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You pick up the ball, but you have trouble holding on to it. It almost slips out of your hand. Tension is running at an all-time high. This *is* the most important game of the year. It's the championship. It doesn't help that the ball is slick with your teammate's blood. But you're a veteran. You wrap your arms around it and carefully tuck it away. Fumbling is not an option. Not now. Not with close to a billion rabid fans tracking your every move. Vincent, your friend and teammate for the last seven years, gave his life for this possession, intentionally throwing his body in front of the defense in order to give you time to escape. As you try to accelerate on the muddy torn-up turf, you swear to yourself that his sacrifice will not be in vain. Adrenaline kicks in, and you make it another fifty yards before you hear the dogs. You curse. They shouldn't be so close behind you. Vincent was big -- well over three hundred pounds -- and his corpse should have kept the pack busy long enough for you to reach the end zone. You try to remember the name of the player handling the other team's mutts, and you blank out for an instant. Then it hits you, and you try not to smile. Murphy was his name. He was an excellent coach. The consummate pro, he was one of the best in the business. You worked with him in '09. His pack would be tough to shake. Finding strength from who knows where, you turn it up another notch. You run like the Hounds of Hell are on your trail. They are. You don't dare to turn around, but you can feel them getting closer and closer. You can almost feel their hot breath on the back of your neck, but you know that's only nerves again. They work well together, herding you like a sheep away from your goal. But you aren't a stupid, vulnerable sheep. You are a world-class athlete playing the toughest sport ever devised. You refuse to let a pack of genetically engineered canines run you. They quickly recognize this. They change their tactics. That's when they blitz you. The lead dog come flying out of nowhere and sinks his jaws into your right leg. You immediately bring your mailed-fist down and crush it's skull, but it's too little too late. The damage has been done. You go down hard, slamming into the turf. You struggle to get to your feet, but the pain in your ruined leg is too much to bear. You can't put weight on it. You try to crawl, but there's nowhere to go. You curl into the fetal position in a last-ditch effort to protect the ball. You are in agony and you want to die, but you have to think about the game. If you turn the ball over here your team may lose valuable momentum. They may never recover. The dogs form a ring around you. It's easy to spot the team captain. He's the biggest damned beast you have ever seen. You can't help but admire him in the instant before he lunges and sinks his teeth into your neck. As you feel your life bleed away you hear the buzzer signifying the end of the first half. You try to remember the score, but... The End
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