by Paul Cude
Peter could feel his temperature skyrocketing, his face turning a rather dark shade of crimson.
The umpires blew their whistles to signal that half time was over. Before the players turned to walk back to their positions on the pitch, Andy said,
"You heard the man," pointing directly at Peter. "Do as he says, make them lose their tempers and we can all celebrate a stunning victory afterwards."
And with that, their captain waved them all onto the pitch, the team duly obliging, the players all taking up their first half positions. Peter felt like he'd never felt before. It couldn't be the adrenaline because, as a dragon, he had none, even though his DNA had been manipulated nearly down to the atomic level in his representation of a normal human being. The feeling was hard to describe. It felt like opening up a promotional pack of anything and winning a huge expensive prize. It felt like opening a door and finding limitless amounts of all your favourite foods, and some new ones as well.
Jolted from his reverie of foody thoughts by the umpire's whistle, he took in his surroundings, pleased to see the other defenders quickly pick up their players. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tank and Richie just wandering out into the spectator area beside the pitch, both holding plastic pint glasses full of beer, which they raised on noticing they'd caught his eye.
As the match progressed, it didn't take long for him to realise that the entire nature of the game had changed quite dramatically. There was far more urgency in every aspect of their opponents’ play. Their tackling, movement off the ball and passing was far superior to anything they'd done in the first half. Some of the tackles that were flying about though, were on the hospital side of dangerous. The stakes had certainly changed; clearly the first team had got a rollicking at half time from someone, and Peter was pretty sure he knew who.
Peter's team found themselves defending for their lives for the first ten minutes in the second period of the game, barely getting out of their own half and giving away numerous short corners. In his mind it seemed like only a matter of time before they would concede a goal and then the floodgates would probably open, something he was determined wouldn't happen. Bizarrely, even his idea about exploiting their indiscipline and lack of spirit seemed dead, as they were playing so well that they didn't seem to have anything to argue about.
Losing the ball once again in midfield, Peter's team looked shaky and disorganised as the first team forwards came hurtling towards him for what seemed like the thousandth time in only a few minutes. Holding his concentration and, as with the first tackle he'd made in the match, he dummied to go one way and went the other at the last second, again finding the ball on the end of his stick.
Momentarily relieved to have gained possession of the ball, he looked up to play a simple pass to one of his teammates. His first thought was that things looked pretty grim for him. Not only was there no obvious simple pass, but more worrying was the fact that three of the opposition were on their way to close him down. What to do?
From that very first training session, it had been quite apparent what type of player he was. Certainly not an attacking player, that's for sure. His dribbling skills were erratic at best and he lacked the confidence to run at people and take them on, nearly always preferring the simple pass to get himself out of trouble, knowing that the easiest way to beat a player was to... PASS, something many other players either failed to realise, or deliberately chose to ignore. If anything could be said to be Peter’s best quality on a hockey pitch, then it would have to be his tackling which seemed to get better and better each time he played. It was as if he could tackle and stop a ball instinctively.
With this in mind, his current situation didn't bode well. His teammates were exhausted, he could see that in the periphery of his vision as time seemed to slow right down. His mind told him that he'd have to dribble around at least two opponents, not really a great idea, particularly at the top of his own 'D'.
All this zipped through his mind in milliseconds. Continuing to scan the field of play in front of him, he caught the movement of one of his own players through the oncoming mass of orange shirted opponents. The player in question though was at least fifty yards away, with an opposing player easily able to intercept his pass. 'Or would he?' he suddenly thought, his mind considering something of a radical alternative, picked up during the last couple of training sessions. A flick, or aerial ball, was a difficult skill to master and very rare at this level of hockey, but it was something he hadn't done too badly at during practice. Out of options (with the dribbling around two players not really being viable) his mind made up, he totally changed the shape of his body (not like his natural change!) and angled his stick under the ball. With his opponents getting nearer and nearer, he knew it would be now or never as the incoming players would soon be too close for him to safely execute what he had planned. Watching the ball intently and twisting his wrist with all his might, he pushed through and flicked the ball into the air. It was a sight to behold. Graceful, majestic, magnificent would all describe the moment perfectly, to him anyway. Having fully expected the ball to roll about two inches in front of him, he was stunned to see it cut through the air over the heads of the opposition players closing him down, continuing on towards the teammate that he'd picked out. But he was still not as stunned as the first team players, many of whom looked on in horror at the audacity of what they'd just seen carried out against them. All this happened in only a few seconds, but would be engrained into Peter's eidetic memory until the very day he died, that and the looks of the opposing players.
As the ball landed with a slight 'THUD', cushioned by the excessive sand that carpeted the pitch, his teammate steamed onto it at full pelt and after a great sequence of five passes in a row, it found its way to the second team centre forward, a nimbly built lad by the name of Malcolm. As the first team keeper sprinted off his line for all he was worth, Malcolm unleashed a vicious shot that the onrushing keeper managed to repel with the tip of his right foot. Just as the chance to go ahead looked to have been spurned, in roared the second team's left wing to stroke in the rebound, much to the disappointment of their opponents. The sound of the ball smashing against the backboard brought an almighty roar from every second team player on the pitch, along with the rest of their squad on the sidelines. 1-0 to the Second XI. Where on earth was this going?
Two or three of Peter's teammates congratulated him on the fabulous pass that had set up the goal, while their opposition seemed to be having an inquisition as to who was responsible for letting the goal in. Peter wasn't quite sure how it would play out from here on in, and in fact it took only a few moments for him to get some idea, as a sloppy bit of play from the first team allowed the seconds in on goal again, with the defender inadvertently forcing Malcolm wide, his off balance shot pinging into the side netting. If nothing else, it was a warning. In mere moments the first team's composure had been shot to ribbons, with their players openly arguing and blaming each other, left, right and centre. For the first time in the game, Peter actually started to believe that the second team could win.
With the breakdown of any and all discipline on the part of the first team, the match became more and more even, being almost wholly played in the midfield area of the pitch. Peter found he was constantly marshalling his defenders, so much so there was a real danger that he might lose his voice. Every now and then he would glance over at his friends on the sideline who, without spilling a drop of their beer, managed to offer him terrific smiles and give him a double thumbs up each.
As the midfield struggle continued, the intensity of the tackles ramped up, predictably ending with one of the umpires cautioning two of the first team, and a second team player, in the space of only a few minutes.
Foul after foul led to the game becoming very scrappy. More confident in his and the team's ability to negate any first team threat, Peter pushed further up into the midfield to support his beleaguered comrades, all the time wary of the space left behind him, as in hockey there
is no offside rule (not now, anyway). With the first team's defence having done the same thing, the middle of the pitch became a frantically packed battlefield. As Peter feared the umpires might start to get fed up with the constant series of fouls and actually send someone off with a yellow card, the second team skipper, Andy, intercepted a wayward first team pass and went all out on a gung-ho run straight at the opposition's goal. Because all the defenders had pushed up, the captain found himself in acres of space after beating two flat footed opponents and used a quick burst of speed to put him through one on one with the exposed goalkeeper. For all involved, time slowed irrecoverably. As the goalie shot off his line to narrow the angle, one of the first team defenders ran his socks off to get back on the goal line and cover. By this time, Andy had reached the top of the 'D' and upon crossing the line had let rip with a fearsome shot. 'Greener', the first team goalie, had a reputation as an excellent shot stopper, which on this occasion was well deserved, as he managed to get a heavily gloved fingertip to the ball, taking all the pace off it. Spinning like an unruly planet, the ball ended up right by the penalty spot, halfway between Andy and the defender on the line. Instinctively, the pair of them raced forward with the grounded Greener unable to influence the situation in any way. Unfortunately two strides into his run, the defender slipped on the sandy surface and skidded to his knees. Andy took immediate advantage, racing onto the ball and slipping it past the flailing defender and into the back of the empty net. To everyone's amazement, the second team led 2-0.
Each individual roared as the goal went in, some raising their sticks high above their heads in celebration, much to the first team's disappointment. As the forwards made their way back to the halfway line for the restart, Andy the captain motioned with his arms for them all to calm down, knowing there was still more work to be done. While this was happening at one end, a meltdown of epic proportions was taking place at the other. Pushing, shoving, finger pointing and all sorts of recriminations were going on amongst the members of the first team. It got so bad that the umpire had to blow his whistle and tell them to calm down before the restart could take place. With everyone set to begin again, one of Peter's teammates asked the nearest umpire how long was left.
"Eleven minutes," he replied, looking up from his watch.
'All we have to do is hold on for eleven minutes,' thought Peter promisingly. 'With our opponents squabbling like toddlers, we might just be able to do it.'
As the teams lined up against one another, his attention was drawn once again to Manson, taking up his forward position after having been in the centre of the melee that had just broken up. As Peter watched his menacing adversary, he noticed that Manson was doing something very unusual with his hands. Shielding them with his body so that most of the people on or around the pitch couldn't see what he was doing, the ex-army Major started weaving intricate patterns with his fingers, while at the same time silently mouthing long and peculiar words. Peter found himself mesmerised by the patterns that seemed to almost leave a trail through the air, that is until Manson looked up... directly into his face. He froze in terror at the unadulterated look of hate aimed directly at him. Instantly his legs turned to lead, his arms to jelly. It was all he could do to stay standing up as his vision started to blur. Subconsciously he heard a noise, a sharp shrill noise. In his peripheral vision he could make out movement... shapes getting bigger and bigger. It took a few seconds for Peter's brain to register what was happening... the match had restarted and the opposition were on the attack again.
With this revelation, the fogginess clouding his brain started to part, albeit rather slowly. By the time he had any real idea as to what was going on, opponents were on either side of him, just about to enter the 'D' and have a shot at goal. Willing his lead-like legs to work, with all his might he forced the player with the ball, out wide, hoping that he'd done enough to make up for his momentary lapse in concentration. Impossibly, as far as Peter was concerned anyway, the player increased his speed, getting ever closer to the byline. Knowing he had but one chance to block the cross, Peter threw himself for everything he was worth, to make a one handed reverse stick block. It was a great attempt and nothing short of idiotically brave. It was, however, all in vain. As he followed the ball, all the time showing his reverse stick in an effort to block the shot, feeling as though he were wading through treacle, the first team forward did the unexpected and lifted it over his outstretched stick. But for that, it would have been a fantastic take. Up stepped a sneering Manson, hammering the ball into the roof of the net from only a few yards out, the second team keeper rooted to the spot. A sharp whistle and the sound of people cheering brought Peter back to earth as he brushed the sand from his bloodied arms and knees after his extravagant attempt at an intervention. The first team had scored, straight from the restart. Not only that, but most of the second team were swaying about in something of a daze. It didn't look as though anyone apart from Peter had even tried to stop them.
Just as her last sip of lager rolled pleasantly down her throat, the whistle blew to restart the match. She'd been stood talking to Tank and watching Peter now for the best part of twenty minutes, aching fervently from her agonisingly tough lacrosse match, but determined to come and show support for her friend. Moments earlier, Tank had disappeared inside to chat to one of his rugby playing mates about something. So as she pulled away the empty pint glass from her delicate lips, she was blown away by what was happening right in front of her. Nearly the entire first team surged forward as one big wave of players, passing the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, with unerring accuracy and incredible speed. That wasn't what blew her away though. They were allowed to surge forward almost unhindered. One or two second team players half heartedly waved their sticks about, but most just stood, seemingly glued to the spot, even Peter, right up until the last second anyway, by which time it was pretty much too late, despite his valiant last effort. Richie couldn't believe her eyes.
'Perhaps,' she thought, 'that's the answer.'
On taking human form, dragons generally take on a lot of their characteristics as well. A human heart with a pulse, red blood instead of the usual green, with things like fingernails, toenails and hair growing of their own accord, unlike in dragon form where once a dragon reaches maturity, nothing else will grow, no extra scales, talons stay the same length... nothing. A dragon's vision will also mimic that of a human, something that takes more than a little getting used to, because in its natural form, a dragon can see in a whole host of different ways, by, if you like, scrolling through a series of different modes. Normally, when above ground human style vision would be the default, but a dragon can also see in the infrared spectrum; it can bear witness to mantra effects and magic in general; it has a limited heat sense as well as having enhanced night vision. A dragon maintaining human form will still have access to all these talents, but it isn't easy to use them, and no dragon would go around in human form looking in anything other than the default human mode.
For whatever reason, whether instinct, suspicion or just plain curiosity, Richie closed her eyes, took one long deep breath, and let her mind slowly alter her physiology. Moments later she opened them again, taking in the sight in front of her... the hockey pitch and everyone on it with the benefit of her, if you like, mantra vision. She gasped out loud at what she saw. The scene before here bore little or no resemblance to the one she had witnessed only moments earlier with her human vision.
Every member of the second team was shrouded from head to toe in a swirling cloud of black mist, coiling around each of them like a terrifying constrictor squeezing the life out of their prey, with the exception of Peter. His cloud seemed to be slowly dissipating.
'What on Earth...?' Richie thought. Suddenly a hand touched her shoulder. Unusually for her, she jumped, startled.
"Whoa... sorry Rich," pleaded Tank, "didn't mean to startle you."
Richie pulled him closer to the small fence, from which they were watching the hockey and
lowered her voice.
"Look at the pitch and tell me what you see."
Not sure what was going on, but assuming it was one of Richie's renowned practical jokes, Tank reluctantly looked out at all the players, waiting for the punch line.
"Well?" demanded Richie.
"A game of hockey?"
She leaned in close and whispered in Tank's ear.
"Now use the vision you would use if you were experimenting with a mantra."
Tank, confused and surprised by Richie's comment, managed to stutter a loud, "What?"
"Just humour me... pleeeeeeease."
Putting his near empty glass on the ground, he closed his eyes momentarily and focused on changing his vision. It was a quick change, quicker than Richie that's for sure, as it was something he did all the time back in the workshop alongside the master mantra maker. The look of disbelief when he opened his eyes though... that was something else, and easily matched Richie's from a few moments earlier.
"Twist my tail and call me a dragon," blurted Tank loudly.
Richie clamped her hand over Tank's mouth, much to the amusement of other nearby spectators.
Quietly, Tank whispered,
"What the hell's going on Rich?"
To which she had no real answer.
Gradually, Peter came to his senses, albeit too late to prevent the first team from scoring. Smarting from the burns on his arms and knees, he felt like he'd just woken up from a sleep that would have made Sleeping Beauty's look like a mid-afternoon nap. A quick glance around told him that something very odd was going on with the rest of his team. Both umpires and the opposition seemed oblivious to this, or if they had noticed, they clearly weren't going to stop the game for it. As a matter of urgency, he needed to buy some time. Jogging over to his unsteady goalkeeper, he reached behind his right leg and in the blink of an eye undid the straps in his kicker (the protective shoe) and forced it off. Nobody spotted him doing this as everyone else was busy trying to get the woozy second team forwards to restart the game. With the keeper's kicker dangling right off his foot, Peter shouted and waved in the umpire's direction to signal that something was wrong. Raising his eyebrows, and shaking his head at yet another enforced interruption, the umpire reluctantly blew his whistle to stop time and halt the match. Jogging over to where Peter was squatting in front of a rather bewildered goalkeeper, the umpire asked,