The Minutemen kick off from the west end of Myrtle Street. The ball travels the requisite thirty yards, bounces up against a building, hops twice and spins to rest. Before either of the two receiving Prospectors can field it, Harv Matision falls on it, to T.K.’s great relief. T.K. had only to run down the street to realize how grossly he had overestimated his remaining endurance. As weak as he is, he’ll be lucky to last out an hour of normal play, maybe an hour and a half if he conserves his strength. He has to get to Matision soon, or, the odds are, he’ll never get to him at all.

Matision takes Johnson’s center, and cuts diagonally down Anderson to Pinckney.

Doggedly, T.K. shags after.

There, in the shape of Bumbo Johnson dropping behind to provide interference, he encounters the first, and possibly final, obstacle to his tentative strategy. If Johnson hits him, T.K. has no doubt he’ll be out of the game for good. He attempts to avoid a contact.

Johnson isn’t the considerate type. To him, all that matters is that his team is down one man. He regards T.K. as the easiest way to correct that imbalance. Arms to his chest, elbows out, Johnson plows ahead full speed, straight for T.K.

T.K. does his best to evade Johnson. With his mobility all but destroyed by his failing stamina and the rigidity of his arm, the best he can do is to forestall the end somewhat by ducking behind a light pole, thereby preventing a head-on collision.

Johnson pulls up short. T.K. edges around the pole, keeping it between him and his attacker. Johnson is a clever faker. Swinging his whole body right, he cuts left. T.K., deceived, leaves himself completely open to a frontal assault. Ineptly, he fumbles his short club into a pathetic defensive set to counter.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. Just as Johnson reaches a point barely three feet from T.K., Orval Frazier intervenes, pouncing on Johnson and locking him into a choke hold.

Frazier doesn’t hold Johnson for long. Johnson breaks the choker, and steps in behind Frazier, pulling Frazier’s cast up and around as he goes. Such pain is too much for Frazier to bear. He goes down, dazed and barely semiconscious. Johnson winds up for a farewell kick. T.K., taking advantage of Johnson’s momentary neglect, catches him with a shoulder block, knocking him forward across Frazier’s body. Before Johnson can get up, T.K. drops on Johnson, knees first, left knee on the ground, right one on the top of Johnson’s helmet, forcing it backwards. He delivers a quick, short club chop to Johnson’s neck.

Johnson gurgles once and is still.

T.K. rolls off Johnson, gasping, balanced on one hand and two knees.