Rise of the Scorpion Read online

  It sounds like a lot of responsibility, but it’s really a throw-away assignment. Only half the meadow is visible from the middle limbs, and the berry bushes are way out of range. Thatcher nods, gives a dim smile, and hobbles off to do as Starter asks. A charitable job to save face is a hard thing to witness, so I try not to watch him go.

  “Well now, look what we have here,” Starter announces, dropping the dangerball to his feet, juggling a few beats, and tapping the ball back to his hands. “We have a ball, and we have a field.” He turns sweeping his arm backward presenting the meadow as if it had just appeared. “So this can only mean…we have a game.” He grins wide. “We’ll be captains, Will, so get ready to pick your team, but since I’m a real captain, I choose first.”

  6

  Will

  Some of the berry-pickers are finishing up and looking for a place to stack their bags.

  “Where do you want these, Cap?” one of them calls.

  “Right there is fine,” Starter yells back. “I don’t want to play around that crap, so keep it out of the way, back by the bushes.”

  Starter is excited and smiling, but I’m reluctant about the whole thing. “This isn’t the greatest place to play. It’s a broken ankle waiting to happen.”

  “It’s what we got, so let’s choose up.” Starter looks around, trying to decide on his first player, but his choice was made the moment we found the meadow. “I’ll take him.” Starter points to Gas.

  “No way, he’s mine,” I protest.

  “Too bad, we can pick anybody we want.” Starter slaps Gas on the shoulder. “And I choose you first, big guy.”

  Gas grins ear to ear at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks, Cap, I choose you right back.”

  “Gah! That’s not right at all!” I shake my head in disgust.

  “Your pick, Will, anyone you want, but make it quick so we can get going.”

  I huff, looking over at the men stacking bags and wading through the berry bushes. Knox is the only one I know can play. He was Thirty-three in the Grand-championship, and even though I’m not a huge fan, if I don’t pick him, I know Starter will. “I’ll take Knox then,” I sigh.

  “Hey Knox,” Starter yells, “let one of the dookies finish your bag and get over here.”

  “But Cap, I am a dookey,” Knox calls back.

  Starter drops his head and smirks. “Just give your bag to somebody else and get over here.”

  Knox does as he’s told and trots out to join us.

  “You’re with me,” I say. He looks disappointed.

  “Okay,” Starter says, “I’ve got Tommy.”

  “Ha! No, not Tommy, he’s not a Scorpion, he can’t play.”

  “I said we can pick anybody. I didn’t say they had to be a Scorpion.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Tommy looks at me, smiles, and steps over to stand beside Starter. “Well isn’t this a fine howdy-do, passed over by my own teammate, and chosen by a Scorpion. I was worried I wasn’t going to get in at all. Thanks for letting me play, Captain.”

  “Glad to have you.” Starter grins. He’s having a lot of fun stealing my guys. “Will, it’s your pick.”

  Most of the men have filled their bags and have stopped to watch us select our dangerball teams. When I turn to survey who’s left, all hands go straight up in a plea to be chosen. I don’t know who to pick.

  “Which one of you is the best left winger?” I call, and watch as the Scorpions on the sidelines decide it’s a dookey-foot named Boone. “I already have one dookey on my team, I don’t need another! Who’s second best?” I yell. A tall, slender Scorpion steps forward, and no one challenges his claim as the number two man left in the group.

  “Good call, Will,” Starter says. “He’ll probably replace Thatch when the new arena is built.”

  “Okay, you’re with me,” I yell, and the tall Scorpion trots over. His name is Figg, and it’s immediately clear he’d rather be on Starter’s team.

  “I’m taking Boone. One more pick, Will, and it’s game on.”

  I have no idea who to choose. I’m training these guys as scouts, but I’ve never seen a single one of them with a dangerball at their feet. I don’t know if any of them can even dribble. I’m at a loss. I turn to Knox. “Who do you think?”

  “They all suck,” he gripes.

  “Great, which one sucks the least?”

  “The one on the end, he’s pretty fast,” Figg says, pointing out a nondescript Scorpion with a sack on his shoulder.

  “All right.” I’m about to invite Figg’s choice to play, but change my mind. Starter has cherry-picked my guys right out from under my nose. I have Knox, but Figg impresses me as a tough-guy wannabe, who’s really no more than a sourpuss doofus. I scratch the back of my head, trying to decide.

  When it is clear who will win and who will lose, the match isn’t so much about the score, as it is the grace. There is always a larger contest being played, and the trick is to make sure you’re racking up points in the right game. We’re about to get the shit kicked out of us in grab-ass dangerball, so I might as well be decent about the whole thing, show some compassion, and maybe make a friend. I take one last look at the guys with hands raised, all wanting to be chosen, and turn my back. I cup my hands around my mouth, and yell across the meadow, “Hey Thatcher, get your ass down here. You’re with me.”

  “Woohoo!” Thatcher’s excitement echoes over the field, and the branches of the far tree bend and shake as he descends.

  The grin drops from Starter’s face. He steps in close so only I can hear. “Why did you do that?”

  “You said pick anybody.”

  “He’ll embarrass himself.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s ready to play.”

  “I thought we’d have ourselves a match, but you’ve just given yourself an excuse to lose, haven’t you?” Starter snarls into the side of my face.

  “You have my team, and now I have yours,” I say, watching Thatcher make his way over. “We won’t lose.” I turn to Starter. “As a matter of fact, we’re going to kick your shit all over the lawn.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” My threat breaks Starter up like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. His air of lightheartedness returns, but it’s hard to tell if this will be a friendly game or not.

  We shove sticks in the ground for makeshift goals at either end of the field. The berry bags are stacked by the bushes, and the men have crossed to the opposite side to watch the game from the shade where we first entered the meadow. They talk among themselves, waiting for the match to begin. Occasionally one claps and hollers, “Let’s go Starter!”

  “What a bunch of brown-nosers,” Knox sneers, as we huddle in front of our goal to make assignments. He reaches over and touches Thatcher on the shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re with us, buddy.”

  “Me too, but I’m afraid I can’t wing like I used to.”

  “How’s your quickness?” I ask.

  “My hands are good, and I can push left as fast as anyone. I’m a gimp going right, though.”

  “That’s fine, no problem, I’m going to let you keep for us. Cheat right and force any shot they take to your strong side. You’ll be better in goal than in the field, don’t you think?”

  Thatcher nods. “I hope so…thanks, Will.”

  “Knox, you take right wing. You’ll be on Tommy. Figg, you’re left, so you have Starter. Are you cool with that?”

  “I guess,” Figg huffs.

  “If you don’t want to play, I can get someone else.”

  “No, I’m fine taking Starter.”

  “Okay, the grass is deep so the field is slow. This isn’t the arena. Pick up your feet and stay out of chuck holes. No busted ankles today.” Knox and Thatcher nod as Figg holds tight to his sour expression. I rise up from our meeting to call across the field. “Hey, Captain, two-hands anywhere?”

  “Hell no,” Starter calls back. “We’re not playing sissy style, we�
��re full on full.”

  “Crap,” I say, rejoining the huddle. “Try to keep the ball away from Gas, and if he picks it up, everybody get on him. It’ll take all of us to bring him down. Do your best.”

  “Come on Will, we’re growing old out here,” Starter yells.

  “All right, let’s have fun and don’t get too serious,” I say to my team. We break apart and take our positions.

  “Give ‘em hell, Thatch,” someone yells from the sidelines.

  “You take the kickoff, ladies,” Starter shouts, tossing me the ball.

  Gas is in goal—thank god. Tommy and Starter are on wings, and Boone is back at center-mid.

  I pooch the ball out to Knox, but Tommy steps in front to intercept. He fakes one way and breaks open with a clear run, coming from the outside. I move to defend as Starter beats Figg to close the back door. A quick cross and he’ll have a clean shot on goal. But we’re not on a regular field, the grass is clumpy and the terrain uneven, so as Tommy sets to pass, the ball suddenly stops, and Tommy stumbles forward, falling on his face. Knox scoops the ball. Starter is out of position. Figg gets behind him, and in a quick turn of the game, Boone is in the same position I was a moment ago, with two unchallenged offensive men crashing in from both sides. Boone steps up to meet Knox as Tommy and Starter try to recover.

  “Put it on the ground! Put it on the ground!” I yell.

  Knox throws a hip fake, pulling Boone over, and makes a perfect pass to Figg’s feet.

  “Shoot!” I scream.

  Figg is set to strike, but in a beautiful, fluid move he ups the ball for the throw instead.

  “Crap,” Thatcher says behind me.

  “Crap,” I repeat. It’s like Figg doesn’t know who their goalie is, or what he does to people who get caught with their hands on the ball.

  Figg is moving fast, probably smiling in anticipation of scoring the first goal of the match. He closes quickly, sets to throw…and…Gas snatches him off his feet like a ragdoll. Figg would have been better off running into a tree. He’s dazed by the sudden stop, still holding the dangerball as Gas lifts him overhead by the shirt collar and tosses him up field.

  “Ooooooo.” The involuntary groan of spectators spills out at the hollow thud of Figg’s body returning to earth. The ball rolls free and Starter is quick to send it to Tommy for another run on our end of the field. Knox is bent over, sucking air near Gas’s goal, and Figg is laid out, so it’s only me and Thatch defending.

  Tommy brings the ball in fast, forcing me to press him and hope he makes a mistake. He doesn’t. He stutter-steps, pulls me forward with the fake, and crosses the ball to Starter on a straight run for the goal. Starter isn’t holding back. It’s a one-on-one between my cripple goalie and the strongest dangerballer Community has ever seen. Starter sets for a lightning strike, blasting an unstoppable shot to the upper left-hand corner of the goal. I hear it sizzling from where I stand. It’s moving too fast to track, and by the time I turn my head, all that’s left is Thatcher rolling to his feet with the dangerball in his hands.

  “Holy shit!” I yell, running over to congratulate Thatch on the impossible stop. Knox is right behind me, and Figg finally picks himself up. The spectators at the tree-line go berserk, jumping up and down, chanting Thatcher’s name, and pumping their fists.

  Starter walks over and throws his arms around his former teammate. “Man, since when did you become a goalie? Unbelievable take-away. You just snatched the best I got, and that’s no lie, because I never ease up…you know I’d never take it easy on you.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

  “Wonder Will couldn’t even make that play.”

  Thatcher glances at me. “It was a great stop,” I say.

  The former Number Twenty-two smiles and shakes out his fingers as the rest of us get ready for his throw in. Starter moves up beside me as we wait. “You’re an asshole,” he says. “You’d better never give me another shot like that. I’m not holding back just because Thatch is a gimp. I wouldn’t humiliate him like that. You’re responsible for whatever happens.”

  “Don’t lay that bullshit on me. You’re the asshole who took my guys and then decided to blast away at his crippled friend in a ragtag pickup game.” This whole thing is pissing me off. I turn and point at Gas across the field, “And you, cut the shit! This isn’t the Grand-championship! We already won that!”

  7

  Will

  As it turns out, Figg is a real candy-ass, not fit to carry Thatch’s dirty shorts. After Gas tosses him across the field, he folds up, never presenting another challenge or threat to our opponents. Figg scowls a lot, and he pounds the ground with his fist when he gets beat, but that’s only to spin the illusion of being a competitor. It’s tiresome. He has no heart, and we’d do just as well if he’d go sit with his buddies at the tree-line.

  On a rough field, Knox is a good match for Tommy, and I’ve been able to tie up Starter pretty well, but they’re taking a lot of shots—most are sizzling finger-breakers. Thatch has stopped all but two.

  “Woohoo! Holy crap what a save! Great play, keep!” The sidelines erupt in cheers and applause at every save Thatcher makes. Starter can eat it. We’re tied at two on a shitty field in a game that seems more important than it is, and my attitude sucks about the whole thing.

  I wipe the sweat from my eyes with my shirttail. Thatcher waits for me to get ready. I nod. He fakes the ball to me and rolls it out to Figg for a run up the line. It’s a good move and a perfect throw, but when Starter steps up to defend, Figg doesn’t even try. He wheels around and dumps the ball to Thatcher. The unanticipated back pass has way too much pepper, and catching our goalie on his bad side, it skips between the sticks for another point. It’s three-two.

  I don’t have to say a word to that idiot. Thatcher’s fans do it for me. “Who the hell scores on their own team? Figg you’re a dumbass! What kind of bonehead play was that? Way to go, shit-for-brains!”

  Knox drops his hands to his side, Thatcher hobbles after the ball, I shake my head, and Figg kicks at the ground, cursing like he really cares.

  “How about we play to four?” Starter calls.

  “Ah, come on, that was a crap goal,” I complain. “Next point wins.”

  “Fair enough, next point wins, but we take the kick.”

  “No way, it’s ours.”

  “We can always play to four. We’re already giving up the advantage.”

  “Fine.” Thatcher tosses me the ball, and I tap it to midfield.

  “All right, next point wins. Prepare for the thunder,” Starter yells, before signaling his team to huddle.

  I call a meeting in front of our goal as well. I put my hands on my knees and sigh. “Figg, try not to score on us again.”

  “Yeah, asshole.” Knox shoves Figg backwards. Figg glares at him, starts to say something, but sneers, and walks off instead. Our meeting is over. We take our positions and wait for Starter to finish up. He doesn’t take long, and when his team moves to the field, Tommy is on Knox, Starter has moved to center-mid, Boone is in goal, and Gas is playing Figg’s wing.

  “Ah shit,” I mutter.

  “Here comes the thunder,” Starter laughs. “Try not to wet your pants, Figgy!” But Figg may already have.

  “Hold up! Hold up!” I raise my hand and trot over to Figg. He’s a strange shade of pale. “You want me to take him?” Figg swallows hard and nods. “Okay, you’re center-mid.” He moves to my position, I take his, and we’re ready to play.

  “I can’t wait to get this crap over,” I say to Gas.

  “Come on, Will, lighten up. I’ve had a great time. Everybody is having fun, except you and Figg. I don’t know what’s got your britches in such a twist.”

  I look around. Tommy is laughing, talking trash, and Knox is giving it right back with a grin. Thatch is having the best day he’s had in weeks, and Boone is just happy to be part of the game. Starter, well, he stays at full tilt, enjoying himself whether he’s blasting one t
hrough the sticks, or being slung to the ground. Gas is right, this is supposed to be fun, but for some reason it seems hollow, like something is missing. But that’s about to change right now as Starter gets set to kickoff.

  “You know you’re not getting around me,” I say to Gas.

  “You silly, silly boy, you almost make me laugh.”

  “Laugh all you want, you’re never getting by.”

  “Try to tackle me and I’ll fart you into the ground.”

  “Ha, ha, ha! You think you can knock me down with cheese?” Gas tilts his head to one side, looks at me blankly, and waits for me to reconsider the question. “Okay, okay,” I say. “That’s not fair, please, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t use the cheese.”

  “Next point wins!” Starter yells, and pooches the ball to Gas. We both go up for the kick, but there’s no way to out jump Gas side by side, and he comes down with the dangerball palmed in one big hand. He spins around and drives me off my feet with a stiff-arm.

  My teammates are reluctant to close on him as he rumbles over our side of the field. If Thatcher is going to stand a chance, I need to get on Gas in a hurry. I roll to my feet, and catching him from behind, I drive my shoulder into Gas’s back in a futile attempt to knock him off course. I’d have better luck tripping an avalanche as the inevitable Gas romps toward my goal. Knox is on Tommy and Figg is supposed to be helping me, but who knows where that chicken-shit is. I wrap my arms around Gas’s waist and dig my heels into the turf, but he doesn’t even notice as I strain to slow him down.

  “Yeeha! What’s wrong, Will?” Tommy shouts, as everyone watches my pathetic attempt to tackle the big load.

  “Get on him, Figg!” someone yells from the sideline.

  I don’t know what to do. There’s no way to stop Gas. All I’m doing is hugging him from behind, hoping he doesn’t fart me into the dirt. Then it comes to me, I do have one move left. I release my grip, dig my fingers into his hips, and rip Gas’s pants to his ankles.

  There’s a pale, bare-ass flash as I stomp down on the crotch of his britches, pinning them to the ground. Gas trips in his drawers and drops like a fallen tree, fumbling the dangerball forward. Figg sweeps in, but instead of scooping the ball, he boots it way out-of-bounds.