T.K. has his stomach pressed to the wall, his arms spread-eagled, his heels hooked over the ledge’s edge. Unencumbered by the football, he moves faster than Matision. T.K. catches Matision before he can reach the corner.

T.K. passes his long knife from his right hand to his left, the hand closest to Matision. He jabs in Matision’s direction. Matision parries with his own left hand, at the same time kicking out with his left foot. T.K. grabs for Matision’s foot, misses, and loses his balance. T.K. plants himself, but his right foot hits a patch of ice. His foot careens out from under him, skidding backwards over the ledge. He drops straight down, barely managing to catch the ledge in time to prevent a fall. He hangs on by his fingertips, his toes searching in vain for the slightest hold.

Matision, seeing T.K.’s plight, reverses direction and inches his way back to him. T.K. makes one last, desperate effort to pull himself up before Matision can reach him. He fails. Matision sidles over him, glares down, smiles and, putting all his might behind it, stomps on T.K.’s fingers.

T.K. sails backwards through the air, twisting around to improve his position for the fall. He hits the ice-covered ground with a bone crunching snap.

The next thing he sees is Zack Rauscher hunched over him.

T.K.’s left arm hurts worse than any pain he’s ever known. His sleeve has been ripped off, his left arm guard removed. He’s completely covered, head to toe, with a white, quilted, red-crossed blanket. Zack is preparing to give him an injection.

“How bad is it?” T.K. asks.

“Your arm is broken at the shoulder, elbow and wrist.” Zack plunges the needle home. “I’m sorry, T.K. You’re out of the game.”

Monday, October 4, 2010

The poetry of intimidation is a rhymed couplet, one line of degradation, meted out with careful rhythmic precision over several weeks, and one of blunt confrontation, as exemplified by the infamous Pierce Spencer counseling session.

T.K. has had an adequate sampling of degradation. For two weeks he’s been artfully and mercilessly assailed on stages, radios and television sets across the country. Hence it’s time for his counseling session to begin. Because of the nature of the leverage to be employed, T.K.’s session is to be conducted by the most persuasive counselor at Pierce Spencer’s disposal.

It is slightly after noon. Sarah has gone shopping. T.K. has just poured himself his first drink of the day when his entry chime sounds. He flips on the scanner. It fills with the impressive sight of Senator Lako Barin waiting with ponderous dignity outside the door.

“What now?” T.K. mutters, electronically disengaging the lock.