The plain and simple truth is that he can’t afford to. Always fast with a dollar, T.K. Mann is broke. Where did it all go? Twelve year’s worth of six figure salaries, that much again in endorsement money? Simple. It went to buy gasoline for his car, pay the rent on his parent’s’ farmhouse and on his fancy penthouse apartment on Russian Hill. A good chunk went to buy him and a string of impressionable young women honest-to-God real meat dinners at Ernie’s.

While he hasn’t undertaken any sweeping economy measures, nowadays he does live week to week, totally reliant on his football paycheck to meet his expenses. The sweet promotional deals that used to fall into his lap every time he laid a touchdown pass into a teammate’s waiting arms have all petered out. The sporting goods companies, the department stores, the bicycle firms want someone that the youth of America can more easily identify with, someone strong, victorious and young.

There’s no such thing as a pension fund in the Street Football League. Players get a fat salary and a big, paid up life insurance policy. Most guys, T.K. in his younger days included, figure it to be a lot better deal that way. So T.K. plays football, and will keep playing football until the head office throws him out on his ass, or some linebacker fuses his kidneys to the street.

The exhaustion that T.K. has ignored for the past twenty four hours overcomes him and drags him down into sleep. Even here he gets no relief. Like a nightmarish spike, the pain punches holes in his dreams.

2

KILLERBOWL XXI, THE DAY BEFORE

Friday, December 31, 2010, 10:30 P.M.

Mentally, T.K.’s as ready as he’ll ever be, his desire sharpened to a killing edge, his concentration honed to a pinpoint, his pain shoved far to the back of his mind.

Most of T.K.’s teammates are still undergoing the strange rituals men sustain to prepare themselves to face death.

Varnie Pfleg, a tackle/lineman, sits in perfect silence on the floor off in a corner, his hands cupping his face, his legs spread open in a V in front of him. From time to time, he slides his hands open and peers down between his thighs. There lies a full color hologram of his wife and three children.

Orval Frazier, the fullback/middle linebacker, stands with his helmet on, his back to the locker room’s forward bulkhead, the one separating the dressing area from the trainer’s room. With metronomic regularity, he lets his head drop forward, then, in a snapping motion, slams it full force backwards into the wall. Frazier has been All-Pro for the past four seasons. He’s generally considered to be the toughest man in football.