Killerbowl, page 15
“T.K., I don’t think you ought to be sitting up.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” T.K.’s voice has a stern edge to it, the no-nonsense tone of a leader, a man accustomed to having his bidding accomplished, immediately and without question. “Can you patch me up well enough to go back in there? Yes or no?”
Zack faces a curious dilemma. He may be a doctor, but he’s also a football player. After a brief internal struggle, he subjugates his medical ethics to his athletic desire. “Well, yes. But I don’t recommend…”
“Do it.” T.K. twists around so his injured left side faces Rauscher directly.
“T.K., I won’t be responsible for…’
“Do it!”
From out of his supply cabinet, Zack resignedly fetches two twenty-inch-long steel troughs. Gingerly, he slips T.K.’s drug-deadened arm into first one and then the other so the arm is completely encased in metal. He snaps the two troughs together. He pumps a quantity of crushed foam through a series of plugs positioned in the cast at two-inch intervals. By mouth, he inflates two plastic sacks running the cast’s inside length. The sacks and foam will cushion a fair percentage of the impact T.K.’s arm will undergo. Certainly not all. The cast is meant to afford mediocre protection, nothing more. T.K.’s injuries are bound to be aggravated. Even T.K. has no illusions about that. Finished inflating the sacks, Zack sets about the laborious task of taping the entire contraction immobile to T.K.’s side.
Coach Carrerra returns. “Hey, what’s going on here? T.K., you’re in no condition to…”
“I’m going back in,” T.K. states flatly. “How are the Minutemen doing for numbers?”
Automatically, before he can absorb the full implications of T.K.’s statement, the coach answers. “Orval and Gus have been going wild. The Minutemen only have three actives left. Same as us.”
“Matision?”
“Yes, him, Bumbo Johnson, and their mediman.”
“They still got their bullet?”
“No. They used it to get Clausen.”
“We still got ours?”
Coach Carrerra nods. Filled with reservations as to the wisdom of T.K.’s decision, he makes one last attempt to dissuade him. “Don’t go back in there. I’m your coach. I want to win this one as much as you do, but there comes a time when the only logical thing to do is to hang up your horse. This game is as good as lost. Let’s think about next year, instead. Save yourself for the future. There’s no way you can do us any good out there, T.K.”
“Oh, but there is,” T.K. responds, “more good than you’ll ever know.”
His arm taped securely to his side, T.K. hops off the table. Leaning heavily on Zack for support, T.K. staggers out to the street.
Monday, December 6, 2010
A zealous proponent of the theory that adequate anticipation is the basis of successful manipulation, Pierce Spencer rarely leaves any aspect of his dealings to chance. Every alternative available to him is catalogued, itemized, placed in its proper perspective, chosen or discarded. The survivors are ruminated, modified and polished. When they achieve perfection, when they are clearly incontestable in their infinite superiority, they are doled out to appropriate functionaries, there to be implemented without so much as the slightest alteration.
Today, Spencer has a fair number of such eventualities to untangle, to sort into knot free fibers, to lay out in fine, straight lines in the bin of accomplishment. The SFL’s Divisional Playoffs were held yesterday. Certainly not to Spencer’s surprise, the San Francisco Prospectors and the New England Minutemen emerged as winners and will meet in Killerbowl XXI on New Year’s Day.
Ida Moulay sits across Spencer’s desk from him, transcribing his instructions onto a tiny voice-actuated tape recorder.
“I want XXI given saturation promotion,” he dictates. “Ten second teaser spots during station breaks for starters. Get the art department to design a clever XXI logo. Full-page ads in all the general entertainment newsmags, the specialized journals and the horn sheets. Have our agency prepare three sets of comps for my approval, one for each of those three market segments. Line up pregame specials for showing by all our affiliates. Make at least one of them a vivifyzation. Those always go over well when they deal with football. Get Enge to do something on his program. Not just this week, every week from here on out. Issue the usual public relations releases. Include quotes from Barin, maybe even get one from the President. I’ll leave that to you. And a direct mail piece. I want a mailer to go out to everyone who has punched up at least one replay in the past year. Stress that this is the game of the century. Promise plenty of action, bloodshed, killing, you fill in the words. And a contest. I want a contest. A ‘Pick the Killerbowl Winner’ contest. Run it in two divisions, junior and adult.”
He interrupts his conceptualizing to insert a brief explicatory footnote. “Do you get what I’m striving for, here, Ida? I want XXI to be the number one topic from now until January first. I’ll hold you personally responsible for seeing that it is.” He slips down into his chair, pulls out a lower desk drawer, and props his feet up on it. He draws his finger across his throat and gestures at Ida’s recorder.
Ida snaps a toggle, and the recorder shuts off.
“This game is quite important to me, Ida. So much so that I plan to become personally involved in its outcome. I will be Harv Matision’s control for this one. I want you to take over the Prospectors’ man. Can you handle it?”
“Yes.” She’s filled in as a programming adjuster on numerous prior occasions. She knows the procedures quite well.
“Within the next two weeks, I want you to memorize all the offensive and defensive signals for both teams. Also both teams’ play books. Go through the files. Become familiar with the behavioral patterns of the twenty six starters. Review the tapes of every game both teams have been involved in this season. You’ll only have enough time to skim the highlights, but do so in enough depth to acquaint yourself with obvious nuances, particularly those of Matision and T.K. Mann.” Spencer places both feet on the floor, folds his hands in front of him, and brings his clasped forefingers up to touch his chin. “We’re promising our viewers that XXI is going to be something extra. It’s important to our credibility that we deliver. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.” Ida squirms in her chair. There is one issue Spencer has glossed over. She debates whether or not to bring it up. Spencer does not take kindly to an underling’s discovery of a flaw in his logic. She finally decides its long-term implications far overshadow the possibility of a near-term flurry of verbal abuse. “Mr. Spencer, a question?”
He nods.
“About T.K. Mann. Senator Barin was not successful in dealing with him.”
“Unfortunately true.” Spencer appears to be not at all threatened by it, a good sign.
“Mann is determined to go to the authorities after the Killerbowl.”
Yes.”
He’s so calm, so unruffled, Ida knows full well he has solved the problem, and her anxiety dissolves. “May I ask how you plan to prevent it?”
Spencer grins, actually grins. In all the years she’s worked for him, Ida can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen Pierce Spencer grin. “Quite simple, Ida. Mann won’t go to the authorities because, at an appropriate point during XXI, after we’ve adequately developed the proper degree of suspense, Harv Matision will kill him.”
Friday, December 17, 2010
“We have a special feature tonight,” reveals Timothy Enge, “in the Pro Prognosticator portion of our show. By linking the IBC sports data bank together with the talents of our studio vivifyzationists, we’ve put together a projected thirty minute simulation of Killerbowl XXI.” He holds up a flimsy blue sheet of paper of the type his viewers have come to associate with the arrival of a late breaking flash. “It was only finished moments before air time, I haven’t even seen it myself. Let’s take a look at it together and see who the statistics say is going to win the forthcoming big one.”
As in a regular football broadcast, tiny wink lights flash on and off in the lower left-hand corner of the screen, indicating both the amount of playing time elapsed and the amount remaining. The realistic quality of the presentation is enough to satisfy any but the most puristic of fans. Granted, the background frequently grows hazy and indistinct, but the startlingly accurate renditions of each of the players more than compensate for it.
At two hours into the first quarter, the Minutemen get the game’s first tally.
Early on in the second quarter, the Minutemen score again. Late in that same quarter, Harland Minick is mortally wounded on a short run off center. Shortly thereafter, the Minutemen take possession of the ball, and score again, although not without casualties. Two of their players are red-crossed on the drive to the goal.
The scene shifts forward to the third quarter. Cartoon figures of Harv Matision and T.K. Mann interlock in an epic struggle.
T.K. has the ball, Matision has him down on the ground, is on top of him and within a hair of plunging a knife into his throat.
T.K. has the knife immobilized with one hand while he tries to gain a choke hold with the other. Suddenly, Matision jerks free. His arm plunges downward. He doesn’t get a clean hit, his knife only grazes T.K.’s neck. At the drawing of blood, the referee blows the play dead. T.K. is red-crossed for the remainder of the quarter.
T.K. returns to action at the beginning of the fourth quarter, but in the meantime, the Minutemen have scored again. The two clubs trade the ball back and forth for several hours. Then, with less than thirty minutes left to play, comes the game’s blockbuster.
T.K. Mann has the ball. He’s all alone, within two blocks of the goalyard, and desperately trying to win the Prospectors their first score of the game, when he’s collared by Harv Matision. Matision disdains the use of his bola, which would render Mann totally immobile and end the play immediately. Instead, he presses a long knife assault, an action which derives from his penchant for ending a play only by leaving the ball carrier unconscious, bleeding or dead.
In the struggle between them, T.K. does his best to fend off and neutralize his youthful adversary. T.K. makes too many mistakes, misses too many sure openings, gives Matision too many more in return. Finally, with sixteen minutes left in the game, Matision connects with a perfect straight-in thrust to the base of T.K.’s helmet.
T.K. staggers backwards, yanks his helmet from off of his head, and topples over onto his side, dead, the gold thirteen on the back of his jersey mottled red with his blood.
Harv Matision stands over him, tentatively touches him with his toe, then kicks him once, as hard as he can, in the small of the back.
Fifteen minutes later, the game is over. The Minutemen win it, twenty to nothing.
“Well, that was some prognostication,” remarks a stunned Timothy Enge. “Wrapping it up for you, according to our data bank’s calculations, the Minutemen will win Killerbowl XXI by the astoundingly low score of twenty to nothing, and, in the fourth quarter, Harv Matision will kill T.K. Mann.” Enge takes out the top sheet of paper on his clipboard, studies it for a moment and shakes his head. He wads the paper into a compact ball and drops it to the floor. “What more can I add to a prediction like that except to say, be with us, right here, on New Year’s Day, and find out whether or not it comes true.”
Monday, December 20, 2010
Contrary to the rosy reports published in various newsmags and sporting journals, participating players detest the four week layoff between the end of the regular season and the Killerbowl. They would be much happier if they could get it over and be done with it. During such a break in their seasonal regimen, they have a chance to mend their bodies. They also have a greater opportunity to become flabby, both physically and mentally. Deprived of the weekly toning rigors of a game, players must turn, instead, to cross-country running, isothenics, weight training, and, even worse, daily practice sessions. All of which they find excessively boring, especially when compared to the exhilaration that accompanies participation in a real game. The television network requires time to enhance anticipation, boost viewership. So the players wait, wait and train.
The Prospectors’ weight room has a solid metal floor covered with six inches of absorbent padding. For their exercises, the players wear special pliant crystalline flux magnetic belts strapped to their bodies. At prescribed intervals, trainers make the rounds, adjusting the belts to new levels of magnetic attraction, either up or down, depending on a player’s particular physical needs.
T.K. is on the incline board doing lung presses. He has twenty pounds of force on each wrist, thirty five on each forearm, eighty on either bicep, and an additional fifty five across his chest. This set requires him to do forty eight repetitions, pause for thirty seconds, and begin again, keeping it up until he has done so eighteen times.
He is midway through when he hears a voice behind him. “Mr. Mann,” it says, “Mr. Mann, may I take a moment of your time?” He gazes up into the mirror positioned over his head. There, upside down, looking back at him is Senator Abelman.
“I can’t interrupt my workout,” huffs T.K.
“Quite all right,” says Abelman, coming around to the front of the board so T.K. can see him directly. “What I have to say won’t take long. You can listen to me and continue with your exercises at the same time.”
Seeing no way out, T.K. nods.
“I have some information that will, without a doubt, convince you to change your mind, to immediately speak out publicly against IBC.” He moves in as close to T.K. as he can get, remaining just outside the radius of T.K.’s pumping arms. “I have heard a rumor,” he says conspiratorially, convinced of his new argument’s ultimate persuasiveness. “I’ll be brutally frank and to the point with you. This rumor suggests that you are to be killed in Killerbowl XXI. IBC has it completely arranged.”
While T.K. has already guessed as much, to have it confirmed does, nonetheless, upset his concentration momentarily. Only to the extent that he loses count of his repetitions and has to begin his sequence all over. To an observer, the comment doesn’t appear to have fazed him in the slightest.
Aghast at T.K.’s apparently callous acceptance of so shocking an assertion, Abelman continues with a good deal less presumption. “This abominable act is to insure you will not have the opportunity to come forth after the game. In light of this, I urge you to reconsider your earlier decision. Come forward now.”
Without breaking rhythm, T.K. shakes his head.
Abelman straightens up, shocked disbelief on his face. “I can’t even pretend to understand your logic in this matter, Mr. Mann. Your self-centered view of reality. You’re not immortal. If they say they’re going to kill you, they will.” He moves behind the board so he can, using the overhead mirror, look T.K. directly in the face. “Since there seems to be nothing more I can possibly tell you that might influence you, I’ll take my leave. Goodbye, Mr. Mann. And good luck. I sincerely believe you’ll need it.”
Shoulders sunken, head bowed, Abelman shambles out the door.
In the overhead mirror, T.K. watches him go, honestly sorry for him, for the ridicule he’s undergone, for the sense of utter defeat he must now be feeling. T.K. wishes he could tell him how close, how very close Abelman is to achieving his goal. Not before the Killerbowl, no, but then, not after it, either. During. T.K. plans to do his utmost to see that Senator Abelman has his objectives fulfilled during the Killerbowl, on nationwide television, in full color, before what may well turn out to be the largest audience of all time.
The Economics of Killerbowl XXI
To a large degree, the entire Killerbowl is an IBC subsidization. The network pays team owners, players and sideline patrols directly, and, indirectly, reimburses displacement village operators, officials, street keepers and the whole superstructure of trainers, coaches and statisticians that make up a professional football team. In spite of this huge expenditure, IBC stands to make an after-tax profit of a billion and a half dollars on the live presentation of this game alone. Plus IBC will retain full rights to all game tapes for a twenty-year period. Future showings will foster residual income of at least an equal amount. If considered as one lump sum, all the revenue to eventually be generated by Killerbowl XXI would be more than enough to place IBC well up on this year’s listing of the 500 most profitable companies in the United States.
All this money is seemingly inconsequential to IBC president Spencer. To him, the phenomenal revenues generated by the Killerbowl are purely tangential to the network’s real purpose for broadcasting the event. “Television is an entertainment medium,” says Spencer. “Football is entertainment. I put the two together the best way I know how. Granted, I make money at it, but that’s not my main motivation. I’m more interested in seeing to it that a lot of fine people take some enjoyment from what I’m doing for them.”
If that is his sole criterion for success, he will reach it admirably with Killerbowl XXI, when, according to the latest A. C. Nielsen surveys, fully seven eighths of the entire population of the United States will be tuned to his network.
(Reprinted from Business Review, the issue of Tuesday, December 21, 2010)
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
