A Whirling Skirmish

I jabbed a penknife into the bicep of the football hero. He won't be throwing with that arm again anytime soon. He smelled of unwashed gorilla genitals. I snuck up behind him while he slouched on the bleacher, gazing up at a cheerleader's underpants which were blue and white striped. When she saw what I had done she screamed, then laughed, then screamed. She yelled that she was going to report me to the coach. I didn't know who the coach was and he didn't know me from anyone. The football hero started to sob and begged me to call the field doctor. I told him I was a Christian Scientist and his injury was due to erroneous thinking. He evidently wasn't familiar with the writings of Mary Baker Eddy. I asked if he had a library card, but he wasn't paying much attention to me at that point. These damn self-absorbed athletes. The field doctor was located and diagnosed something about a severed tendon. I tried to sneak away but two other footballers cornered me. They looked ridiculous in their enormous shoulderpads and small heads. Like ants on steroids. They took turns beating on me with their fatty knuckles, then wiping the blood off on my shirt. When they dropped me to the grass I plunged my penknife into the foot of one of them. He wailed like a little girl lost in a supermarket. The other one punched me hard in the back several times. I think he was aiming for my spine. Their kind are all about punching and shooting. It never occurs to them to cut or stab. Even when he broke two of my fingers to wrest the penknife away, he didn't use my own weapon on me. No sense of irony. I certainly would have bludgeoned him with his football helmet if given the chance.