor! The other will perish!” He was suddenly like some African warlord who’d decided to challenge the wise old chief and seize power over the tribe. “For now, we have a battle to fight! And in a few more minutes we will return to that field to end diss! Victory is our only option! To overcome our enemy, we must fight as viciously as he!”
“What? You mean target their players, too?” asked one of the big Forwards, who was icing one of his elbows in a tub of water filled with ice cubes.
“No fellas…that’s not what we mean,” interrupted Coach Nguyen. “Assegai, we’re not going down that road and you know it. I won’t stand for that sort of thing. League won’t either. All games are reviewed if coaches file a protest. Everyone knows that. Now…we’re going back out there and playing a clean game. All of you!”
A murmur arose among the players as they seemed to be wavering between accepting the harsh truth of Assegai’s words and remembering to respect the rules of the league and treat this like a game—not a gang fight in a dark alley. Ozzie meanwhile observed but remained silent. It was like watching a nasty political debate between two diametrically opposed candidates, with one of those candidates being ultra-right wing conservative and the other more liberal candidate seeking to appeal to human reason. Ozzie could sense his teammates were leaning toward taking the hard line and defying their coach. Inevitably, as he’d learned in history, if the constituency feels sincerely threatened by outside forces, the hardline candidate will ultimately prevail.
That’s why Ozzie felt it was finally time to speak. He knew he might not win everyone over, but if things were about to degenerate into systematic sanctioning of opposing players, then someone at least needed to speak up. Ozzie got up off the floor where he’d been crouched on one knee among the masses of sweaty players. The room had a stench of body odor, armpits, wet hair, and urine from players who’d pissed their pants rather than take themselves out during the game.
“Coach is right. I know it. Y’all know it. Ain’t no two ways about it. Assegai’s makin’ a good point, and I’ll give him that. This game sometimes seems like nothin’ more than a big ’ole back alley fistfight. But I’m tellin’ ya’. We got more talent ’n them. We got faster players. If we score a couple times on ’em, they’ll start fallin’ apart, I can feel it. They’re scared of us, that’s all it is. You boys know it, don’t ya’? Their coach sent ’em out there like a bunch o’ Ninjas thinkin’ they could knock off big ’ole Dallas. That’s what this is, ain’t it boys?” A few heads nodded in agreement. Some only stared down at the floor.
“Y’all get back out there and do your jobs. Get them blocks made so Assegai kin move the damn ball down the field. First thing—first time we touch the ball—y’all drive right down ’n score on ’em. Take the damn crowd out of it. That’s what we need. Man, I gotta tell ya’. I been standin’ there listenin’ ta’ them damn limeys yellin’ behind me all night. Do us all a favor and shut ’em up, will ya’?”
After that, it seemed as though the players were returning to the coach’s point of view on things. However, the battle for control wasn’t quite over. Assegai wasn’t finished. He then turned on his own teammates, calling them out for poor play and ineffective blocking.
“Don’t leessun to eem! He old man now, I tell you! We need to show the enemy we can do to them what they’re doing to us just as easily. Only that will get us back in control. And if you Forwards can’t get the job done, you will be replaced. You Backs as well. I’m sick and tired of getting tackled behind dee line. Do your job or I’ll take you out myself!”
This several players took exception to, as well as the coach. Assegai was in no position to be making decisions like that. Ozzie, however, let that comment go. There was no point in addressing it, anyway. The other players did as well. Besides, it was almost time to head back out. Halftime was nearly over…
* * * *
Ozzie stood on the sideline and watched as Assegai thrashed his arms about, beat his chest, and screamed obscenities at his Forwards after being tackled behind the scrum line for at least the twentieth time that night. It was barely five minutes into the second half—Dallas had just gotten the ball back—and things weren’t progressing. Game was still 7-6 Dallas and nothing was moving. Assegai was coming unglued.
“God is he pissed off,” mused Ozzie to himself, a little too loudly, “I know I would be too…but Jesus…why the fuck take it out on yer own linemen?! Ain’t their fault. They were outnumbered, simple as that.”
Nearby him, Claude Montclair, the team’s kicker from Quebec City, overheard him saying this—to no one in part
icular—and clarified Ozzie’s keen observations. “Zay were whut, mon Amie? You say zay were…out-numbered?”
Ozzie knew he’d better try and be tactful around his diminutive colleague, with the French-Canadian accent and a cannon for a leg, for fear of sounding like a bad teammate, but he just couldn’t help himself. He’d been watching Dallas’ starting Center Back all evening, and his field decisions were about as predictable as the sun rising. Little imagination. London’s defense had been on him like a bad smell.
“Damn good blitzing scheme, that’s all. Don’t take a genius to see. Run a different fuckin’ play for once. I mean, shit…the whole goddam defense is readin’ ’im like a book. Seriously. Look how many Middle-backs were flowin’ toward the weak side as the ball was hiked? Might as well have had our O.C. announce the play on the fuckin’ P.A. system!”
Indeed, Ranger had taught him well. He could read defenses effectively already. Question was…could he do that when it counted? Could he read defenses and blitz packages from behind center? In a live game situation? With the whole world crashing down upon him? That was a different matter!
But…ready or not…he was about to find out. This latest tirade by Assegai, when coupled with his conduct in the locker room at halftime, was plenty to push Coach Nguyen over the edge. Coach had finally seen enough. He angrily ripped off his head set and tossed it away, leaving a couple of surprised assistant coaches scrambling to gather it up and return it to him. Looking over at Ozzie, he screamed, “FUCK ME RUNNIN’ UPHILL, RANGER!” Then he grinned a bit, remembering how he needed to compose himself since the game was being broadcast worldwide.
“Alright, Guerrero,” he sighed while shaking his head, “I’ve seen enough of that hothead for the night. Get in there and show us you still got it, okay? Think you can do it? Think you can get us some goddam offense goin’?”
