Stirland Rejects
Retired!
Description
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| Bulletin board from the coach |
| July 20th, 2016 - old news |
The storm breaks The storm had risen up like a leviathan, scarcely noticeable over the crunch and crash of training. Suddenly it was so close and so strong that the earth itself seemed to be shaking and a great darkness overcame me, as if the sun itself had been blocked by vast titans. I turned to face the approaching tempest, and saw instead that I had been right – they were vast titans, and they were the stars of the team. A trio of mummies, glad in the ragged green and yellow sported by each member of the skeletons, they were bandage-clad Goliaths. And suddenly, despite the long shadow I stood in my day got a little brighter.
The mummies could speak, in voices that were as old as stone, as cold as death and heavy with the weight of timeless aeons. They apologised, admitting they weren't the fastest movers and hoped they hadn't missed too much of training. They introduced their team mates and the at last I knew the team name “The Stirland Rejects”. They explained that they had been rejected by their birthplace, by Death and even by Nuffle himself. Nevertheless they would keep on playing, looking to win and looking to honour themselves.
I'm starting to like these dogs – they've got heart. Well, actually, no. But you know what I mean. |
| - jammydodger |
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| July 20th, 2016 - old news |
The team They were skeletons. Actual skeletons. Dead bodies; browned, mouldering bones, animated by some incomprehensible desire to get back on the pitch. Most players I know would be glad to have escaped with their lives. Maybe that was the problem – in death they sought revenge.
In their defence they were the quietest, least obstreperous team I have ever put through the grinder. Apart from the creak of ancient bone, the occasional rattle as one fell apart and the moans that seemed the range of their vocal ability the training was silent.
If it had been been for the fact that they were slow, clumsy and had a tendency to fall apart whilst blocking I would have been happy to coach them. As it was... I could barely force myself to put them through the next drill.
It seemed like they felt the same – halfway through the drill they stopped. All of them. Simultaneously. Even the two armoured players who I had marked out as the sparse talent on the team. Then, with their blank, empty eyeholes more terrible than they aught to be they turned towards me and began an eldritch hissing. It is a sound I had never heard before and it counter-pointed with the sudden crash and rumble of thunder. Were they afraid of rain? As if the weather was the worst of their problems! |
| - jammydodger |
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| July 20th, 2016 - old news |
The night before It started, as many such stories do, in a tavern. It wasn't a dark and brooding night, for if it had been I would have been on my guard. Instead it was a balmy evening just before the summer solstice – surely that should have been a good omen!
I had managed, by oversight, to misplace a team of raging Norse valkyries. It was quite an oversight, they were loud, angry and tended to be the centre of attention. Certainly not the highlight of my coaching career, I am willing to admit. So it was that I found myself, penniless, alone and drowning my sorrows in a nameless tavern, when I was approached by a shaven-headed man, smelling faintly of cheese.
I recognised him as a fellow coach in short order; the thousand-yard-stare, the lucky amulets and trinkets, the nervous tics in the presence of loud noises and muscular crowds. He mentioned, once we had introduced ourselves, a local team in search of direction, guidance, and a coach. If he had been any less generous with ale, mead, beer and pilsner I might have noticed the warn words; “potential”, “driven”, “long history” and “crowd pleasers". As it was, it was only the next day, when I finally met the team; hungover, dishevelled and certainly the worse for wear that they came hammering back. |
| - jammydodger |
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Notes
Retired 2020-09-01 /Anders
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