Miles Burke was ready to roll. His home team, the Tigers, were facing off against their greatest foe and deepest abhorrence: The Puppy Dogs.
Albeit their cute-sounding name, the Puppy Dogs consisted of 54 6'5" and taller players with the league's best coach and a killer training regimen.
Lucky for him, Miles was 8'6" and full of muscle. As he tackled, punched, and kicked every puppy that came his way, he quickly became the apex of the field, bumping every man who came his way.
As the players rolled around, though, he quickly began to realize: Most of his team was missing.
And even as the star player, Miles knew: he needed his men, his compadres, his locker room brothers, to fight alongside him.
He quickly came to a decision. "Coach! Coach!" He yelled, his voice full with maximum machismo.
As the coach heard his broad voice, he called a timeout. Anything for the star player.
The remaining Tigers quickly reached in for the team huddle inside the locker room.
"Coach, we're down on men!" One of the Tigers, the ever-downcast man, Sam, cried out, reminiscence of their plight being upon his very soul.
"Evermore is it so, Sam, evermore is it so." The coach was also a puddle of misery. He knew it, the team knew it, but still they had made it all the way to the National Finals for All High Schools Ever.
"Never fear, we can implement Tiger Elite Command Plan Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start." Benny Tingler, the man with a plan, the greatest brains behind the brawns, the skinny-no-good-mongrel of mind and might voiced his ethereal praise aloud.
"Run the command!!" Jimmy, the hawk-eyed backup quarterback uttered, his voice trembling with righteous fury.
"Run the command!!" Timmy , the flat-nosed halfback with a heart of gold bared his voice, accumulating a tremor with each wave of remorse and fire.
"RUN THE COMMAND!!" The team began to shout. Each Tiger, a force to be reckoned with. Each Tiger, a Flame of Conquerance.
As they came to the field, they continued to chant. As they chanted, the overwhelming force of their fans continued behind them.
"Blue-42!" A slow hum ran through the stadium. "Up. Up." The hum grew in vigor.
"Down. Down." The hum grew further. The Tiger fans knew, and started laying their voices over the hum. A primeval chorus of voices rose over the sunlit stadium.
"Left. Right." The voices grew louder and the stadium began to shake. Glass shattered.
"Left. Right." Even the sun sang of the fearless warriors and their courage.
"B! A! Staaaaaaaaaart!" Miles received the ball from Jimmy as the entire team ran backwards and out-of-bounds screaming their heads off like headless chickens.
As Jimmy and the crew got to safety, all eyes turned to Miles. Stamping his feet like an enraged bull, he rushed forward... only to be met by 'Les Pièce de Résistance.'
But he rammed on through! A bullet train, ransacking the very knees of every able-bodied dog. Puppies be damned, these suckers were going down.
"TOUCHDOWN!" The crowd cheered. Throwing the halo-encrusted prolate spheroid towards the very ground that sanctified his win, Miles did a dirty dance.
"Let's go!" He yelled at the Puppy lying exasperated on the ground next to him. The puppy lifted his arm up as if to reach him. But even in that, it failed. He was untouchable!
"Positions!" He yelled at his teammates. "You have our firm deliverance!" They shouted in reply.
Receiving the ball from the ex-waterboy, Quizinsky, he offered a shout in glee. "Get ready..."
The men, his men, his beautiful team, ran to the sides, leaving him wide open. "TO HELL WITH YOU!" He shouted in pure vigor and exuberance as his spittle flew towards the enemy. Taken aback by the wind in his glorious golden mane, and the fervor on his breath, they were unready for what was about to come next.
After bucking and throwing them every which way, a full 10 men had various field-denying injuries. Miles Burke had made it to the end zone. Alone. Twice.
As they looked on with pain and hate-filled irises, their lack of bravado became clear. As they were carted off the field, payback had been won for Miles' teammates.
The opposing coach, Belfasias, was trying to convince the referee to call a flag; however, with pure strength, Miles, had won; his technique was unflawed.
As the time came, Miles punted. The ball landed perfectly in the 5-yard zone. A skinny runner picked the ball up. As he looked across the field, he immediately peed his pants.
A veritable monster was coming after him, and that monster's name was Miles.
Not losing his stare for a single second, Miles teared through one Defender. Miles teared through a second defender. A third, a fourth.
Meanwhile, the ball carrier was paralyzed. His teammates tried to take the ball. But it was no use. His grip was iron-tight.
They left one man to clear his head. Meanwhile, the rest tried to stop Miles. Emphasis on 'tried.'
He ran through them like hot butter on a baby's bottom whilst a wet, near-imperceptible fart had recently cleared the area, tightening the skin, making the total area slightly smaller- thus making the entire effort even faster.
There were only 5 men remaining between them. Quickly, Nan, the son of none, tried to assert wakefulness in the man beside him- Quidden, the unluckiest soul of a thousand dimensions- the one holding the ball.
As Nan shook his arms, Quidden finally woke up. He took his first step towards greatness.... But it was too late. Miles appeared.
Like a mad slaughterer in a henhouse of flying eels, Quidden shook as the blood within the veins of his brain coagulated and began to run thick, and he fainted right as his nose began to bleed.
But what came first? The fainting or the nosebleed? Although the most prominent among scholars and historians alike claim their beliefs: to this day, no man upon the earth has knowledge. For they were indeed, near-simultaneous in nature.
As comes with much ado, Miles lowered himself towards the ground to pick up the prettiest of things. A ball. A football. There was none like it. Not two, just one.
Miles turned as a low, vibrating hiss escaped his lips. The puppy dogs looked on in terror. Miles put one fit on the ground. Stamping it like an Elder Dragon, he dipped his toes the full length of his forefinger into the dirt.
Never had a man been so feared... and so loved.
As he stampeded the men who were yet already lying akimbo, the music on the loudspeakers rang loud. Upbeat. Somewhat peppy, yet still manly. It was crazy. I still do not yet understand it. I might be too tired. Then again, it was the night beyond dreams.
Every molecule that made up the dreams held within our hearts that day contained a dream within itself. Dreams beyond the nature of counting... itself.
As he mercilessly crushed his enemies with firm vigor, the nearby flower lilies blossomed. It was beautiful.
As he passed the touchdown line yet again, the crowd cheered. The coach called his broken players off the field, and they were quickly replaced by other men.
As the Tigers began to play yet again, Miles was ready to throw down. His arms held tight behind him, he waited for the ball to be put in his hands. "Hut!" The goodman Jimmy handed him the ball before taking off like a slippery, snikkety snake king.
As the men in front of him attempted. though knowingly futilely, to take him down: Miles side slapped the front man's chest. SLAM! Down he was, a sight to see. The men next to him cringed
Miles shot forward, his left hand with a tight hold on the ball. His left leg charging, no... tripping?!?! No, wait-!
Another puppy dog fell into the kennel, his love long lost. His eyes darkened, hoping for mere humanity.
But this was Miles, the King of the American Foot Balls!
Taking a step back, they played again. Touchdown! Three points.
In a festive mood, he celebrated once more. In turn, the sad, sorry puppydogs added their new replacements. Miles stared them down like a voraciously rabid raptor.
One of them, he noticed, was not wearing anything. Not to say he had no helmet. No, the helmet was there, but there was no face. It was a personless player? A lack of humanity? A playerless tackler? A Driverless Truck?
'Oh sheet!' He thought, his mind refusing to curse albeit his penchant desires. 'Not today, mother trucker! You're not gonna catch me!'
Miles took his ready stance, which was surprisingly similar to eastern kung fu. Some say that that day, in that very moment, 'his breath had the effervescance of an aurora, and the air around his lips contained the mysteries of aetherial wisdom, oh, but the touch of the air graced upon his cheeks.'
He looked down at Freddy Fingerman. Freddy, the guileless curveball, always aimed and ready to make the lips of a fellow Tiger curve in anticipation for his outrageous personal charms.
Within his fingers, he held the Football of Wisdom.
Miles' feet kissed the edges of the ball. It flew on wings of wind. High up into the metaphysical sky, it reigned for nearly 600 yards above the Earth.
But unfortunately, all things must come to an end. As the ball came went up, Miles trucked his powerless victims.
As the ball came down, Miles continued to truck his talentless enemies.
They fell, each one to his own. Eventually, there was one. One Tiger, one Puppy. One versus One. One Mad Tractor. One Driverless Truck.
Quickly, the events played out. The Puppy caught the ball. The puppy stuck a leg forward against the ground to gain momentum. The puppy dog fell to a double hammer fist against the stomach and heart, with the lower fist suffering a second "doubled" hit to the lower regions.
They both fell down into the end zone, Miles on top. Fumble. Miles has the ball! Tigers Score AGAIN!!!
The game was tied. The Tigers had scored an unbelievable comeback.
The game continued with the same strategy. A muscly, 8'6" monstrosity bowled through the poor puppydogs like pinwheels at a slaughterhouse. Laughing madly, he broke through their ranks and ran... directly towards the rear defenders?
Smashing through them too, the puppydogs' eyes left tears streaked with various thread of emotion. For yes, even emotion bleeds red.
But enough was enough, they said. As more and more puppy dogs left the field, more and more of the headless puppies joined the field. Their aim? To truck the one. the one and only, the only ever Miles Bartholomew Mattithimas Barger Curls Brookland Burke the Third. Mmmh!
Miles ran forward to face his fate. It would not, could not, shackle HIM!
He ran forward, trucking every opponent that came his way. But there were too many, and even such a man began to falter.
For even such a man, a LEGEND, the stuff of dreams, hair, muscles, and curliness; even such a man can lie cold on the ground, knocked out by his own mortality.
As yet another truck swooped in, Miles was laid low. He fell, never to stand again. This is his story.