Matision’s hand flops down to his side. A trainer relieves him of the hypodermic. Actually, the trainer could just as easily have given him the shot, but Harv Matision puts a lot of stock in showmanship. Primarily, he’s an exhibitionist. He also knows that giving the public what it wants to see has a way of enlarging his paycheck. In fact, he’d undoubtedly consent to slice open his own wrists given enough monetary incentive and the promise of ample air time. He sits for a moment, quietly, stiffly, then jerks upward as if he’s being lifted by some unseen string. His jerkiness doesn’t last long. His motor functions quickly grow smooth, his motions burnish themselves to a slippery sheen. He becomes like a tornado, a human whirlwind, his movements almost too quick for the camera to follow. He slaps on his protective pads, takes some fast calisthenics to loosen himself up, and bolts for the locker room door.

The fourth quarter starts shortly thereafter.

The fourth quarter follows the pattern set by the first three. The Prospectors’ hidden safety uses his bullet early on to keep a Minuteman from scoring. It’s a perfect shot that catches the Minutemen’s ball carrier squarely in the back of the knee, laming him instantly and giving the Prospectors a one man advantage. The Minutemen retaliate swiftly, putting a Prospector permanently out of commission with a broken leg.

As time runs out, the Prospectors fight to hold on to their scant, two point lead.

T.K. signals his referee. “Time hack,” he calls out.

“Thirty six minutes remaining in the game,” the referee answers.