Chapter 5: Novel-In-Progress

"You’ve got the heart of a champion!"

Feel like sending a little extra love my way? ↓

Yes, I’ve rescinded the working title I was using for the novel. I don’t like it anymore and I don’t like having titles for works that aren’t yet complete. Sue me.

As Taylor’s teammates got set for the next faceoff that would decide which team got possession of the ball at this critical juncture of the game, he could see quite plainly the palpable anxiety they were all fighting through, down by one point with less than 90 seconds remaining on the game clock.

Some of his teammates seemed to be gripping their sand hurlers just a bit more tightly, while others were doing little restless jigs in place, unable to keep their legs still.

He noticed a conversation taking place between one of his teammates and the opponent lined up next to him, but he was too far to make out what was being exchanged. Judging by body language, though, it was clear that the opposing player was winning the mind game battle, getting under the skin of #19, who was practically shaking with anger or frustration or something else volatile that Taylor surmised could either prove to be the little extra bit of motivation #19 needed to give his team a potential game-tying edge…or push him over the edge toward doing something stupid and costly.

In a few seconds, Taylor imagined, he’d have his answer.

The wind finally settled a bit, the ball was tossed into the air, and the whistle blew.

This time, the wind’s shifting current carried the ball in a direction perpendicular to the field of play, flying directly to the right of the faceoff circle to the spot where #19 and his opponent were standing.

The ball had enough height and velocity to sail over their heads, triggering a footrace between the two. Whether by natural quickness or the sheer determination Taylor was hoping to see, #19 soon overtook his opponent and seemed poised to secure possession of the ball, but just as he was closing in on the coveted object, the wind reversed course, sending the ball back to the opposing player, who, evidently sensing the shift just before it occurred, was now standing still with a smug smile, waiting patiently for the ball to fall right where he wanted it.

Visibly frustrated, #19 kicked hard into the sand, dislodging a sizeable chunk of it that was now getting carried away by the wind, keeping pace with the ball, which was just about to reach the opposing player’s outstretched sand hurler.

But the volley of sand particles reached him just a half-second sooner than the ball, smacking him right in his visor-shielded face, occluding his view enough for him to lose sight of, and be struck in the midsection by the game ball.

Taylor let out a cheer, realizing that the kicking of sand was not just a reflexive act of frustration, but a calculated defensive move by his teammate, who was now pouncing on the ball, snatching it from his stunned opponent.

Then the whistle blew.

“Sandblasting! Blue—number 19, sixty seconds, non-releasable!”

#19 knelt down, hands on his head, recognizing the folly of his actions. He’d been bested by his opponent after all.

Taylor, still trying to process what had just happened, looked around in confusion at the handful of teammates who were glaring with mild disgust at him.

He groaned inwardly, realizing that he had just cheered for a penalty that could very well end up being the final nail in the coffin of impending defeat for his team.

He glanced at the clock on his visor’s internal display.

1:08 left in the game.

Taylor’s team would be playing at a one-man disadvantage for practically the remainder of the game…and they’d have to somehow find a way to score a point in that scarce amount of time.

To make matters worse, it had just become clear that sandblasting was a penalty that also resulted in the victimized team winning automatic possession of the ball. The only sliver of a silver lining to be found was that the infraction was committed near center field, so that the yellow team would still have to fight their way down a substantial amount of game field. Taylor could only hope that his teammates had enough morale and discipline left to defend appropriately and win back the ball.

A bit of luck from the wind wouldn’t hurt either.

The whistle blew, and play resumed.

The yellow team was in no rush. All they had to do was play keep-away long enough for the game clock to run out. Their players fanned out, causing the blue players to do the same, widening the gaps between players. With a one-man advantage, all the yellow team had to do was keep passing the ball to the one yellow player that was left unguarded. Once he received the ball, a blue player would leave his post to challenge the new ball carrier, but in so doing he’d end up leaving new player unguarded, setting up an easy pass for the ball carrier.

It went on like this for 5 seconds…10…15…20... Taylor narrowed his eyes, wincing and wondering how his team would solve this problem. He looked over to the coach, motionless as ever, marveling at the level of trust he had in his players to figure things out for themselves rather than barking out some kind of command for a new strategy.

The yellow player who currently held the ball was just about to throw another pass, only to hesitate for a moment and decide to hold onto it instead. The wind had shifted, blowing strongly in the direction of the yellow team’s goal, making it unwise to release the ball into the air.

The blue team, methodically patient up to this point, recognized the opportunity they had been waiting for.

Knowing the current ball carrier wouldn’t be passing the ball for at least a few seconds, the three nearest blue players—Jackson, Pat, and one more he didn’t know by name—all burst into a mad dash toward this single opposing player, leaving their other opponents totally unguarded.

The yellow player reacted in turn, sprinting toward their teammate to help bail him out with a more manageable pass, but they were at a critical disadvantage, with the blue players already having opened a sizeable gap of distance between them.

The yellow player with the ball didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it. Instinctively, he turned and ran from his pursuers, trying to burn some more time off the clock before he was inevitably stripped of the ball.

But that decision quickly backfired.

The blue players had a jump-start on accelerating, enough to surpass the ball carrier in speed. Two of the three pursuing players, and the one who had initially been hounding the ball carrier, encircled and assailed him, looking to dislodge the ball surgically, without committing any more penalties.

“Get back! Get back!” the yellow team’s coach started shouting.

The other yellow players had caught up by now, but stopped by the dogpile, still trying to back up their teammate. None of them had thought to turn their attention to the fourth blue player, #23, who was now sprinting past the action, heading uncovered upfield toward the yellow team’s post and postkeeper.

Both sides had laid down their chips, each taking a calculated gamble on how things would play out. The yellow team was hoping that, with enough support on the ball, they had a good enough chance of retaining possession of the ball long enough for the open streaking blue player to not be an issue.

The blue team, meanwhile, was hoping that they could win possession quickly enough to get a pass off to their sprinting teammate before the now-favorable, but mercurial wind took a new turn.

For an agonizing few seconds, Taylor completely lost sight of the ball amidst the chaos. His coach was crouching down, trying to get a better look from a lower vantage point, and suddenly made an emphatic fist-pumping motion.

Taylor looked back at the scrum and saw that the ball was indeed now in the pocket of his teammate’s sand hurler—Pat, it seemed.

But they weren’t out of the woods yet. Three yellow players converged on Pat as he faked a pass upfield, only to then slyly fling the ball over to Jackson, who received the handoff with ease. Pat took a beating from the three opposing players, but bought Jackson enough time to make a more controlled pass that found its intended target, just as the wind was beginning to shift.

All eyes were now on #23 and the yellow postkeeper.

0:26…0:25…0:24.

The wind was starting to blow to Taylor’s left, as he looked on along with everyone else.

#23 was getting close to the postkeeper, though at such a distance, Taylor found it difficult to see just how close he was. He squinted his eyes, willing them to see just a bit more sharply.

#23 quickly cut to his left, forcing the postkeeper to move in the same direction, taking a slight step forward to cut off the angle of the anticipated shot.

Just then, #23 quickly shifted his hips, so that his feet were pointing to the right, almost perpendicular to the post, and let the ball go along that same trajectory.

Taylor lean forward, slumping his head into his hands, fearing that his teammate had just wildly missed his shot by a mile.

But the wind was still picking up speed, and the genius of #23’s shot soon became apparent. The ball, initially veering far right, at a near-90-degree degree angle to the post, curved sharply with the wind, heading back to the left, hitting the backside of the post on a spot that was simply indefensible to the postkeeper.

There it was—the tying score. 6-6 with just 0:19 to spare. The blue team had pulled off a miraculous comeback with their backs firmly against the wall.

Shouts of jubilation issued forth from the blue players, with the coach joining in.

“Helluva play, boys, helluva play!”

Both teams were now huddled up on the field, the one side celebrating their hard-fought comeback, and the other side all business, trying to reestablish their composure and talk strategy. They, after all, still had…what was it? 11 seconds left on the blue team’s penalty. From what he’d seen so far, it was definitely enough time to get a quick score. He hoped his teammates recognized that, as well, somewhere beyond their well-deserved feelings of triumph.

The yellow teammates were all set at center field, patiently waiting for their counterparts who were taking their time sauntering over, still intoxicated with bliss.

“Hey! C’mon now, hustle, let’s go. Lock in. Let’s finish this off!” Taylor’s coach evidently shared his same concern, trying to remind his crew to stay focused. “A lot of game left. Let’s go into overtime the right way.”

Overtime? Shit, how much time is that? Taylor shot a look of annoyance at his coach, who quickly averted his gaze, sheepishly scratching the back of his head and shrugging his shoulders. He’d signed up for two minutes and forty-six seconds. No more. And as invested as he’d become in the outcome of the game, he was dreading the prospect of having to keep bearing this responsibility for which he was painfully unsuited for even a second longer than the 2:46 he’d been promised.

Taylor shook his head and tried to refocus himself. Everyone was now settled in their proper place, waiting for the referee to tip off the ball and initiate the last stretch of regular time in the game.

The yellow player standing closest to the ref turned and gave quick nods to the two teammates nearest to him, positioned on either side. They nodded back in recognition of some shared plan, with a pervading sense of confidence that made Taylor uneasy, especially as it stood in stark contrast to the lukewarm body language of his teammates, who were understandably exhausted at this point.

The ball was released, the whistle blew, and the yellow team sprang into action.

The yellow player in the center leapt high into the air and swung at the ball before it could drift away in the wind, dexterously batting the ball forward, using the solid shaft of his stick hurler. Both of his flanking teammates were already sprinting forward, leaving their opposing pair of blue players in the dust.

It was a clever surprise attack, with the yellow team clearly recognizing the sluggishness of their opponents.

Two yellow players, along with the ball, were heading upfield toward Taylor and the post he was charged with guarding.

Two yellow players, smartly spaced out, with the centered player still trailing them. They had the other three cardinal directions covered to account for whichever direction the wind would choose to make as its first move. Nothing left to chance. The yellow team had set itself up for the perfect coordinated strike, with plenty of time for one last crack at a shot that could break the tie and win the game for them before it went into overtime.

And Taylor’s teammates were futilely left scrambling behind.

Fuck.

It was all on him now. One last play. 15 seconds. No support. Only he could keep the game tied long enough to give his team a chance to still win in overtime.

There would be no friendly blue player to block the shot this time. Other than that, he had only really faced one shot so far in the game, and it didn’t go so well. Somehow, he’d have to stand pat and try to actually make a save.

Taylor could practically feel the sense of hopelessness oozing out of his teammates, who undoubtedly expected him to fail spectacularly once more.

But he also felt a wave of determination begin to wash over him.

He could’ve simply let the yellow team score so as to avoid the game from prolonging into overtime, but a combination of personal pride and collective responsibility propelled him into a state of heightened awareness, in the midst of which he began to notice something subtle, almost imperceptible.

13 seconds.

The wind was still blowing favorably for the yellow team, nearly straight at Taylor’s post, just barely 15 degrees or so to his right.

The three yellow players were still in a triangle formation. It would be easy for the one carrying the ball to draw Taylor to one side and quickly pass it over to one of his teammates to easily hit the post from the opposite angle.

He could feel the wind blowing through his shirt, his pants; he could feel the sand gently striking at the exposed sliver of his neck. Still head-on, right into his visor-covered face. Mostly.

12 seconds.

Mostly head-on. But still…

He took a step forward as the yellow player carrying the ball drew closer.

Time slowed, and he could almost feel every grain of sand individually. Most of them were hitting the front of his neck. But here and there he’d feel—or was it just his imagination?

11 seconds.

The ball carrier raised his sand hurler, causing Taylor to flinch, despite the fact that his instincts were correct in assuming it was just a fake shot preceding a pass. Seeing the ball change hands while he was stuck frozen in place, leaving a good 70% of the left side of his post exposed, Taylor decided his only option was to follow his instincts, however unfounded they might be.

He curled around the right side of his post, running away and behind the post.

“No, dammit, not again!” Taylor’s nearest teammate shouted.

Taylor ignored the desperate plea.

Yes, I’m sure of it now! Taylor thought, focusing his attention on the sand hitting his neck. He also recognized how insane—or perhaps just cowardly—he must have appeared at that moment, sprinting Northeast away from the post as the ball, now midflight, was heading right toward the post in the Northwest direction.

“Hoooly shit,” Taylor faintly heard coming from the direction of his coach, who was evidently the first to realize what was actually happening.

It wasn’t just his imagination. He had, by some feat of superhuman proprioception, felt a few stray grains of sand tickling the right side of his neck.

The ball curved just before it could graze the post, and was now being carried by the wind to the same spot toward which Taylor was lumbering with all the athleticism of a geriatric turtle.

But his lack of speed didn’t matter. He’d reacted quickly enough so that nobody else could hope to catch up to the ball.

“Release!” the referee shouted, signaling the end of the blue team’s penalty.

8 seconds. Okay. This could work.

Taylor missed the ball in the air with his sand hurler but managed to scoop up the ball from the sand shortly after.

He looked up and saw three yellow players racing toward him, with no friendly blue players to slow them down.

He desperately heaved the ball forward, high up into the air, before being knocked hard onto his back by his pursuers.

Too dazed to get back up, all he could do was watch the numbers tick down.

6 seconds…5…4…

In the midst of the confusion resulting from an absolute bunt of a shot missing its intended target, nobody seemed to register the expiration of the penalty, save for the referee, Taylor, and #19, who, having had the luxury of watching everything from the comfort of the penalty pit, recognized the opportunity he had to run down the field toward the yellow post without any hindrance.

“Shit!” he heard the yellow team’s coach exclaim.

3…2…

Thunk.

Unpracticed and athletically deficient as he was, Taylor somehow found his intended target, who finished off the play, putting the blue team ahead by a point with a fraction of a second left on the clock.

Continuing to lay there, Taylor closed his eyes, breathing heavily, listening to the final flurries of noise: the thunk, the ensuing round of cheers, the colorful profanity from his coach, the stretch of silence leading up to the perfunctory post-goal faceoff, capped off by two whistles in quick succession—signaling the resumption of play, then the expiration of the game clock.

Taylor’s team’s victory was sealed, and his role in this circus was, thankfully, over.

“Whoa!” he squeaked out, surprised by the stampede of teammates who had come to scoop him up and carry him on their shoulders.

“Stu.”

“What?” Taylor turned and craned his head down, seeing #19 among the throng of players supporting his weight.

“Stu. My name’s Stu. I was wrong about you, man. That play at the end was world class.”

“Well, I—”

“You crazy son of a bitch!” Taylor’s helmet was violently ripped off his head, leaving his freshly exposed eyes to meet the familiar visage of his coach, who just couldn’t wait to express his excitement. “You read that windshift perfectly! How the hell’d you do that? I could kiss you if I wasn’t already on thin ice with HR!”

“Uhh… thank you?”

“No, thank you! You’ve got the heart of a champion! I knew I made the right call throwing you in there!”

“If I recall correctly, it wasn’t exactly a matter of choice.”

“Eh, potato, potahto. All that matters is that we owe a big piece of this to you.”

The coach held up something shiny in front of his face—a trophy, he understood, as his vision came back into focus.

“Here! Take it! Feel it! This is what victory feels like, boys!”

Still held aloft by his teammates, Taylor gripped onto the slick hunk of metal that was shoved into his hands and, as he inspected it more closely, he nearly tumbled over in disbelief when his eyes met the inscription at the base of the trophy.

“Phase Testing Champions - Sandball Division I.”

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