On Winning the League without Me

Hey Purple,

Way to go. I see that my absence inspired you. I can picture the
scene. Wolfe standing with the sunset at his back, tears welling up
in his eyes as he breaks the news.

"Scotty can't be with us tonight."

Gasps and shocked expressions ripple through the tight, purple-clad
group. "God, no. Not that. Anything but that. What will we do?"

Silence falls across the park. Even the crowd seems silent, almost as if the thousands of spectators have simply vanished, leaving only the purple alone on the field.

"One of us has fallen, a good man. A lousy player, but a good man," Wolfe sobs.

"Hear, hear!" a voice pips up. Tommy, maybe. Or Steph. Lane, too broken up to say anything.

Wolfe pulls himself together. "But we must be strong. We must because there is no other option, no other way to honor the memory of that noble but deeply flawed man."

Lips stiffen, chins rise. They struggle for composure.

"Go out there, team. Step forth on that vast green (brown, sandy, whatever) pitch and do Scotty proud. Play with the fire and with the grace young Scotty brought to every game, at least for the ten minutes before he got tired. Tonight, I want you to duck every head ball, kick any ball near you across the touch line, and should any of you come near scoring, should any of you find yourselves in the box, ball at your feet, unmarked by man or beast, I want you to botch it. Botch it beautifully. Botch it spectacularly. But botch it boys, botch it like Scotty would have."

And inside that eerie halogen glow, 22 feet stepped out into glory.