Page 91 of I Am the Messenger

The crowd's getting restless.

"Right, get in here," says Merv.

That's right, I said Merv, not Marv--I've named the fat guy with the mustache Merv because I have no confidence at all that his name is in fact Henry. I think his mates call him Merv, anyway, on account of the mustache.

Everyone gathers in nice and close, and here's where we all get pumped up for the game. It's a collection of nasty underarm sweat, beer breath, missing teeth, and three-day growth.

"Right," says Merv, "when we get out there, what are we going to do?"

No one says anything.

"Well?"

"I don't know," someone finally says.

"We're going to smash these pricks!" shouts Merv, and now there's a rumble of agreement, except for Ritchie, who yawns. A few of the others shout as well now, but it's hardly a wall of sound. They swear and snort and talk of everything short of disemboweling the Falcons.

These are grown men, I think. We never grow up.

The ref blows his whistle. As always, it's Reggie La Motta, who is very popular in town for being a complete drunk. The only reason he refs the game is that he gets two free bottles of spirits we all chip in for. One from each side.

"All right, let's kill these blokes" is the general consensus, and the side runs on.

Quickly, I head back to the tree where I left the Doorman. He's asleep and a small boy's patting him.

"You want to look after my dog?" I ask.

"Sounds good," he replies. "My name's Jay."

"He's the Doorman," and I run onto the field and join the lineup.

"Now listen up, fellas," begins Reggie. His voice is slurred. The game hasn't even begun and the ref's already pissed. It's quite funny, actually. "If there's any of that same shit as last year, I'm walking away and you can ref yourselves."

"You won't get your two bottles then, Reg," someone says.

"Bullshit I won't." Reggie sharpens. "Now, no rubbish, you hear?"

Everyone goes along with it.

"Thanks, Reggie."

"Right, Reg."

Everyone moves forward and we shake hands. I shake with my opposite number, who towers over me and puts me in the shade. I was right. He's a man all right, but a dead ringer for Mimi from Drew Carey.

"Good luck," I say.

"Give me a few minutes," Mimi answers throatily. Some heavy eye makeup would really do the trick. "I'm going to tear you to pieces."

Let the games begin.

The Falcons kick off, and soon enough I get my first run.

I get killed.

Then I have another run.

I get killed again, and I also receive the trash talk in my ear as big Mimi squashes my head into the ground. This is what the Sledge Game is all about. The crowd is constantly oohing and aahing, screaming obscenities, and cracking up--all between drinking beer and wine and eating pies and hot dogs from the same guy who shows up every year to sel