As T.K. walks into the cool night air, Matision calls out behind him. “Mann, you son of a bitch. I’ll get you for this. I’ll get you in a game. I’ll fix you for keeps:”

“That’s what I like about this sport,” whispers T.K. under his breath. “You make such wonderful friends.” He hops into a pedicab for the trip back to his hotel.

3

KILLERBOWL XXI, THE DAY BEFORE

Friday, December 31, 2010, 11:00 P.M.

The Prospectors assemble at the intersection of Pinckney and Cedar. T.K. lines them up in two rows, six men in one, five in the other (since the mediman doesn’t carry the ball or engage in contact, he’s exempted), and puts them through their warm-ups. He leads off with jumping jacks, squat presses and rollovers to loosen legs, bodies and arms. Then he launches into the tough stuff, the one-on-ones, the head-jerkers, the roustabouts.

An icy wind swirls out of the northeast. It takes the top layer of snow and stitches it into a white, all enveloping curtain. The streetlights which have been turned on all throughout the playing area, cast a harsh phosphorescence that gives the streets a semblance of daylight. The buildings and the vacant lots and the back alleys are as dark as a bottomless hole, and, during a game, oftentimes just as deadly to step into.

The section of Boston they’re playing in was once the habitat of Brahmins and the socially elite. Now it’s a hodgepodge of middleclass row houses, light industry and shabby shopping centers. Several tall modern office buildings rise up out of the midst like great glass and chrome tombstones marking the passage of better, more refined days beneath. The area also includes the Institute of Contemporary Art and portions of Suffolk University, an inclusion that makes the players quite happy. The long, winding corridors of cultural institutions or of academia afford many places for a truly determined individual to hide out, often for long stretches of time. Louisburg Square is also within the game’s boundaries. The square is an historic landmark, a fine collection of old town houses and cobblestone streets, sadly run down, but still displaying a layer of charm and grace beneath a surface covering of grime and neglect.

The streets are eerily quiet. T.K.’s callisthenic commands echo off empty buildings, careen down deserted streets, float with the wind, billow up with the snow. The Prospectors grunt in their labors, their feet making squishy sounds as the force of their exercises melts the snow beneath them. Once, there would have been spectators here to watch them, to cheer them on, but that was long ago, when the league first began.