All two hundred and twenty pounds of Mike Armstrong leaned into the lacrosse stick, smashing the wooden netting frame to the earth, preventing the coyote’s head from escaping. When the coyote tried to back its head out from under the net, Mike jerked the stick harder until the traumatized coyote gave in. Matt had the sickening sensation the douchebag was enjoying it.

The coyote yipped and growled as its ribcage pulsed. Its bronze eyes glared from behind the netting, a beautiful prisoner that had made a dreadful mistake. Every few seconds the coyote bared its teeth as its upper lip quivered.

Matt studied the crowd, their faces red and contorted, spittle flying from their lips as they cheered. Something seized him, an unexplainable pressure. The maniacal cheering faded, the faces and clothes morphing from color to black and white. The grass bled crimson. The sky grayed and molted. Mike Armstrong turned monochrome, the whites of his eyes vivid. Everything had changed color except for the coyote. Its earth tone coat slick in the sunlight, its vibrant pink tongue. Then it all became slow motion, the yelps, the reaching, the shouting.

Another student emerged from the crowd dressed in lacrosse gear: Ben Jacobsen, athletic star of Walnut Grove and serial meathead. Ben sprinted towards the coyote, lacrosse stick high above his head. Don’t think so, Matt said. He knocked Ben to the side, but Ben kept momentum and smashed the coyote’s head.

“Get that bastard!” a male student shouted. “Get that vermin off our field!”

Matt recovered from his attempted sideswipe and ripped the lacrosse stick from Ben’s hand.

For a moment Ben stood there, eyeballing Matt, incredulous. “What the hell you doing?” he asked while cocking his arm back to deliver a punch. Matt ducked the punch and swept Ben’s lacrosse stick across his knees, eliciting a sick crunch. Ben collapsed, holding his legs and screaming. The screams intertwined with the yipping and growling coyote. Glinting blood now matted its furry head.

Undeterred, Mike continued to force the coyote’s head against the ground. The coyote kicked its back legs, throwing bits of grass and dirt.

Matt whirled and slammed Ben’s stick across Mike’s skull, triggering a hollow thonk. After a brief stagger, Mike lifted his lacrosse stick and swung it behind him, catching Matt across the shoulder and knocking him to the side.

The faces in the crowd transformed from cruel, self-satisfied domination to twisted confusion.

“Get him Mike! He took a swing at YOU,” Betsy Armstrong shouted.

Sensing an opening thanks to Betsy, Mike took another powerful swing, nailing Matt square in the jaw. His world blurred and swam, his hearing rang, and then dialed back into focus.