It was a hot summer day in 2066 when they played what can only be mostly remembered as the greatest game of Wonder Sport ever. Anyone you ask who’ll say they were there will tell you to your face how it started with a cold fog, like a deep Britsh November, coffee sales were brisk in the stands, tacos as well, and the mood—well, the mood was a nervous joviality that bordered on subdued mania. And that was just the concessionaires. The stands were full of bucktoothed wide eyed kids, single moms, and beer bellied sacks of manure. One big happy family, fans them all. This was their game, the people’s game. Our game. Your game. The game. Game. Game. Game. Game. Game.
With bated breath and polite applause, the teams took to the Tarmac, the bell whistled its klaxonorous retort and Big Lando Mulligan took the stand. The initial toss, a whiffer, from central position Wince Williams, a bony drink of water from North Central Kentucky. Mulligan took it, groin deep, for ball one. Literally, his left teste. Next toss, a stinker, up in Mulligans sweet spot, and he made such sweet love to that sphere that it didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. It did both, sailing up and down and away, kissing the sky. That had the chalk boy chalking one up for the good guys on the chalk board. The crowd went nutso. The nut vendor messed himself. It was nuts. nuts all over. Poor nut boy. Having to clean up all those nuts. That’s life in the bigs.
Up next was Donarius White, the yellow flash himself, pride of Windingo. He strutted on up to the portcullis like a bat out of Cheyenne, all huff, puff, and gaseous guff. Not a lady in the crowd failed to swoon. And the gents, well, holy doodle, they went bonkers. As in super swooning. It was like your ponytailed uncle’s Hustler subscription. Erotic and mythical. It was only the precursor to the second play of the match and already emotions were at an all time high. Like seventy five feet of emotions. That high. Like I said, all time. Whoa.
Nor-cen Kentuckytown USA’s favourite son, Wince, lumped one up high and droll, and it tied Donarius up tighter than a Nun’s pretzel. You could feel the emotional wound open and all that erotic energy bleed out. Donarius was done. The press, in a Pulitzer Prize winning piece of creative genius would later call it “DONE-arius does-nothingus”. A car in the parking lot honked in sadness.
Next up, bonker ball, the most hellacious time segment in the game time. Period. Six minutes and thirteen seconds of liquid fury. Facing off, Horatio Rogers and Gerry Jeek. Or to put it mildly, monolith v. monolith. Ball in play, monolith takes it from monolith back to monolith, monolith runs, monolith blocks, tackles, monolith shimmying, jinny, jiving, the bang-tango, monolith, over the top, slides under monolith, when monolith wit the steal, monolith scores. Monolith monolith monolith monolith. All hail monolith.
It was an equal opportunity celebration in the stands as folks felt a 1:1 ratio of good cheer and intense sorrow. The clouds parted, rain fell, an old man lost his shoe. And when the smoke and dust and mist and halitosis finally cleared, there towering over the gravel field up on the big board, chalked up and official, the final score of the most legendary, jaw-dropping, mind-bending, soul-crushing, up-lifting match of sports in the history of sports since Yahweh and Allah went SupremoMano y SupremoMano on the handball court over who got to lay claim to Australopithicus.
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You couldn’t have written a better script.