Instinctively, T.K. grabs it, turning it so his fourth and little fingers cover the lacing, his middle finger lies almost exactly midway down the taper, his forefinger almost on the end, and his thumb encircles it, facing off at an angle just below its point of widest circumference. He drops back into his protective pocket of blockers, sets and sees Michalski in the clear. He’s already got the football next to his ear. He releases it from there. It sails, spiraling and true, right into Michalski’s waiting arms. Michalski feints around a potential tackler, leapfrogs across a low, decorative railing in front of an antiquated apartment house, and cuts inside the building.

Leaving Michalski to his own devices, T.K. sprints for the goalyard.

There he waits. In vain as it turns out.

His referee taps him on the shoulder. “South Russell and Myrtle, Mann. Play’s all done.”

T.K. trots on over. When he arrives, he finds Rauscher hunched above Michalski who is bleeding from his nose and his ears. Rauscher gives T.K. a sign. Thumb down. Michalski is out for the rest of the game.

“Who got him?” T.K. asks in the huddle.

“Who else?” answers Buddy Healy. “The fabulous one man football team.”

T.K. glances back at the defense to see Harv Matision wiping his knife blade clean on his jersey.

At least Michalski didn’t go out in vain. He made eighty two yards on the play, giving the Prospectors a badly needed first down.

“Check with me at the line,” T.K. says. They break and go into formation.

Monday, September 6, 2010

The Prospectors’ locker room is in a state of near pandemonium. Players in various stages of undress pound each other on the back and shoulders with inflatable plastic casts filled with water, throw squishy oranges and wads of blood splattered tape at each other, or douse each other liberally with beer.

Needless to say, the reason for all this riotous joviality is a victory, a victory over Chicago. This victory, coupled with a Seattle defeat, leaves the Prospectors in undisputed first place in their division, heirs to a one week’s bask in the glory of preeminence.

As has been his pattern lately, T.K. doesn’t join his comrades in their after-game buffoonery. He sits sullenly in front of his locker, stripping off first his uniform, then his pads, his tape and finally his iron horse. He grabs a towel from the trainer, and heads for the showers, roughly shoving aside two network cameramen blocking his way.