by Purple Hazel
Luckily, Ozzie had been prepared for something like this. Ozzie had trained hard to get ready for training camp. His fitness trainer had run him ragged, put him through gut-wrenching exercises designed to tear down his ego and reduce him to raw, unbridled rage. Ozzie would argue, plead, and even scream at his trainer in those early days. No matter. The trainer gave no quarter. They trained over at Katy High School stadium twice a day.
Shortly after dawn. Shortly before dusk. The southeast Texas heat and humidity were merciless. The trainer took full advantage of both. Knew within days just how to break him down. Ozzie wanted to quit and walk off so many times he couldn’t begin to count them. Wanted to beat the heartless bastard to a pulp, too! Sadly, though, he could never have caught the spry fellow, nor even laid a punch on him. The taunting, heartless little twenty-something was as nimble as a gazelle.
The passing instructor was delightful, though. Ozzie enjoyed those sessions most of all. Whereas the ruse of fooling the fitness trainer was simple (Práxedis merely booked the gig, paid the fees, and Ozzie showed up in his place), with the passing instructor things were more complicated. There, Práxedis took to posing as Oswaldo and vice versa, claiming he’d been afflicted by his ordeal in space and now needed a cane to get around. Right before meeting with the man, who was a quadriplegic confined to a hover chair due to an accident when he was in his early twenties, Ozzie simply studied film of his brother throwing so he could mimic his style. The instructor took over from there, and worked tirelessly on his velocity and accuracy, making Ozzie an excellent prospect for his return to the Wranglers that August. Práxedis was there throughout, encouraging and cheering him on…and dealing out the tough love when needed, as well.
“Well, brother,” Práxedis would often tell him, “In a month o’ Sundays I reckon we’ll have you ready for training camp. Think you can handle it?” He’d always end with a challenge like that, and Ozzie learned fast not to waver or fudge an answer. Never stutter, or reveal hesitation and weakness. Whenever he did, his twin brother would light into him.
“NOW WAIT JUST A GODDAM MINUTE, PUSSY! YOU THINK YER GONNA SKATE THROUGH THIS, MOTHER FUCKER? YOU THINK THIS IS SOME KIND O’ CAKEWALK...JUSS ’CAUSE EVER-BODY GONNA THINK IT’S ME SHOWIN’ UP IN FRISCO, COME TIME FOR TRYOUTS? AIN’T NO WAY, BITCH! THEY’LL TEAR YOU A NEW ASSHOLE! THEY’LL SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK…AFTER THEY RIP YER FUCKIN’ HEAD OFF! YOU HEARIN’ ME, BRO’? THESE FUCKERS ’LL KILL YA’! I AIN’T LYIN’!”
Boy was his brother right, too. In training camp, a couple months later, that’s exactly what happened. Every day, too. They ran and ran and ran. Drill after drill. Puked up their breakfast. Drank water fortified with electrolytes. Puked that up as well. What’s more, that was just during warmups. After that came full contact scrimmages. That’s when the real violence and outright viciousness of people desperate to prove themselves was truly revealed.
“Nut-teeng like it, ees dayuh, eh old man?” Assegai would ask him tauntingly after every big hit. “Diss be da’ real shit. Now we gitt’n it on, bitch.” Then he’d yell out “Usuthu!” in his native Zulu.
And the heat? Ha! Nobody on the coaching staff gave a rip. Players were supposed to be able to handle it. “You hot, son?!” an assistant coach yelled at a player doubled over next to Ozzie one stifling afternoon. The young man was clearly suffering from heat stroke. “Really?! Well thank your goddam guardian angel for that, rookie,” the coach berated him. “When we get up to Denver come this December to play the Tommyknockers…you know they ain’t got no domed stadium up ’ere, don’t ya’? Might be sunny. Might be a blizzard. Might be minus seven fuckin’ degrees, too. If you can’t handle it now, you sure as fuck ain’t gonna be with us come December up in no goddam Denver neither!”
Miraculously, the player finished practice. Hustled. Hit as hard as he could. Tackled like a maniac. Puked until he was dry-heaving in the huddle. Ozzie tried convincing the poor youngster to take himself out. The fool wasn’t having it, though. He pushed himself all day, all the way through that miserable scrimmage. Could barely stand up in the showers later that afternoon when it ended. Ozzie finally had to try and convince him to take a cab home. And yet, after all he’d endured, they cut him anyway—later that same week, in fact.
* * * *
“Oh yeah…raaaaaaaaagh…I know, Samson,” replied a groaning Ozzie, now pushing off the mattress with one hand while holding his sides in an attempt to sit up on the bed. They’d guzzled water constantly the night before, trying to hydrate themselves and alleviate the jetlag. Now Ozzie had a full bladder to relieve himself of, and that was his first order of business for the day. “We gotta get ready. They’ll be comin’ after us.” Eight hours until game time. Plenty to do before then.
“We’ve got a full day ahead of us, too. You know that even better ’n me, eh, Ranger?” asked Samson, rolling over in his bed and causing the whole bed frame to creak and screech under his massive weight. He didn’t yet feel like rising to start the day, preferring to roll over toward the opposite wall and doze a few more minutes.
Listed at 145 kilos, Samson was about average size for a Forward. But these were top-flight athletes playing at this level in the PMA, not just tall men packing on pounds so they’d be hard to move around. They were giants, yes, but giant men who could still keep up with Center Backs and Middle Backs and Halfbacks and Fullbacks in a sprint—for at least three or four meters anyway—and that was usually plenty.
In a typical play from scrimmage, the pack of bodies moved only short distances before defenders reached the ball carrier and brought him down. The fighting and grappling inside that “zone of death”, as reporters referred to it, was frightening and thrilling to spectators. Breakaway runs were rare. Play action fakes, sweeps, and reverses were quite common. Quick passes were typical. Deep drop-back passing was a thing of the past. Too many bad guys gunning for the Center Back. However, when it could be achieved, it was a thing of beauty.
“Yep. I know,” sighed Ozzie. “We got a team meetin’ at 11:00 hours. Films at 13:30, right after lunch. Then we got walk-throughs at 15:00…’n I gotta get ma’ ankles taped up at 17:00 or I’ll never get a turn on the damn training table. Learned that the hard way.”
He’d been taught that by Práxedis during one of their long “skull sessions”, as his brother referred to them, that summer before training camp. These had been conducted at night while they ate their dinner—after Ozzie had returned from evening drills and sat in an ice bath for fifteen minutes, then showered up. In the morning, right after dawn, they’d start the whole thing all over again. Drills at Katy High School stadium, breakfast with Mamá out on the back patio. The passing instructor would show up around 10:30.
“Also…I gotta limber up my arm b’fore we get close to game time. Might not get too many chances to get loose ’fore the field gets crowded, ya’ know?” That was key to Ozzie’s strategy of making the team, by the way. The brilliant passing mechanics instructor had prepped him for this. Just like with his twin brother years before—the long, deep pass was something defenses dreaded. Forwards hated it just as much! They’d have to set and try fending off the rush instead of firing out and pushing the defense backward. That was no fun at all. But…when it worked…“Ranger” Guerrero could heave the ball like it was on a rope, right into his receiver’s hands. Magnificent. He demoralized defenses game after game during the Wranglers’ heyday.
Ozzie arose from the bed and shuffle-stepped over to the bathroom. The seat was still up. “Thank God,” he muttered. Even the thought of bending over worried him. He dug into his boxers and pulled out his long penis. Letting loose, it felt exhilarating. Orgasmic, even. He was so full of water from the night before he thought he might just pee all day! But, sure enough, the urine stream finally began to reduce to a trickle, and with a few spasms to push out the last few squirts, he could finally tuck in his big cock and wash off his hands in the sink. He was already feeling a bit more loose—a bit more limber—just from this exertion. His mind
turned to his mission for later that evening. Pored over it in his mind as he dried off his hands and began brushing his teeth:
“Get in the game,” he muttered to himself, as he squirted toothpaste onto his brush from a countertop dispenser. “That’s what I gotta do. Soon as they’ll let me. They’ll wait ’til the starters have finished out the first half. Then they’ll give ’em one more series at the start of the second…’fore they start sub’n in new players. That’s how Práxedis said it’d go.”
He then turned on the faucet while he began brushing his teeth. The sound of running water was still one of the most fascinating noises he’d heard since coming back. Never had it in space. Never had it on Kapteyn B either. Loved the pleasant ambience it created, hearing water trickling into a sink. After finishing his molars front and back, he pulled the toothbrush out and continued speaking, mouth half-full of foaming toothpaste.
“Rally all them boys ’round me. If Samson is still in the game, he’ll whip ’em up into a tizzy for me. If not, then I gotta sell ’em on it m’self. I know just what to say, too. Práxedis told me.”
He returned to brushing his teeth, working on the front rows until his mouth was overflowing with foam. He spit, then held the toothbrush like a baton and went through his play-script.
“Then…I call the next five plays right there in the huddle. Tell ’em all five. Make sure they know the sequence. On the third play…if they don’t kill me…I’m throwin’.”
He then brushed feverishly for a few more seconds until his teeth gleamed. His teeth had yellowed quite a bit while in space. Since returning to Earth and brushing with better utensils and whitening toothpaste, his smile was getting brighter. He didn’t have the same crooked teeth as Práxedis, but no one had noticed this. Examining his handiwork, he returned to gesturing toward the mirror like he was directing a symphony orchestra.
“If that works, ’n my guy catches it, I go for the bomb. Next fuckin’ play, too. Same pass patterns. Same blocking. Freeze their backs near the scrum line. Dump it off to a halfback if they blitz the middle. No worries. We try it again on the next play. Heave that motherfucker all the way down the sideline to an outside backer on a hitch ’n go. Blow their fuckin’ minds. In five minutes we’ll be scoring…’n ever-body ’ll be chantin’ my brother’s name—even them fuckin’ limeys.”
Now finished with brushing his teeth, he spit once more into the sink and rinsed his mouth out with cool tap water. “How ironic, huh?” he chuckled. “Me throwin’ a pass and scorin’ a try in the goddam Professional Megaball Association…for the goddam Dallas Wranglers no less. Can’t wait. Can’t fuckin wait.”
Chapter 5
Playoffs!
“Well, I guess you’re next, eh old man?” smirked a young trainer working for the Dallas staff. He was moving among training tables, working on wrapping ankles. It had been a long, grueling training camp back in Texas, and there were plenty of “customers” waiting to be tended to. It was almost like mid-season: there’d already been so many injuries!
“Yep. That’s me. The old man,” replied Ozzie, rolling his eyes and grinning humbly. He never let it get to him how the team and the training staff kept calling him that. It was tongue-in-cheek, of course. No one really meant it to be an insult. Maybe Assegai did, but otherwise no one else. It was just a fun way to kid the man they thought was Ranger Guerrero; a man who’d supposedly made this miraculous transformation into a professional athlete once again. Some suspected drugs. Everyone else didn’t know what to think. Nevertheless, Ozzie (posing as Ranger) had passed all the drug screening and made it—barely—through the early rounds of cuts. He was strong, he was fast, and he could throw the ball well. Assegai was better…but Ozzie made for a reliable backup.
Of course, Dallas already had a rookie Center Back they were bringing up through the system. Big, tall Haskeh Naabah, a full-blooded Navajo Indian. He’d been recruited fresh out of the University of New Mexico, a program which had risen to prominence since the early 2090’s…
District of New Mexico had seen an amazing boom in population over the past seventy years, mainly due to the expansion of the solar energy industry. Vast expanses of open land were utilized, and the money had flowed in to cities like Albuquerque, Gallup, and Las Cruces. The native Navajos—who controlled large areas of New Mexico, as well as Arizona and Utah—subsequently got very, very rich indeed. Haskeh Naabah was a product of that money pouring into the Lobos’ sports program, and he was sitting on the table next to Ozzie getting taped…
“Think I’ll be seein’ any action tonight?” asked Haskeh. He didn’t sound nervous, nor the least bit apprehensive. Just seemed like he was making conversation. Ozzie enjoyed talking to him. Liked him a lot. Very humble young fellow. Big fan of his brother’s, too, which certainly made for some awkward conversations at times.
However, surprisingly enough, Ozzie had been able to show him a thing or two about passing technique. As much as he’d learned from that inventive throwing mechanics instructor back in Katy, he tried passing it on to Haskeh, and frankly, a lot of it was brand new to the kid. Truth be told, a lot of college programs had moved away from attempting deep passes to receivers sprinting downfield. The college game was looking more and more like English rugby with each passing decade. Thus, the best Center Backs coming out of college were commonly much better at running the ball.
“Likely,” replied Ozzie. “Best be ready. I know I’ll try stayin’ warmed up—’specially after halftime. I figure they’ll put me or you into the game once them starters have a few more minutes of playing time. In the second half, I mean, not the first half. But you never know, buddy. Guys get hurt.”
“Sure do, don’t they?” replied Haskeh. He’d suffered a high ankle sprain during camp, and was getting taped up to make sure he didn’t reinjure it. However, the trainer was not wrapping it tightly since he’d be standing around on it for quite a while. “I know I’m all banged up; how about you?”
Ozzie scoffed, “Shit. I’m like a bruised banana that’s been left inside the bottom of a knapsack all day. ’N I’m still sore from that hit two days ago. Remember when the practice squad was scrimmaging the starters…’n I tried that roll-out pass?”
Haskeh snickered. “The one to the strong side? Yeah. You were supposed to be running 24 Cross-buck, and you audibled at the scrum line. Coach was standing near me and I gotta tell ya’, he was wonderin’ what the hell you were doin’!”
Haskeh then laughed as a trainer came up and started bending and twisting his foot around to see how tight of a tape job he’d done. Suddenly distracted from his laughter, Haskeh gritted his teeth and gasped slightly, trying not to reveal too much discomfort. The trainer stopped manipulating his foot and looked at him for a moment. Haskeh half-smiled, nodding to let him know he was alright. Complaining to trainers about an injury was never a good idea…one way or another the coach was going to find out. Any lingering doubt about a player’s condition might lead to him seeing less playing time. Less playing time often meant getting benched for good—or worse—cut from the team.
Ozzie smiled sheepishly, “Oh, so they heard that, huh? I didn’t figure anyone was payin’ that much attention to what the practice squad was doin’ in a goddam scrimmage. Anyway, I was just mixin’ it up a bit. Keepin’ the defense on their toes. I mean, who knows? Every fuckin’ team runs 24 Cross-buck out of a Triple-split backfield, don’t you figure? If London wanted to fool us tonight…well, who’s to say they won’t play-action fake and throw it downfield? Catch us nappin’ in our secondary.”
Haskeh rolled his eyes. “Well…Assegai wasn’t nappin’ the other day, was he, Ranger?” He then spun on the table and slipped off the edge to stand on his taped-up ankles and get used to walking on them. “He ambushed you like a pack o’ Comanches in a gorge. Fell on you like a tree.”
“Oh yeah, I remember. No need to remind me o’ that. But it’s different with him, see? That guy’s got a bone to pick with me and I don’t know what for. Ain’t n
o reasonin’ with him neither. Just hates me, and I can’t win him over no matter what I do.” Meanwhile, Haskeh looked past him across the training room and shook his head while motioning toward Ozzie to forewarn him. Apparently, there were others listening in, and Haskeh felt it was time to change the subject. Ozzie reacted accordingly.
“Right, well, enough o’ that. But seriously…it’s a new season, buddy. Different kind of team, these English boys. We gotta be ready. ’N you especially. If I get in…’n I get hurt…or if coach puts you in b’fore me? Then I gotta be ready.”
Ozzie then looked over at a player rubbing and tapping his vein along the inside of his arm. This captured his attention as he realized the teammate was about to get shot up with an electronic micro needle. He almost started to ask Haskeh about it, but remembered suddenly how Práxedis had warned him emphatically—and repeatedly—not to ask questions that might reveal he wasn’t the real Ranger Guerrero. Haskeh noticed Ozzie looking, and turned to see what had grabbed his attention. Saw the man getting his pre-game shot of pain killer.
“Toradol…ain’t it? Hmmmph. Crazy fuckers,” muttered Haskeh. “Don’t they know what that shit does to ya’?” Ozzie began putting it together. Práxedis had told him about it. Ketorolac. Marketing name Toradol. The same kind of drug he’d been warned against. Basically, a blood thinner which alleviates pain much like aspirin or acetaminophen. More powerful, though, like Vicodin. Addictive just like opiates.