“That’s it, Mann,” says the referee. “Play’s over.”

“Nope,” counters T.K., “this play’s over when I say it is, and nobody’s telling me different.” He moves the rifle a fraction of an inch in his referee’s direction, enough so there’s no doubt as to his meaning.

Never having encountered such a situation before, the referees have no idea how to deal with it. They do carry pistols to protect themselves in the event an enraged player attacks them, but T.K. is certainly not enraged, at least not at them. Using their radios, they attempt to contact a higher authority for instructions.

Before they can, T.K. marches Matision across to Myrtle, past Hancock and Temple, to Bowdoin.

He waves his rifle side to side, and a wide hole opens in the six deep line of fans who ring the playing area hoping for a live peek at the action. “Mann, you’re out of bounds,” yells a member of the Guardsman Sideline Patrol Force when T.K. crosses Bowdoin. T.K. ignores him. Since the patrolman’s job is to keep people out, not players in, the patrolman doesn’t interfere.

A stark, drab gray trailer is parked at the intersection of Ashburton and Somerset. Followed by an ever growing throng of inquisitive spectators, T.K. marches Matision up to its door. As he expected, it’s locked.

Holding Matision at bay with the rifle, he bashes at the door with his foot. Control rooms were never meant to protect their inhabitants from ardent assaults, only from curious pryings.

T.K.’s kick tears the door from its hinges.

T.K. shoves Matision inside.

T.K.’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the increased light level. Once they do, he sees Timothy Enge, gaping, in a glassed-in booth to the trailer’s rear. A white-haired man, most likely the program coordinator, his backup behind him, and the two co-head referees stare first at T.K., next at his image projected on several of the screens in front of them. Cameramen, relegated to standby duty having been assigned to players now out of the game, shift their positions nervously, not sure whether to remain at their cameras or duck for cover. To their professional credit, all choose to remain.

In a corner, where they have a view of the entire room, Pierce Spencer and Ida Moulay sit before two high frequency broadcasting sets. Ever since T.K. made his move and it became apparent to them what he was up to, they have been frantically attempting to stop him, first through the referees, next through the Sideline Patrol Force, finally through the police. Their efforts came always scant minutes too late.

“Everybody against the wall. Everybody but you.” T.K. indicates one of the cameramen. “You keep your camera on Matision.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the trailer’s inhabitants line up against the wall, right below Enge’s booth.