by Purple Hazel
As Práxedis had once put it, “Oxycodone, opium, Vicodin…dudd’n matter. Same old shit they been pushin’ on folks for centuries. Get high. Forget the pain for a while. Get back in the game. Nah. It’s all drugs to me. I’m tellin’ ya’, Ozzie, don’t fall for it. Players ’ll shoot up with that shit Toradol so they can play better. Hell, some think they can’t play without it. That’s when they got ya’, by the way. When you can’t take it no more unless yer high…yer finished. Might as well hang it up. Believe me, brother, I’m serious. If you get hurt, and you can’t play, then don’t. If you think you can play hurt, then get back out there. But don’t be a dumbass and let ’em get you hooked on painkillers…”
* * * *
Out on the field later that evening, Ozzie warmed up his throwing arm. Finding several wide receivers—or “Six Backs” as they were called in Megaball parlance—he recruited them to run routes and catch passes from him. Not surprisingly, they took turns giving him a hard time about it.
“Seriously, old man?“ scoffed one of them, continuing to use Ozzie’s popular nickname since everyone still thought he was his thirty-four year old twin brother. “You know this downfield throwin’ shit…it ain’t what it’s about no more, right?”
Another chided him as well, “Yeah, Ranger. Teams been givin’ up on this deep pass thing years ago. Center-backs be gettin’ their heads knocked off. Defenses be blitzing practically every play nowadays. About all they wanna do these days is put big monsters back there like Assegai…run the ball…send us six-backs downfield to take out the Safety. I ain’t lyin’ man. I caught maybe two passes last year.”
Ozzie grinned confidently, telling the young man to go long for a pass. “You leave that to me, boys...just run out about twenty ‘r thirty meters and look back for the ball…I’ll get it to ya’.” And with that he convinced the three fleet-footed fellows to take turns running patterns for him. It gave Ozzie a chance to go through his play routines as well. If he got in the game that night, he had them scripted out so he’d be able to take charge of the offense. Drive the team down the field. Score a try. That’s really what he needed to do. Whatever happened after that, he figured the coaches were sure to let him stay on the squad.
“Not bad, old man!” yelled one of them from across the field after Ozzie had hit him with a thirty-meter missile. It stung his hands and almost unbalanced him as he hauled it in, he was so surprised with the velocity. “I hope you get in tonight, Ranger! I really do,” he laughed. “It’d be cool havin’ you throw to us. Just don’t stand back there too long. Them middle-backers ’ll take yer damn head off!”
Ozzie waved in acknowledgment. He then had them run patterns for a few more minutes before heading back toward the locker room. The stadium was starting to fill up already, and the game was less than an hour away…
However, upon reaching the tunnel of the stadium, which led back to the locker rooms and facilities underneath the stands, Ozzie found himself being addressed by some of the locals. Some British Megaball fans—about four of them, and quite tipsy already—were yelling down to him as he walked past.
“Range-uh fuckin’ Guh-rare-oh?” yelled one of them. “What the fuck? Whuttah you doin’ back? Ain’t you retired?” Ozzie, not knowing any better than to just ignore them and slip on past, stopped off to answer them. To say they were surprised at his gregariousness was a gross understatement. He walked right up to the wall and smiled. The four hooligans didn’t know at first what to do! It caught the attention of a London police officer a few sections over, however. He began moving quickly toward the drunken youths.
“Yep. I came back,” answered Ozzie with a pleasant grin. He acted like he was greeting cousins at a family reunion. “I guess I just got bored sittin’ ’round with my thumb up my ass back in Houston. How ’bout y’all? When did they let you ugly fuckers outa jail?”
They still couldn’t believe he’d really talk to them! However, the four youths weren’t about to surrender to his audacious charm without some playful taunting. They quickly formed some clever come-backs. “You should’n-uh come out heah, Range-uh. Our blokes ah gonna crack your bones,” blurted one of them. “Yeah, Range-uh! Shoulda stayed retired,” added another. Then a third clarified, “Back in fuckin’”— belch—“Texas? Yeah, you bettuh take the next airship outa here.” Then the four snorted, giggled, sniggered, and chortled like a pack of chimpanzees.
Ozzie didn’t mind one bit…thought they were hilarious. His teammates, meanwhile, were walking past and ignoring the boys, heading back into the tunnel. But Oswaldo was clearly enjoying himself mucking it up with these delinquents. God, how he’d missed that incredible accent! And on top of that, in a few hours, he’d be hearing it again, right after the Rudo Love concert!
“Nah…fuck that shit. Cain’t go home yet. My girlfriend is playin’ tonight. Gotta go see her singin’. She’s doin’ a concert across the parking lot over at the arena. Y’all comin’ to the show?”
One of the boys realized what he was referring to. “You mean Rudo Love? You’re going to ‘er concert tonight? Really? Blimey! Hey boys, it looks like the world-famous Ranger Guerrero…” (he mimicked an American accent when he said the name just to be outrageous) “…is a Rudo Love fan.” Then he laughed as the other three joined in. Ozzie was enjoying himself royally as well. Wished he could hop up that wall and join the group of slurring inebriants for the night and later take them to the show with him. But then again if he did, he’d miss his chance to live out his lifelong dream of playing Megaball for the Dallas Wranglers…and scoring a “try”…in front of eighty thousand screaming fans.
“That’s right mates,” added Ozzie, imitating a British accent and doing a terrible job of it. The troublemakers picked up on this attempt and laughed even harder. Meanwhile, the police officer had arrived on the scene attempting to break it up.
“Oi. Now you boys leave this man alone. Eee’s got ’imself a game to play, he does. Right. Now push off.” And as he said this, a crowd of local Wrangler fans began gathering around the opening to the tunnel calling down to Ozzie, believing he was his twin brother.
“Hi Ranger!”
“Welcome to London!”
“Good luck tonight!”
“Go Rann-gluzz!” they yelled.
Some were cheering for him. Others were Dallas fans who lived in London now. Didn’t matter either way. Ozzie acknowledged them all. After doing so, greeting every last one of them with a wave or a “howdy”, he finally turned back to the four hooligans, who were arguing and jostling with the English “Bobby” near the stadium wall.
“I sure wish y’all could come with me tuh-night,” he said to them. By then the drunks had completely changed their attitude. Now they loved him. Adored him for all time. They’d never forget this night! In fact, one by one they called out encouragements and well-wishes to the man whom they fully believed was the real Ranger Guerrero. Had no doubt in their minds. But just then, another pack of Dallas players filed past heading into the tunnel to the locker room for pregame speeches and game preparation. Assegai Ndwandwe was among them. He snarled at Ozzie as he passed. Backhanded him in the upper arm rather insultingly as well.
“Go ahead. Go up and join deem, old man,” he taunted derisively. “Leave diss field b’fore you git yoah-self killed!” As he headed into the tunnel, his voice could be heard echoing off the walls, “Go get drunk with these fools and watch dee game in dee stands if you want! You’ll live lahn-guh!”
Everyone heard him. However, this mean-spirited mockery from the angry African only soured the mood for a few seconds. Within moments, Ozzie was looking up at the people lining the opening to the tunnel and grinning.
“Well I guess I better git inside ’fore the wife gets angry!” This broke everyone up, causing a swell of laughter that continued building upon itself as news of the witty comment spread throughout the gathering throng. “To hell with that tosser!” one yelled. “Yeah! Good luck tonight, mate!” yelled another.
Ozz
ie, realizing he was the last Dallas player still in the tunnel as the London Red & Whites were starting to leave the field, quickly gave a big wave of his arm and sprinted inside. His audience of admirers could still be heard cheering when he got to the locker room door. Fortunately, it was still closing as he arrived—right in the nick of time—as he nimbly slipped through the opening.
* * * *
Thirty minutes later, Ozzie found himself back in that same tunnel. Only this time it was a mass of sweaty bodies packed into the narrow alleyway as players waited to be announced. Body odor, the smell of urine, even the smell of vomit wafted about as players queued up, preparing to run out onto the field. Apparently, one or two were so nervous they’d barfed in the lavatory back in the locker room, and it was still lingering on their breath.
By then, the pregame speech had been given. The Christian Lord’s Prayer had been spoken by the team’s chaplain. Team leaders had given their war-like, saber-rattling oaths of bravery to be exhibited that night on the field of battle. The usual stuff. Ozzie had never experienced anything exactly like it…but he knew what to expect. After a word or two from the coach, the players had been ordered to exit the locker room.
And now they were all queued up, four and five abreast, packed in tight, standing on the concrete ramp leading onto the field. Ready for the signal from the assistant coaches at the front of the pack for their release—more specifically, waiting for a stadium security guard with a radio and wearing a yellow-green vest to give the signal. Within minutes, within seconds, the announcer would be calling out their introduction. Ozzie braced himself for the anticipated drama.
“Welcome to Wembley Stadium!” Ozzie heard an announcer call out across the public address system. “Thank you for attending tonight’s preseason matchup between the Dallas Wranglers and your very own…London Red & Whites!” After that excited intro, the announcer paused to let the roar of the crowd swell with excitement. Shivers went up and down Ozzie’s spine as he heard the mass of Londoners and other Megaball fans from all over the world in attendance scream with anticipation. The announcer continued, once the noise began to subside.
“And now…Ladies and Gentlemen…won’t you please greet our visitors… from North America…all the way from the District of Texas…”—Ozzie could hear a smattering of boos and cat-calls arising from the stands above him— “…Professional Megaball Association charter member…winner of six American Conference titles…and three world championships…”—the boos and cries of passion rose to the point the stadium was literally shaking—“…the Dallas Wrrrrrrranglers!”
He hadn’t even finished saying that before the Wembley Stadium security guard had moved over to the side of the tunnel opening, giving a whirling motion with his arm like a cop directing traffic. His other arm pointed at the field as he screamed at the Dallas assistant coaches, “GO, GO, GO…move your asses!”
Subsequently, Ozzie and his teammates stormed out of the tunnel and onto the field—like a horde of Vikings rushing through a breach in the city wall to pillage an enemy stronghold. He was so excited he almost tripped over his own feet coming out onto the artificial turf from the concrete ramp! The crowd noise was deafening. They booed. They jeered. They screamed. They taunted. He even heard his brother’s name a couple times. And the rush of air hitting him as he escaped the confines of the tunnel full of sweaty, nervous men was exhilarating. This was something he’d never felt before—such a mix of emotions and energizing sensations.
Then, within a few minutes, it was all over as the Wranglers made it out onto the field and over to their visitor’s bench area, where most of them rallied around Assegai for his usual pregame ritual Zulu war dance. “Usuthu!” he’d scream, and the players would raise their fists in the air like they were holding imaginary spears, repeating the traditional Zulu war cry in unison, “USUTHU!” He did it a couple more times just to fire everyone up, then everyone calmed down as the announcer began his slow, meticulous introduction of the home team.
“And now…won’t you please welcome…three-time Euro Division champions…your very own hometown heroes…the London Rrrrrrrrred & Whites!”
The London team subsequently trotted onto the field in a sort of mock-military formation, each holding up his right hand with a clenched fist. They were all in step, too, and singing some kind of church hymn that Ozzie couldn’t hope to have recognized having been in space so long. It was actually Jerusalem by William Blake, and the crowd slowly replaced their cheers and screams of delight with the song’s lyrics, joining in with the players, who could be heard belting out the words as they stepped out of the tunnel:
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England’s mountains green.
And was the holy lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen,
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills…
Ozzie picked up a few words of it as he began to hear the crowd in the stands behind him join in. Some merely waited and joined in with the second verse:
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark Satanic hills
Bring me my bow of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spears oh clouds unfold
Bring me my chariot of fire
I will not cease from mental flight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land
By the time the song had finished, the roar of the audience in attendance was deafening. Even some of his teammates were affected by it! Ozzie looked around and watched the looks on some of the Dallas players’ faces as they stood in awe. A few even commented about it.
“Hey man, don’t these bitches know it’s only preseason?” mused one of them. “Deez mother fuckers be actin’ like it the goddam playoffs.”
Meanwhile, London players could be seen pointing across the field toward the Wrangler bench and jeering at them as the crowd continued to cheer wildly. More than a few of the Dallas players took exception to this, to say the least.
“Yeah white boy, you just keep on talkin’!” shouted Samson, Ozzie’s hotel mate. He and the other Forwards fired back. “Is that what you think, London?” yelled another. “You think it’s the playoffs?!”
Others picked up on it, too. Some, however, were rather more emphatic. “Well then, let’s give ’em a playoff game!” shouted Coach Nguyen as he stalked past, brooding about the upcoming contest. “Seems like that’s what they want, don’t it? Why disappoint the bastards!” Then, as he passed, a few players chimed in with the same uplifting mantra. Got them all fired up, too. Everyone, it seemed, was buying in.
“Yeah boys!” screamed a nearby player, a big Texan. “You heard the coach. What say let’s give ’em a real smash-mouth playoff-style ass whoopin’?!” Another yelled mockingly, “Shit yeah! Fuck ’em. I say we pound ’em into the ground. Teach ’em a lesson. Hell…we got Brussels comin’ up in October, don’t we? Same fuckin’ division, y’all. How ’bout we send ’em a message tonight?! Everybody watchin’ us on Ultravision right?” Several players observed this same thing and cheered in agreement. Then it became an outright rallying cry. “Playoff game, baby! Playoff game!” many proclaimed thereafter.
In fact, the energy level had waned only slightly by kickoff. The London team wore cardinal red jerseys over white pants, which had the flag of London printed on the hip—a red St. George’s cross on a white background with a red sword in the upper left hand corner. That same logo was printed on their headgear, and the interior lighting gave off an intense red glow, like they were demons from the infernal region.
Dallas, by way of comparison, was in their traditional road uniform: scarlet pants with a white jersey. The jersey had scarlet material across the shoulder area, plus they wore a scarlet helmet with a sky blue team insignia…the traditional cowboy hat and lasso splayed acros
s the sides. The interior helmet light was also light blue, to match their team’s colors, as well as to differentiate Wrangler players from the opposing team.
Other than that, everything was basically the way Ozzie remembered it growing up. The field, the uniforms, the protective gear, it was all the same, really. About all that had changed was the players. Now they were even faster, even bigger, and the recklessness with which they hurled their bodies around was as shocking as it was thrilling to watch—if only from a safe distance...
Decades before, Megaball had been created as an advanced form of American football. Intended to be far safer, several technological advancements had been added, including an electrified field. By infusing the artificial turf with carbon, scientists had figured out how to create an electrical barrier, which buffered players’ impact with the ground. Meanwhile, players wore Kevlar armor and protective head gear much like a full faced motorcycle helmet to eliminate grabbing of facemasks. The body armor and helmet were also electrified with force fields to protect limbs, bones, brains, and joints. The interior of the helmet and body suit were wired with sensors for team doctors to monitor vital signs and detect if players were concealing serious injuries.
It seemed they’d thought of just about everything…everything except perhaps the obvious. For, as the years passed, the only thing they could not control was human beings and their constant struggle to exert, excel, surpass, overcome, out-do, and achieve. Players ran faster and faster. They hit harder and harder. They got bigger and bigger, too. Thus, in the fifty long years of Megaball’s growth as the world’s second-most popular spectator sport, behind maybe soccer, injuries had once again become an increasing problem…while the sport itself had degenerated into little more than high tech gladiatorial combat...