Post by hdawg on Nov 16, 2015 4:11:19 GMT
Dust and dirt particles rained down from the locker room's ceiling in spurts. The entire stadium shook as though alive, support beams groaning in protest above the player's heads as the wood began to pulsate from the beating of the crowd's feet. Trumpets blared and fans cried out in anticipation for the coming bloodbath. Shouts from vendors of Bugman's Beer and hot halfling-made snacks circulated through the stands as war wizards readied their spells.Goblin bookies stood atop box piles down by the side of the pitch and were hard at work taking bets on how long before the first touchdown, injury, and death. The clamoring increased from fans as the pregame show began and the magically enhanced voices of Bob Bifford and Jim Johnson crackled to life.
“Ahhhh, hi there, Jim! Ready for another gruesome game of Blood Bowl?”
“You know it, Bob! And so is this crowd, i haven't seen a turn out like this for a tin cup season match in quite some time. Who's playing?”
“Who cares, Jim? I sure don't. Long as there's plenty of hits and that Bugman Beer vendor get's his head out of his ass and heads this way with my drink. I've been waving forever! I'm going to throw a halfling at him pretty soon to get his attention.”
The pair of Cabalvision commentators continued their banter back and forth as the cheerleaders and refs began filtering in through the pitch-side doors. High destiny cameras all pointed to the entrances of the stadium where, any minute, the teams would exit to the sound of triumphant applause.
Yet in the Striker's change room a heavy silence prevailed.
The kind of silence that can only fill a room when everyone involved is determined in preserving its integrity. The awkward and dreadful kind that creeps under your skin and fills your soul, echoing off the thoughts, worries and doubts held secretly in your heart. Where each strained intake of breath and nervous exhale mingles with the movement of anxious knees bouncing up and down. A silence that makes seconds crawl by like days and the air itself weighs down heavily.
Twelve players sat, heads downcast, on a pair of wooden benches that faced one another. Each sat hunched over in front of their allotted team jersey numbers in the tightly confined space, made even tighter by the fact that one of their team members was a massive ogre. Spiked cleats shuffled and tapped against the stone change room floor and awkward coughs rasped out intermittently.
Not one of them had vocalized what was wrong, but it was painted on their faces and written in their wringing of their hands. Not one of them thought they could win. Not one.
Footsteps approached, loud and fast. The door to the change room burst open, their Head Coach entering with a flourish and a half-drunk laugh.
“Alright you beautiful golden gods, you! It's game time! All the cameras are rolling, the women are screaming like banshees to see you. So let's get up there strut our stuff and make history! We're going to be the 2nd team in as many weeks to beat the Dominant Dragons. Follow me!”
It took the coach several seconds to notice that the door had swung closed behind him, but that none of the Strikers were following. He burst back into the room and stared at his team incredulously.
“What's wrong? What's going on? You boys saying a prayer to Nuffle or something?”
None of them were moving. Many exchanging worried glances. Finally, team leader, Sir Lobbings lifted a hand to get the Head Coach's attention.
“We know it isn't going to be a cake walk like you've said it'll be. This is the Dominant Dragons we're facing here. Let's get serious, Coach. It's going to be a blood bath...You know it, the fans know it. Hell, right now they're taking bets on how long it takes for those Saurus to bash our heads open like watermelons.”
Head Coach Hdawg looked away from Sir Lobbings, trying to gauge how many of his other players were feeling the same. It was plain as could be. Every single one of them looked like they were ready to fold and call it a day.
“Come onnnn, nawww? Don't listen to Lobbings you guys. Those fat lizards up there? They're push overs. They didn't get that record playing real teams, the only teams they've beaten are a buncha losers. Now get your war faces on and let's get out there.”
Still, not one of them moved.
“Hey! Are you asswipes listening? I'm your Head-Fuckin'-Coach. When I say move you say 'yes boss, thank you boss, two cups full, boss.' Not whine about getting hurt. You've got to be hungry for it to be winners!”
“Tim is Hungry....” Tiny Tim moaned pitifully, trying to contribute to the conversation as best he could.
“You're always hungry, you fat lardo!” the Head Coach snarled. “Now, stand up and shut up!”
“Sowwie...” he mumbled, sniffing and looking down at the floor as he wiped the back of his palm against his moist eyes.
A knock came at the change-room door, loud and insistent. A clear sign that the Dominant Dragons were all up on the pitch and waiting for their opponents to finally show their faces. The head coach just pounded on the door back to indicate they'd be right along, and then rested both hands on his hips, his eyes scanning his players.
None met his gaze directly.
“What's the matter with you shmucks? Sitting around down here crying like a buncha big babies? It's pathetic...No, you know what? You're pathetic. All of ya! I mean for Khorne-Sake it looks like someone just killed your favorite puppy dog or something. Get a fucking grip, you nancies! It's just a buncha dumb cold-blooded lizards, so man the fuck up and let's play some Blood Bowl!” The Head Coach shoved open the change-room door and stomped off down the hallway. “Hurry up and get your good for nothing asses onto the field or you're all fired come monday!”
The door slammed shut with an audible clang and then silence settled on the room once more. It didn't last long. Sir Lobbings got up sluggishly and grabbed his helmet by the face-mask as he moved for the door.
“You just going?” Master Chef asked, worry written on his face. “After everything he just said to us, you're still gonna go?”
Sir Lobbings shrugged and looked to Oldman Open, who also stood and donned his helmet. The veteran catcher adjusted the straps beneath his chin and said, “We haven't got much choice. Coach might be an asshat but he's right, we've got a game to play, and it's not going to get done hiding down here.”
“Yeah, but he doesn't need to be like, suuuuch a douche about it, y'know?” Sparkly Steve argued. “We never got treated like this when we were on the Hellhounds. Head Coach Veronica was all hugs and kisses and stuff.”
“Well, ve are not on ze Hellhounds anymore, meine sparkly friend,” Manfred Von Mangles said, his thickly accented and empirical voice grating on everyone's ears as he joined Sir Lobbings and Oldman Open. “If our leader, Zir Lobbings says ve play, zen Manfred und Terry Ze Trampler vil play, ja?”
Terry didn't look very convinced, but he stood alongside Manfred. “A fights a fight, and I'm not about to turn coward now. Dragons or not.”
“Dad, come on. What are we doing?” Sir Lobbings Junior said, gesturing at the rest of the guys who were still sitting. “Look, I'll say what we're all thinking. We can't win with this crew. We're not all as experienced as you other guys from the Hellhounds. Those lizards are going to smash us to bits.”
“We gets hurt?” Tiny Tim said, sniffing louder as he rubbed at his tear-stained eyes. “Tim no want get hurt again. Tim no like.”
“Yeah I know you don't,” Jr. said, patting the ogre who'd begun sobbing quietly in the corner at the thought of another major injury. “We need to play the House of Eagles next game, and they're no slouches either. Let's just concede here. We need Tim in one piece for that game, not mashed to a pulp. You know it's the smart play.”
The room murmured their agreement and heads nodded in unison as all eyes settled on Sir Lobbings. He sighed and put his helmet on his hip, holding it there as he addressed his son. “So that's it then? We just become quitters. We give up. That's the 'smart' play to make?”
“Well, yeah,” Mr. Backup said. “I mean, isn't it?”
“Meathead wouldn't have given up,” Terry the Trampler insisted. “Not ever.”
“Come on, Terry. Meathead's dead...those Chaos Suk Monster bastards saw to that,” Sir Baller was quick to point out, sounding frustrated. “And we'll all be dead too if we go out there.”
"Think they were called the Suk Monkies, not the Suk Monsters," Juggernutter offered.
"Of the Fish Monkies?" Capt Rammer said with a grin.
“Meathead's the lucky one,” Oldman Open said with a sad frown. “Frankly, I'd rather be dead than to have lived to see the day when you boys decided to tuck tail and run instead of stand your ground.”
“We came into this tournament with one goal in mind,” Sir Lobbings said. His voice firm and clear. “We came because we wanted to be the best. Not third best or even second. We came to win. Well, forget everything else, because right now if we don't win this match we aren't even getting in the playoffs. If we forfeit this match, or if we go up there and lose, then this entire season of play, everything we've done, has been for nothing. Meathead's death was for nothing. I for one am not about to let that happen.”
“Ja, you vant to be known as ze fifth team at ze end of ze season? Zat is like ze number von loser. But a loser is still a loser,” Mangles said with a sneer. “Ve are not losers. Ve von't get to play anymore if we are not ze fourth team.”
“Manfred's right,” Sir Lobbings said, moving to give Tiny Tim a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We're going to win this, but if we're going to have a shot then we're going to need to do it together, as a team. It's our only chance. Even a draw won't cut it. It's win or bust.”
“Win a bus?” Tiny Tim said with a sniff, looking at Sir Lobbings before slowly nodding. “Tim likes tour bus. Time play.” The tubby ogre stood, a smile creeping to the corners of his lips as he rubbed his immense belly and crammed his tiny helmet onto his bulbous head. “Tim no get hurt. Tim eat skinkies!”
“That's the spirit, Tim,” Sir Lobbings said like a parent talking to a child. “We won't let you get hurt.”
“Don't do that,” Jr. said, anger creeping into his voice.
“Do what?”
“Don't lie to Tim like that. You know full well he's one of the most likely to get hurt even if he's too dumb to figure it out. He's going to be right on the line of scrimmage with those reptiles.”
“I meant it. He won't get hurt,” Lobbings insisted. “I know we're going to keep him safe, just like I know we're going to win this match, son.”
“How? How can you possibly know that? They've got us way outclassed. They've got six saurus and a Krox to boot. We don't have anyone on the team who can even touch them other than Tim and he's dumb as a door-nail. Sorry, Tim.”
The ogre picked a large snot glob from his nose and promptly licked it up. “S'okay. Tim like eat snails.”
“Then we don't touch them,” Lobbings said, his eyes agleam with renewed hope from his own pep talk. “We shouldn't ever need to. I'll pick up the ball, the boys will cage me, and Oldman Open will do what he does best and get down field for the throw.”
“If you can keep them off Lobbing's back I'll get open, no doubt.” Oldman nodded confidently. “Tie up those saurus and they can't dodge away. That'll leave just the little ones to mess me up. Those skinks aren't going to be enough to bring me down, not by a long shot. Even if they somehow do, you better believe I'll get right back up before the whistle blows.”
“Und ve blitzers vil guard Zir Lobbings,” Manfred said thumping his swarthy chest. “Meine body vil be ze shield he needs to throw ze ball safely. Terry vil do ze trampling of ze skinks und zey vil nein be able to pick up ze ball.”
“It can work,” Terry agreed. “We just need a helping hand from Nuffle with some injuries on their front line and we can win this.”
“It's impossible. They're-” Jr started to say, but his father interrupted his son's newest protest by hurling his helmet at him. It narrowly missed, clattering harshly off the far wall.
“It's NOT impossible dammit! The Seahawks just proved that fact, you spoiled little brat! They beat'em 2-1 and knocked half of their guys out to add insult to injury. We fought those Kaiser bastards to a draw during season play which means if they can win, so can we. But we aren't going to win for that prick of a Head Coach and we're not going to win just because the empire is gunning for two teams in the playoffs. We're going to win this for us.” Lobbings crossed the change room and put a hand on Jr's shoulder, his voice calming down to a more reasonable level once more. “Because we deserve a shot at the finals. It's not going to be easy and it's not going to be a game where we worry 'are we going to get knocked down?' It's going to be a game of 'can we get back up again?' Yes, we still might lose, but we'll never know if we don't at least try. That's all I'm asking from you guys; from all of us. I'm asking you all to give it 110% and leave everything out on the field. Blood, guts, glory and all. We've got something to prove, right? Well what better way to prove it than with a challenge? So that one day, when you're all old and gray haired and I'm long dead, you can tell Jr.'s kids that he and his old coot of a father played Blood Bowl way back when and together we knocked the Dragons down to earn our spot in the Cup. It's time to become Strikers!”
Sparkly Steve stood, pumped his fist in the air, and flipped his long locks of hair over his shoulder. “He's like, sooo right, guys! I just know we can, like, totally do it if we give it our sparkly all!”
Mr. Backup stood next, followed by Capt Rammer. Finally the remainders got up, Juggernutter and Sir Baller fixing their helmets on tight.
Mr Backup held out one hand. “Let's do this. For Meathead.”
One by one they held their hands out into the circle, repeating 'for Meathead'. Even Tiny Tim managed to get it right and they turned as one to look at Jr.
He reluctantly stood and put his hand in. “Whatever...for Meathead then, I guess.”
“That beautiful dead bastard still owes me money,” Sparkly Steve said with a sniff.
“Let's do this, Strikers,” Sir Lobbings said with a final grim nod. “Together, we strike!” he shouted.
The words 'we strike' echoed back to him, shouted from his eleven other team mates. Again and again Lobbings shouted 'we strike!' Over and over he repeated it until finally they reached a crescendo and they all cried out in unison their team motto, 'because Lighting Always Strikes Twice!'
The cheers of their whoops and laughter echoed up the tunnel to the pitch. Lobbings brought up the rear, collecting his helmet from the change-room floor as he watched the team run up the ramp to the field. Bob Bifford and Jim Johnson started introing them one by one. Even his son Sir Lobbings Jr. had lost his gloomy attitude from earlier, his mood much improved from the team pep talk.
Lobbings moved to follow when he heard a low chuckle issue out from behind him. He turned, and blanched. A man sat behind him on a chair, where before there had been an empty hall. The man was tilted back so as to lean on the edge of the stadium wall. He held a cigar between his teeth and a wide-brimmed hat rested low on his brow, casting a long shadow over most of his gray indistinguishable features. His face an unreadable mask of smoke and darkness.
“You give them hope when you have none yourself? Some would argue that's a fool's errand,” the man said. His voice was cold like the dead of winter and two-edged like an assassin's poisoned dagger. “I never pegged you for a fool, Lobbings. That's why I've always favored you. But, you heard Terry in the change room, all you need is a helping hand from Nuffle. Only they don't know, do they?”
The old Blood Bowl player swallowed nervously and ignored the barbed comments, instead starting to make his way up the passage towards the light from the field above.
“Oh? So we're still not talking then?” The figure said, head raising slightly to watch Lobbings depart. “Really. I thought that petty little threat of yours to discard me all those years ago was just a joke made in poor taste. Seems I've misjudged you.”
The words haunted Sir Lobbings all the way up the long sloped ramp. He ground his teeth together and blocked out the man's crowing voice as best he could, a cold sweat clinging to his body. Still, this was game day. He wouldn't be swayed now, not by anyone. There was no room for doubt or fear, not while his team needed him. The sportscaster were calling out his number and position. The crowd was cheering for the Captain of Hdawg's Strikers and he would go to them.
“You're going to need me, Lobbings, before the end. You Blood Bowlers always do. Ultimately they all come crawling to me on their knees, begging for one last chance. Just like you will. Soon, Lobbings. Very soon.”
Lobbings ran onto the field, leaving the darkness behind and stepping into the light as he cursed under his breath, “Damn you to hell, Nuffle.”