Danny Ho, the Sharks’ quarterback, a Hawaiian native, and thusly an adored local hero, takes the snap and keeps it. In a brilliant turn around left end, he ducks into a department store, where he shakes his pursuers. He makes his way out to Kuhio Street. He has almost reached Seaside Avenue and the Prospectors’ goalyard, when he’s intercepted by a deep safety and a lineman. Circling warily, they trap him between them.

Acting quickly, before defensive reinforcements arrive, Danny tucks the ball into his gut pocket and engages the deep safety, who, with his long knife, is easily the more dangerous of the two. The lineman immediately assaults Danny from the rear with his short club. Ho pays the lineman no more attention than an elephant would an attack from a flea.

The light-intensifying TV cameras recording the scene catch and amplify every tiny bit of illumination. On TV, the battle can be seen as clearly as if it were being fought in broad daylight. So true are the colors, so clear the action, the only way to tell this is not happening during the daytime is by the strange, surreal fact none of the combatants casts a shadow.

The deep safety jockeys for a clear and killing shot under Ho’s helmet, at his neck, but Ho is a wary and experienced ballplayer. He keeps his chin well down, his neck covered. Abruptly, Ho makes his move. He catches the deep safety’s arm under his own. With a twisting motion, he breaks the safety’s arm at the elbow. The deep safety gamely tries to switch his knife to his other hand. Ho is already way out of his reach, doing battle with the lineman. The lineman has Ho in a bear hug and is beating on Ho’s kidneys from behind. Gambling, Ho drops to one knee. In a beautiful clean and jerk, made all the more difficult by the angle through which he has to execute the maneuver, Ho picks up the lineman in both hands and raises him into the air. Squatting down again, Ho slams the hapless lineman over his braced and upraised knee. The man’s back breaks with a gratifying snap. Ho rises and sprints for the goalyard, using a running butt against the goalyard tender to carry himself across.

Jaime and Surdo go wild, rerunning the sequence a giddily thriftless four times, once each from all four viewpoints, Ho’s, the lineman’s, the deep safety’s and the goalyard tender’s.

Ho takes in the extra point himself, but it’s a fruitless gesture.

T.K. Mann has called a flawless game, and the Sharks lose, 93 to 80.

“Wow,” says Jaime, helping Surdo return their personal belongings to their suitcase for the trip back to their apartment. “What a finish. It’ll take me all day tomorrow to recuperate from it.”