The orange and white-clad Hurricanes set themselves on the artificial grass field, the roots of which are designed to give on impact. There are no human referees. A dozen infraction cameras linked to high-speed macroperceivers adorn the sidelines, analyzing the playing field, searching for infractions. There are no first-down markers. Concealed beneath the padded emerald green turf is an electronic grid linked to remote sensors embedded inside the football. Fluorescent yellow laser lines indicate precise ball placement, while digital sideline markers display both the down and the yards necessary to achieve a first down. A vertically oriented electromagnetic plane extending upward from the goal line must be broken to score a touchdown, the accomplishment instantly igniting a rainbow of laser lights and the scoring team’s unique holographic special effects celebration.

The goalposts themselves are violet-colored holograms that activate for field goal or extra point attempts. Striking the ‘post’ causes the ball to spin wildly, the outcome always a crapshoot.

Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler, Miami’s twenty-year-old star sophomore tailback lines up in the backfield behind his quarterback and best friend, K. C. Renner, as the game ball is set into place by Robo-Ref—a two-foot-high mobile trash-can-shaped device.

On the Miami sidelines, Mike Lavoie, the team’s offensive coordinator, selects a play from his Port-a-Coach. Sam listens as the annoying computerized voice chirps in his left ear.

Sixty-three, halfback, pitch right … on two.

Sam blocks out the crowd’s thundering crescendo and slows his pulse. His mind focuses inward, directing his consciousness into what his sports psychiatrist calls ‘the zone,’ a soothing pool of existence harbored somewhere deep within his brain.

Senior lineman Jerry Tucker squats over the pigskin, the massive 378-pound center’s buttocks stretching the reinforced polyurethane-and-steel fibers in his pants to their max. As he touches the ball, all player-coach field transmissions are instantaneously severed.

The play clock ticks backward from fifteen.

Now Sam immerses himself fully into the zone, grimacing as the familiar ripples of queasiness magnify into waves of intense pain—

—and time and space suddenly appear to slow to a surreal crawl. The din of noise evaporates to a dull baritone buzz. The football rises away from the turf in slow motion.

Easy … don’t jump offside. Sam waits impatiently, the burning in his gut intensifying as the leather object momentarily disappears between Tucker’s elephantine thighs, reappearing a lifetime later within K. C. Renner’s hands. The quarterback fakes left, then pivots to his right, his planted cleat tearing away a clump of artificial grass and sand that spins as it rises, twirling in the air like an orbiting Kelly green satellite.

Sam eyes the divot, his attention momentarily transfixed by grains of plastic dropping away like a comet’s tail.

Enough!