"The Stupor Bowl"
by Mike Cote
All  TINY TOON ADVENTURES character names, and all related
indicia are Copyright 1997 by Warner Bros. Inc., a Time Warner
Company, used without permission.  Sue me.  I dare ya'.
On with the story...

     He had a head the size of a hot-air baloon.
     Why?  That's what the media had been trying to figure out.
     The polls had come out.  The team's name didn't even make the list. 
Not the top 25 list, certainly.  Heck, they hadn't even made the
"Schools With Football Programs" list.
     They'd won a big game the year before.  No one could deny them
that.  They pulled off one of the biggest upsets in interscholastic
history, beating their archrivals 19-18.  But, aside from that, they'd
been blown out of the water every other time they stepped out onto the
field.
     "We're winning the national championship this year!!!"  That was
the headlined quote in every sports section of every newspaper and
magazine in the country that had a sports writer on staff, and most of
them that didn't.
     And no one could stop talking about Buster Bunny's prediction.  He
was called foolish, a dreamer, someone who needed to pull his head out
of a place it really shouldn't be.  And then there were the things people
BESIDES his teammates were saying about him; things that really
shouldn't be quoted within the context of this report.
     It was hard to imagine the Acme Toonsters had a chance at the
national championship, but Buster Bunny, star quarterback, believed it. 
Not only did he believe it, he lived and breathed it.  During the off-
season, Buster was in the weight room every waking moment.  With his
personal training assistant, Buster not only improved his bench press,
but his German accent as well.  (He also developed a fondness for
veggie bratwurst, of all things.)
     Buster stopped walking to his classes at Acme Loo.  Everywhere he
went, he was sprinting, he was jogging... either that or he was stooped
over with his hands on his knees wheezing like a lifelong chain-smoker
living! in an iron lung.  But his attitude steadfastly remained "no pain,
no gain."
     The summer passed, and everyday Buster geared up his body.  He
knew it would be no picnic to win the national championship, but if you
wanted something bad enough, you do whatever it takes to get it. 
Buster was going to do whatever it took.
     His main problem, he discovered as the ides of August fell upon
Acme Acres and football practice was about to start, was that he
seemed to be the only one on the team who had been working out
during the spring and summer.  Not working hard, mind you, he'd been
the only one doing ANYTHING to prepare for the football season.
     Buster discovered this at the first team meeting, the day before the
grueling practices were to start.  Buster, through working out and
exercising had never felt better, stronger or faster.  No one else on the
team, in Buster's eyes, had ever looked worse, weaker, or slower.
     "What have you guys been DOING all summer?!" was the first thing
Buster asked as he stepped into the Looniversity team room. 
     "Taking the summer OFF," replied the team in a single voice.
     "That's what summers are FOR," added Plucky.  "We all needed
some time off after last semester!  Wow, lemme tell ya', my last
semester was grueling!  It was madness!  It was, it was a
NIGHTMARE!!!"
     Any good feelings Buster had had about the season were quickly
wearing away.  He curled his top lip in frustration.  "You only took one
class last semester, Plucky," he mumbled.
     "Yeah, but it was a TOUGH class!"
     "Principles of GOLF MANAGEMENT?!" Buster asked, obviously
growing weary of his star wide receiver.
     "Hey, see if you like having to wear WHITE PANTS to every class
meeting!"  Satisfied that he had made his point, Plucky plunked back
down on the bench and crossed his arms noisily.
     Trying to put the initial unpleasantry of the meeting behind him,
Buster stood up in front of his teammates.  "Men," he began, "I know
what I said a couple of months ago.  And I meant it!  I think if we work
hard, if we play hard, and we want it bad enough, at the end of the
season we can be number one!"
     Plucky interjected.  "Yeah, right.  We play like number TWO!"
     Ugh.  This was going to be a tougher sell than Buster though.  He
wasn't going to let one nay-sayer ruin his spirit, though.  Buster held his
head up high and pounded his right fist smack into his left hand.  "I say
we can be the National Champions!  We're going all the way!"
     "Whatever," a loud, deadpan voice answered him.
     Buster whipped out the clipboard and a pencil.  "Okay, let's get the
stats on you guys.  Hamton, you first."
     The pig was standing amid a crowd of players, who parted like the
Red Sea as his name was announced.   Everyone grew quiet and stared
at the pig, whose cheeks started to turn a bright crimson hue.  "Um,
could someone else go first?"
     "Come on, Hammy, shake your bacon," Buster told him.  "You're
first on the list and we have a lot of people to go.  Buster motioned
with his pencil toward the corner of the locker room where the trainer's
area was.  "Go jump on the scale."
     Resigned to his fate, Hamton dropped his head like it was tied to a
cement block and shuffled his way pathetically to the scale.  "If only I
hadn't had the extra piece of chocolate cake for lunch today," he
mumbled to himself.
     The scale was an upright one, the like of which you could find in
any doctor's examination room.  Hammy stepped on the big black
footpad, and an audible *CLUNK* could be heard, signifying a massive
imbalance.
     Buster started fooling around with the sliding weight balances at the
top of the scale, first manipulating the top slider, which measured
weight by the pound.  No dice.  The balance hadn't moved.  Checking
his annual chart, Buster thought to himself "hmm, I guess Hamton's put
on a couple of pounds since last year."
     Undetered, Buster went down a notch lower, fooling around the ten
pound weight slide.  He moved it ten pounds.  Nothing.  Twenty
pounds.  Nothing!  Thirty pounds.  The scale stood as still as if he
hadn't done anything at all.  "Hmm," Buster surmised again, "I guess
Hamton's put on a couple DOZEN pounds since last year."
     One slide lower, this to the hundred pound increments.  One
hundred pounds.  TWO hundred pounds.  THREE hundred pounds. 
Nada.  Buster scratched the pink inside of his ear with the eraser of his
pencil, and scratched out a number on the clipboard.  It was a lie, and
he knew it was a lie.  "Good job, Hamton, you've really put on some
muscle since last year.
     "Yeah, TABLE muscle," shouted Plucky.
     Hamton stepped off the scale, his head still bent forward and his
eyes looking straight down to the spot where he should have been able
to see his feet.  He sighed.  "Low self-esteem would be a GREAT thing
if the right people had it," Hamton told himself.
*****
     Wiping his brow, Buster had himself a sit-down on the bench in the
team locker room.  It had been a tough first team meeting, and it was
pretty obvious the team had a long way to go and a short time to get
there.  It wasn't a total waste of time today, he decided, trying his very
best to be positive.  The playbooks and the equipment had been handed
out, and at least one or two people were looking forward to the season,
himself, um... well, uh, himself and... hmm, well that one guy seemed to
be sorta... eh, not really.  Well, somebody else HAD to be looking
forward to the first game.  They couldn't ALL be dreading the season. 
Especially not THIS season, the season that would see the Acme
Toonsters shock the world and win the whole enchilada.
     Buster grabbed his schoolbooks out of his locker and was about to
head home when he heard a knock on the door that led to the practice
field.  It wasn't a terribly loud knock, but it got Buster's attention, and
he opened it up.
     Standing there was Babs, who half-smirked at him when he opened
the door.  She asked him tentatively "How did the meeting go?"  Babs
already had a pretty good idea of how the meeting went, but she
wanted to get the story from the captain himself.
      With mock-enthusiasm, Buster balled up his fist and punched an
invisible buddy standing next to him right in the arm.  "It went
fantasically..." his voice immediately trailed off "...bad."  In ridiculously
melodramatic fashion, Buster buried his face into Babs's shoulder and
started crying inconsolably.  "We're gonna get DESTROYED this year,
Babs!!!"
     Babs rolled her eyes heavenward.  "He's just now figuring this out?"
she asked silently, although she could barely hear herself think, what
with Buster carrying on like a two year-old who got its pacifier stolen. 
She patted him on the back matronizingly.  "There, there," she said as
sweetly as she could muster, which wasn't particularly sweet.
     "All I wanna do is win the Na-tion-al Cham-pi-on-shi-i-i-iiip!"
Buster sobbed.  "Is that too much to ask?"
     Babs pushed Buster away from her, as he sniffled and wiped his
nose on his sleeve.  "Buster," she began, "it doesn't matter how hard
YOU work, or how bad YOU want it.  EVERYBODY'S gotta want it! 
This is a TEAM sport.  You can't win eleven games all by yourself!"
     After a couple more self-pitying sniffs, Babs's words began to sink
into Buster's thick rodent skull.  "Y'know something, Babs," he started,
"you're right!"
     Babs nodded and shut her eyes and nodded, silently satisfied that
Buster understood what she was getting at.  "I CAN'T win a National
Championship if I'm the only one that wants to!"  Good.  Very good. 
He can still learn, even if he is a little slow.  Babs continued nodding
with satisfication... until she heard him say:
     "I've got to MAKE the other guys on the team want it as much as I
do!"  Babs's head nodding stopped instantaneously.  "Thanks, Babs,"
Buster shouted at her with a stone wall resolve, "now I know what I've
got to do to win the National Championship!!  Catch ya' later!!!" 
Buster zoomed out the locker room door and was gone in a flash,
leaving Babs standing in the locker room by herself.
     "That's not what I meant, Buster."
*****
     It was a weekday.  The sun was up and shining brightly, and much
to his own surprise, so was Plucky.  Plucky NEVER made it out of bed
before noon on a weekday.  Or any day, for that matter.
     But, as fate would have it, he was up this morning.  He was in the
kitchen making himself breakfast, consisting (as usual) of two
powdered donuts and a glass of milk.  He looked at the clock on the
wall.
     "Seven AM?!"  Plucky thought.  "I didn't even know there WAS a
seven AM!"
     Feeling somewhat astonished and somewhat proud of himself (this
was a once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment for him, of course) the green
duck scarfed down his donuts, guzzled his milk and decided, since he
had oodles extra time today, he'd go for a swim in the pond.  Plucky
bounded into the bathroom, got himself a large towel, and stepped out
his front door.
     He had not even taken a full two steps outside when he realized
something was amiss.  Something seemed to be caught on his right
foot, the first one to hit the ground after he'd stepped out of the door. 
Puzzled, the mallard looked down at his webbed extremity, and he saw
that there was, in fact,  something on his foot.  An old, large,
whitewalled, steel-belted radial tire.  Not only that, but there were
several of the exact same tires spread in a zigzag pattern all the way
across his front yard.
     "Eh?"  Plucky asked.
     After going inside and making a few phone calls to his friends,
Plucky found out that everyone of the football players' yards had been
vandalized in one form or another.  Hamton had a large netlike
contraption set out right on his front doorstep.  Dizzy found two large,
padded tackling dummies set out in front of the entrance to his cave, a
blocking sled was in Fowlmouth's yard, and Elmyra's house, where
Furrball lived, someone had toilet papered.  Plucky figured that could
have been anyone in Acme Acres that had hit Elmyra's house.  Heck, he
was a little upset that he hadn't been invited to do it, but that wasn't the
point.  It was pretty obvious to Plucky who had set out all the other
things on everyone else's front lawns.
     Even Plucky, slow-witted as he often was, could see what was
going on.  Buster was taking this carrot-dream of his just a little too
seriously.  Filled with annoyance, Plucky stamped his way out the door. 
This little problem was going to get fixed, and fixed right now, he
decided.
     "I dunno what planet Buster's living on right now," Plucky grumbled
to himself, "but somebody's gotta drag that crazy rabbit back to reality! 
And there's just one person that can accomplish that."  With a
determined sneer on his mug, Plucky veered off to his left, swinging his
arms roughly as he strode... headed straight to Babs's hutch.
*****
     "And how are we thees moorning, my precious?  Are we happy
thees moorning?  Yes we are, aren't we?"
     If anyone knew how to raise flowers, it was Babs.  With just a bit of
gentle persuasion, any gardener could grow fields of them that would
put the Holland tulip farms to shame.  Babs, however, didn't want that
many.  She only needed a few of them to spruce up her yard, and no
better way to get flowers to bloom than to talk to them like they were
six-month olds.  She sprinkled a few soft drops of water from her
watering can on the blooming flower, which bent backward so the
gentle shower would run down the length of its stem, wiping away the
stray soil that found its way up there.
     CRUNCH!!!  Before Babs even had a chance to react, a large,
orange, webbed foot pounded her precious plant into potpourri.
     "What's the big idea," demaned a fuming Plucky, "of Buster tryin' to
make the football team WORK?!  It's inhumane!!"
     Little wafts of smoke trickled from Babs's long, pink ears.  "Plucky! 
What are you doing?!  Those are my flowers!"
     Plucky lifted up his foot.  On the bottom was a perfect imprint of
the flower.  He smiled sheepishly at Babs.  "Eh, y'know if you press this
in the yellow pages, it'll keep forever."  Babs grabbed Plucky's ankle
and peeled the flower off his sole.  It crumbled to powder in her hands
unceremoniously.
     "You've got ten seconds to tell me what you want, and then GET
OUT!" Babs screamed at him, so strongly her words blew at Plucky
like a gale-force wind, taking a few feathers off him in the process.
     "Buster's going BALLISTIC on us, Babs!  TALK to him.  Tell him
we don't wanna have anything to do with his delusions of grandeur!"
     Although she wasn't about to admit it, Babs agreed with Plucky. 
Buster WAS being completely unrealistic to think he could take a
bunch of... well... LOSERS to the national championship.  But, at the
same time, maybe everyone else on the team had an overly negative
attitude.  Even if it was just a pipe dream, it wasn't a BAD pipe dream. 
If everyone on the team had the attitude that Buster wanted them to
have, they might have a not-terrible season.  They might actually win a
couple of games.  Babs rubbed her chin with her fingers momentarily,
then decided she didn't want to get involved.  "Look, Plucky, this
problem's between Buster and the rest of the football team.  I'm trying
to stay out of it.  But maybe, just maybe, you guys ought to at least
TRY to be a little more positive about the season this year!"
     Plucky squinted his forehead and considered this.  "Hmm," he
thought, "maybe you're right.  We're POSITIVELY gonna stink this
year!" Plucky turned to go, glaring back at Babs, and she had to remind
herself that looks could NOT, in fact, kill.  "If you're not gonna help, I
guess I'll just have to have someone else talk to Buster!"  Plucky
stormed off, mumbling to himself about what a mistake it was trying to
get Babs to do anything for him.
*****
     Several loud footfalls caught Buster's attention.  Buster had been in
the equipment room tweaking the buckles on his shoulderpads and
sticking decals on helmets.  He ceased what he was doing and stepped
out of the equipment room into the common area of the locker room. 
Standing there, like a wall, were the other members of his team.  A big,
wide smile spread across Buster's cheeks.  "Hey, guys!  It's great to see
ya'!  And," he started as he looked at his wristwatch, "a good two
hours before practice is supposed to start!  I'm proud of ya'!  I guess
leaving those things in your front yard last night really got you guys
psyched up!"  Buster started to turn and go back into the equipment
room.  "Let's start breakin' out the pads and then we can go hit the
field!"
     It was only now that Buster noticed no one in the group seemed to
have the enthusiasm he did.  Everyone else stared straight back at him,
stone-faced, arms crossed, unemotional.  Buster raised an eyebrow at
them.  "What's wrong, fellas?  Don't you want to start practice?"
     Plucky was the only one in the group to move, and his entire motion
consisted of raising his right arm, and making a loud *snap* with two
fingers.  He put his arm down, and out of the crowd slunk Hamton, his
shoulders slumped low.  He looked up at Plucky.  "Are you SURE I
have to do this?"  Plucky's only response was a single, solemn nod of
his head.
     Buster stood there, still unable to understand what was going on. 
He scratched his forehead lazily with one finger.  "What's going on,
guys?  Don't you wanna practice?"
     He waited for a long moment before Hamton cleared his throat
weakly, then squeaked out "Buster!"  He cleared his throat again.  "Uh,
Buster, we've all been talking..."
     "About what, Hammy?"
     The pig's jaw started to chatter, almost uncontrollably.  He looked
back over his shoulder at Plucky, who stood there, arms crossed,
closed his eyes deliberately and gave Hamton a single slow nod. 
Hamton turned back around slowly toward Buster, keeping his eyes
down toward the ground.  "Uh, Buster, all of us think you're going a
little overboard with you wanting us to win the National
Championship."  Before the words even completely sunk into Buster's
skull, Hamton pushed himself back into the safe anonimity of the
crowd.
     Buster stood there, dumbfounded; eyes fixed, jaw hanging open
slightly.  "Say that again," he managed after a long pause.
     "That's right, Blue Ears," Plucky told him.  "The whole idea that
we're going to win the National Championship is nuts!  Half of our
fans'll have an ANUERISM if we even manage to win one single game
this year!!"
     Buster's face twitched.  He felt his lip begin to curl up, the way it
did only when he was about to completly lose his temper.  "Maybe,"
the rabbit growled in a low, barely audible voice, "the problem is that I
haven't been practicing you guys hard enough."  Buster took one slow,
heavy step toward his teammates, none of which could resist the
temptation to step back away from him.  Buster's chest heaved
coarsely.  His shoulders tightened.  His back arched.  The shadow he
was now casting on his teammates, who had seen fit to back themselves
into a row of lockers, looked like something straight out of a werewolf
movie.
     Buster felt a trickle of his own saliva start rolling down his chin.  He
let out an ear-blasting growling noise, causing Plucky to jump into the
arms of Dizzy Devil, standing right next to him.  Dizzy frowned, then
dropped Plucky down onto the floor with a *thud*.
     "Get your equipment and get on the practice field," Buster growled. 
"AND I MEAN NOW!!!"
     In a blur, the rest of the Acme Toonsters zipped to their respective
lockers and started dressing for practice.
     Buster wiped his wet chin on his sweater sleeve.
*****
     "First things first!" Buster started as soon as everyone was fully
decked into their pads and helmets and lined up in front of him.  "We're
gonna start with the tackling dummies!"
     All as one, the guys leaped at Furrball, standing at the end of the
line, and jumped on top of him as if he were a spider that needed to be
flattened.  An audible *CRUNCH* could be heard as Furrball was
engulfed in a sea of light blue and white, followed a few moments later
by a much quieter "mrow".
     Buster slapped himself in the forehead out of pure frustration.  "No,
no no!" Buster yelled out.  Everyone looked up at him, puzzled. 
"That's NOT what I meant!"  He took a couple of steps over toward a
large device, looking not unlike a list from a medevial jousting field,
with a large tackling dummy - resembling a boxer's heavy punching bag
- hanging from it by a heavy chain.  "I meant THIS tackling dummy!"
     The guys started piling off of the ground, mostly mumbling
something to the effect of "Oh, now he tells us."  As they got up,
Buster could see a three-foot deep crater in the middle of the field, and
a large blue pancake-shaped object inside the hole; undoubtedly
Furrball.
     Buster stood beside the device and barked out for everyone to form
a single line in front of it.  As soon as the team was assembled, Buster
gave them their instructions.
     "Okay, here's how this works," he started.  "All of you run at this
thing and try to knock it backward.  It's easy, I'll show you."
     Putting on his helmet, Buster stepped to the front of the line, which
started a good five yards from the front of the device.  He stooped over
and put his right fist on the ground.  He cocked his left leg back and
lifted his head.  He was staring right at the dummy with a wicked scowl
on his face, his gleaming white teeth exposed, and a frothy foam
dripping from the back of his mouth.  He zeroed in with his eyes as
precisely on the dead center on the dummy as if he was looking through
the site of a rifle.
     With a bestial growl, Buster took off from his three-point stance like
a track runner, throwing divots of grass and mud on the Toonsters
behind him as he tore his way toward the dummy.  He grunted as he
smashed into the middle of the bag with his right shoulder, wrapping
his arms around the bag as tightly as if he were hugging Tyra Banks. 
With all the strength he could extract from his leg muscles, he drove
the tackling dummy backward until it would give no more.
     As he finished, he let the bag go, and it swung back and forth limply
from the list.
     Buster removed his helmet and wiped a row of persperation drops
off his forehead.  "Whew!"  He snapped his helmet back on and waved
his arm toward his teammates.  "Go for it!" he told them.
     The first in line was Fowlmouth.  He eyeballed the tackling dummy
in front of him suspiciously.  "Are you dad-gum sure dat dis dad-gum
t'ing is safe?" he inquired of whomever would answer him.
     "Yes, it's safe," Buster reassured him in a deadpan tone as he rolled
his eyes with some annoyance.
     "Alright," Fowlmouth answered him as he stooped to the ground
and assumed a three-point stance, scratching the ground with his big
feet as he did so, like a bull might do when preparing to charge.
     "And all of you just keep going after Fowlmouth," Buster yelled to
the rest of the team.  "One after another!"
     "Here goes nuttin'!" Fowlmouth called out as he started toward the
tackling dummy.
     Fowlmouth had not gone three steps toward the bag before his feet
tangled up underneath him.  "Whoa-oh!" he cried as he stumbled
toward the tackling dummy a couple of yards in front of him.
     Tripping and falling the entire way, Fowlmouth finally made contact
with the tackling dummy, which was easily five times his own size and
weight.  The chicken went into the bag facemask-first, making a loud
*WUMP* sound as he hit it, similar to the sound one might hear if
Muhamed Ali had punched Fowlmouth with a boxing glove.
     The large bag gave slightly, swinging back a foot or so before swing
back toward the front again.  As it did, the bag nailed Fowlmouth full in
the kisser again, sending him shooting off like a missile in the opposite
direction. 
     "Yeowwwwww!!" Fowlmouth screamed as he soared across the
field, straight through the goalpost on the far side of the field, and
landed with a specatcular *CRASH* in the second row of spectator's
seats behind the uprights.
     Fowlmouth lay still in the bleachers for a few seconds, hoping the
churchbells clanging inside his head would stop.  Before they did,
though, he heard a distant scream, and before he could move, Hamton
flew through the air, through the goalpost, and landed right on top of
him, followed in quick succession by Furrball, Plucky, Dizzy and
Calamity.
     Standing on the opposite side of the field was Buster, shaking his
head slowly.  "This is going to be a looong practice," he told himself
solemnly as he began jogging toward the other end of the field,
following the trail of moans and groans coming from the stands.
*****
     The first practice of the day went... well, it went.  That was the best
thing Buster had to say about it.  He picked up some equipment off the
field and put it up in the equipment room before joining his compadres
in the locker room.
     The locker room smelled like a swamp.  Hot showers and hot
whirlpools were letting off huge quantities of steam.  Mud and grass
the players tracked in or were picking out of the spaces between the
bars of their facemasks added to the dank aroma.  Sweat and other
unpleasant body odor mingled with the other smells, making Buster's
stomach turn a little.
     All in a row, the guys sat on wooden benches in front of their
lockers, most of them mumbling to themselves while rubbing their
bruises or unraveling white tape from their ankles or wrists.  Buster
stepped in front of a large chalkboard in the middle of the locker room
and called for everyone's attention.
     "Alright, everybody," he started, trying to churn out some
encouraging words for the squad, "that was just our first practice.  It's
going to get better... hopefully.  You guys have an hour for lunch, than
we'll get going with offensive practice, okay?"
     Only blank stares answered Buster, who suddenly felt an
uncomfortable heat.  And it wasn't just coming from the humidity in the
room.  "Uh, okay, guys?"
     "What do you mean 'offensive practice'?" Plucky asked him with
great puzzlement in his voice.  "We just finished practice!"
     Buster groaned.  "Two-a-day, Plucky!  We have two practices every
day for the first two weeks!  Don't you guys know anything about
running a football team?"
     A mob of angry voices then attacked Buster, all of them protesting
the idea of having two practices in one day.  As usual, the strongest
protesting was coming from Plucky.  Buster was trying his best not to
listen to all of the shouting, but the heated complaints of the team still
got through to his ears.  Instinctively, Buster reached into his pocket
and pulled out a small whistle.  He put the whistle up to his mouth and
blew out a long, shrill tweeting sound until everyone was quiet.
     "Hey!  Who do you think's in charge here?" Buster scolded them.  "I
say we're having two practices today, and what I say goes!"
     Plucky hopped up out of his seat.  "Just a minute, Blue Ears!  Who
died and made you coach?  I've had just about enough of your 'winning'
attitude!  I'm outta here!  I quit!"  Plucky ripped off his pants and
shoulder pads and  tossed them into a pile at Buster's feet along with
his helmet.  He turned away and stormed out of the locker room,
slamming the door hard on his way outside.
     "Hmph!  Who needs ya'?!  The rest of you guys are still with me,
aren't ya'?"
     Buster received his answer, but not the one he wanted.  Everyone
else stripped themselves of their equipment, tossed it over by Plucky's
equipment, and walked out of the locker room, leaving Buster standing
by himself, waist deep in hip and shoulder pads.
     "This is NUTS,"  Buster yelled out.  "How are we gonna have a
football season this year if I'm the only one who'll..."
     He had an idea just then.  A good idea.  He rubbed his chin.  Hmm. 
Maybe it would work.  He'd know in three weeks, when the first game
of the season rolled around.
*****
     "Why are we even BOTHERING?"
     Babs threw down her blue and white pompoms down on the ground
in frustration.  She felt like Shirley, Fifi and herself were doing nothing
but wasting time practicing cheers.  She'd already heard that the entire
football team had walked out of practice nearly three weeks ago.  Silly
her, she thought that without a football team there would be no football
season.
     "Because, Babs," Shirley answered her as she straightened out the
too-short skirt on her blue cheerleader's uniform with a large white 'A'
right on the chest, "the school hasn't, like, forefited the game yet!"
     Babs tugged at her ears and let out a quiet groan.  "Why not?" she
asked, feeling her own annoyance come out in her words.  "There's no
football team, I already know that!  Why don't we just call the other
school and tell them we don't have a team this year and just forget
about the whole stupid football season, anyway?"
     A seemingly random shaking of pompoms caught Babs's attention,
as she turned toward Fifi, standing behind her, wearing her uniform,
which was slightly smaller and tighter fitting than either Babs's or
Shirley's, something which seemed to bother Fifi not at all.  "I ahgree,"
Fifi sighed.  "If zere is going to be no football zeazon, zen why do we
joost not wait for bazquetball zeazon to practice our cheeahz?"
     "Like, maybe there IS going to be a football season," Shirley told
them.  Babs could here the forced optimism in her voice.  "You never
know, maybe we do have a team, and they somehow managed to keep
it totally a secret!"
     Hoping to maybe bring her friend back to this plane of reality, Babs
walked over to Shirley, put a gentle arm around her shoulders, and
spoke to her slolwy, so she might more easily understand.  "Shirl, hon,
might we be being just a TAD too hopeful?  Hmm?  If you ask me,
Fifi's right.  There's not going to BE  a football season.  It's not
possible.  There is NO WAY in a MILLION YEARS there's going to
be a football season this year!"
     Babs was so adamant on making her point that she failed to notice
Buster walking by, carrying a large equipment bag and wearing his
Acme Loo letterman's jacket.  He strode by nonchalantly, saying "Keep
practicing them cheers!  We'll need all the crowd support we can get
tomorrow." as he walked by, not even breaking a step.
     She froze, still with her arm around Shirley.  Did she hear that right? 
Did Buster just say there was going to be a game tomorrow? 
Apparently she did, as Shirley started shaking her pompoms with
enthusiasm.  "See, I like, told you they were playing."  Putting one
pompom under her arm, she pointed up to the side of her head. 
"Psychic connections."
     "Um, yeah.  I'll be back in just a second," Babs told her teammates
as she ran to catch up with Buster, who seemed to be in an awful hurry
to get home.
     She didn't catch up with Buster until he was standing outside his
hole in the middle of Acme Forest, fumbling with the keys to his solid
steel hole cover and whistling the Acme Loonivesity fight song,
sounding remarkably like the Notre Dame fight song.  Babs tapped him
on the shoulder.
     "Don't you have football practice today, Buster?" she asked him,
trying to sound naive.  "You have a big game tomorrow, you know."
     Buster gave her an obviously forced giggle.  "Don't be silly, Babsie,"
he told her in a overly jocular tone, "we don't practice the day before a
big game!  Shows how much you know about football!"
     "Hmm," Babs started, "well, I do know that a football team needs
more than one player."  Buster's ears wilted.
     "You know?" he asked in a voice sounding like a flat soda pop.
     She shook her head firmly.  "Yup.  And I also know if you go
through with what I think you're thinking of doing, you're gonna get
yourself KILLED!"
     "SOMEBODY has to play that football game tomorrow!" he
shouted back at her as if raising his voice was going to make her
understand.  "I can't let the school down!"
     "What do you mean 'you can't let the school down'!  Nobody's
expecting the football team to actually WIN or anything!  None of the
students are going to show up!"  Babs unconsciously started shaking
her finger at Buster as if she were scolding a puppy.  "This is the
DUMBEST idea you've ever had, Buster, and trust me, you've had
some winners!"
     Turning away from her in a huff, Buster started fumbling with his
keys again until he found his door key.  He jammed the key into the
lock and opened the door.  "You don't understand," he grumbled to her
before jumping down his hole, slamming the door behind him.
     Babs clenched her teeth and let out loud, frustrated groan.
*****
     It was late.  Very late.  He'd tried for hours, but still he hadn't gotten
a wink of sleep.  Buster sat up and looked at the alarm clock on his
nightstand.  Then minutes to four in the morning.  And he was still
wide awake.
     "Forget it," Buster grumbled to himself as he kicked his blankets off
and stood up out of bed.  "I'm not gonna get any sleep tonight."
     Buster put both his hands on the sides of his head and pushed it to
the right, then back to the left, both times until he heard a loud *pop*
from his neck joints, the sound which made any unfortunate bystandard
cringe when he did it in public.
     Buster contemplated - as he went into the kitchen for a late night
carrot - whether to watch some late late late TV, but shrugged the idea
off, seeing as how most of the shows on right now would probably be
those insipid infomercials anyway.  The only other idea he had to kill
the hours of extra time he found on his hands was to go out for a walk. 
Stuffing the carrot into his mouth, Buster grabbed his newly dry-
cleaned letterman's jacket and headed for his hole.
     A frosty autumn night's breeze stirred through the Acme Forest,
sending a shiver down Buster's spine.  He looked up over his head at
the moon, only the smallest sliver away from full, shining brightly and
illuminating the forest almost as brightly as a hazy sunset.  Stars
twinkled over him, clear as fine crystal; not a single cloud was in the
sky, possibly the brightest night sky he'd ever seen.  Buster took in a
deep breath of frigid air, then exhaled.  He could see just a trace of his
own breath steam.  He turned up his jacket collar and strode without
haste toward the school.
     There was a lot on his mind, not the least of which was the big game
that night.  During his walk, while most people would be looking
around at the backdrop of the Acme Looniversity campus, Buster
concentrated on running plays and defensive strategies, looping them
over and over again in his mind until he knew them forward, backward
and upside down.
     Before Buster even realized where he was, he snapped out of his
footballer's trance and found himself standing in the bleachers, right
behind the east goalpost of David Lee Roth Memorial Stadium.  (An
old wive's tale suggested David Lee Roth was buried underneath that
goalpost, since no one had seen hide nor hair of him for so long.)
     The field was newly painted with white yardmarks.  The endzone
was painted blue with white block letters, twenty feet from top to
bottom, reading "ACME".  The light from the moon, catching the dew
on the field, made it look almost like a reflecting pool.  The sight made
Buster feel all the more chilled.
     He walked down to the field and throughthe damp grass, leaving
footprints behind to mark his tracks, and stopped right on the fifty yard
line.  He slowly paced around in a circle, gazing almost in awe at the
fifty yards of bluish-green on either side of him.  The field held an
almost magical quality for him.  The other countless millions of yards of
ground on the planet were used for work, or school, or other mundane
activities.  This hundred yards, though, were strictly for play.  No
matter how many years had passed since the first time Buster set foot
onto the fresh cut grass of a football field, it always made him feel like
he was eight years old again.  It was a great feeling.  Sometimes, when
he was feeling down or upset, just stepping onto the field or playing
catch with a buddy was all he needed to pick right back up.
     He smiled to himself.  Almost a guilty smile.  Like he was enjoying
standing on the field more than he should have been.
     He took a few paces backward, and knelt down.  "Alright,
everybody, huddle up!" he barked out to his teammates.  The crowd
cheering the team on was getting louder and louder.  He shouted the
play out to his team, although he could barely hear himself talk now. 
As soon as they understood, they broke huddle, and stepped lively over
to their positions.  All except Buster, the quarterback who strode
easily, with purpose, up to the line of scrimmage, eyeballing the defense
standing in his way while he did so.
     It was fourth down.  Four seconds were left on the game clock. 
The scoreboard, although yards and yards away from him, seemed like
it was staring him in the face with a billion electric eyeballs.  29-24.  His
team was down.
     "No fear," Buster whispered to himself calmly, although if he had
shouted it out loud to himself, he doubt anyone else would've heard.  It
was that loud.
     "O-right!  O-right!  Forty-two!  Sixteen!  Thirty-seven!  Set!  Hut! 
Hut!  HUT!!"
     The snap from the center stung his palms, but he hardly noticed.  He
took his patented three-step drop, and cocked his left arm while
searching down the field for an open receiver.  He might as well have
been trying to find a needle in a haystack.  All his receivers were
covered by defensive backs as if they were wearing them.  He shifted
his vision momentarily to check the defensive pass rush coming toward
him.  He had to do something, they were coming closer, about to break
free of his pass protection.
     The only thing he could do was run.
     Buster tucked the ball under his right arm and zigged his way left,
dodging defenders flying in at him in all directions.  He spun around,
avoiding two more would-be tacklers, then dug his left foot into the
ground, and took off running.
     No one else even saw him for the first ten yards of his desperation
sprint.  Then the two safeties came up.  One dove at him, nailing him in
the hip with a shoulder pad, but, fortunately for Buster, couldn't wrap
his arms around Buster's slender frame fast enough.  Buster felt the
knock in his hip, but bounced off the saftey like a ping-pong ball.  The
other safety planted his feet in front of Buster, waiting for him to make
the first move.
     Buster took one hard step to his left, toward the sideline.  The
safety bit, and Buster zipped back to the right toward the center of the
field.  The safety didn't even touch him.
     He sprinted straight down the hashmark, drawing one short, sharp
breaths and exhaling just as fast, alternating one and the other for every
yard he gained.  The endzone was in sight.  There was no one in front
of him.  He looked back behind him.  He was leaving everyone else on
the field eating his dust.  He was at the fifteen yard line.  The ten.  The
five.  Touchdown.
     All as one, the fans rose to their feet, screaming as if they were all
going to lose their voices forever the next day.  They started chanting
Buster's name all as one.  Buster, with the ball still held tightly in his
arm, waved back at them graciously.
     His fantasy was shattered.  A large, dark shadow climbed over
Buster's face, and engulfed his whole body.  An all-too-real shadow. 
He gulped hard, then turned around slowly.
     "It's a great feelin', isn't it?"
     Buster had to rub his eyes with his fists to make sure he was seeing
this right.  The figure standing over him was none other than...
     "Mister Sayers?"
     Buster couldn't think.  Or breathe.  Let alone talk.  He was standing
in the presence of a football legend.  Gayle Sayers.
     For one of the greatest players to ever put on a football helmet, he
wasn't a huge man.  But Buster saw, even as Gayle stood there
breathing, raising and lowering his rock-solid chest and diaphram, an
acute grace surrounded the man and his every move.  As if it was miles
beyond his capability to trip and fall, even in a room filled with
strategically-placed ottomans.
     One tiny detail troubled Buster, though, which was the fact that
Gayle Sayers had passed away several years before Buster was born.
     "You like football a lot, don't you?"
     Even before he opened his mouth, Buster could feel his tongue tying
in knots only an adept Boy Scout could untangle.  He nodded.
     With an almost regal turn of his head, Gayle took a moment to gaze
across the blue-green gridiron rolling  out in front of him.  Buster
couldn't be sure, but it almost seemed like the field had lit up even
brighter the moment Gayle's eyes fell on it.  The breeze wasn't so
steady, nor so cold anymore.  If the goalposts could've moved, they
surely would've bowed down low out of respect for the man who had
conquered every football field he'd ever set foot on.
     "It's a great game, Buster, a great game."  He turned his eyes back
to Buster, and peered at him as if those eyes could see right through to
the heart pounding like a drum in Buster's chest.
     "There's something to remember about football, though, Buster. 
Probably the most important thing about it.  It takes eleven guys to
play.  No less."
     With that, Gayle clapped his large, tough, leathery hand to Buster's
shoulder, and turned to walk away.
     Unconsciously, Buster nodded, and waved at Gayle as if he could
see through the back of his own head.  Suddenly, then, it dawned on
Buster that maybe Gayle's words hadn't sunk in as well as he thought
they would.  Buster's eyes popped out of the glossy state they were in. 
He was about to call out to Gayle, but stopped himself as the man
faded away into thin air and into the legend that surrounded his entire
being with every step he took away from Buster.
     Whatever he meant, though, Buster was sure he'd understand soon
enough.
     Buster shivered again.  The night was starting to get colder.
*****
     "What am I doing here?" Plucky pouted to himself.  He found his
seat and sat down with a *thunk*.
     It was a rhetorical question.  Plucky knew exactly why he was at
DLR Memorial.  Shirley insisted that, if he was not going to play in
today's game, that he'd have to come and support the cheerleaders. 
Plucky wasn't convinced Shirley hadn't put some sort of psychic mind-
control thingy on him to make him come.
     But he was there, sitting in the first row on the fifty yard line, right
behind the Acme Toonsters' team sidelines, among a small handful of
other fans, the vast majority of them were, oddly enough, the other
football team walk-offs.  Each of them seemed to have a different
excuse for coming, although for every last one of them, one of the
cheerleaders seemed to be at the root of it.
     Plucky grumbled and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms roughly
across his chest and looking out toward the field.
     The visiting team, the Coachella Valley School of Cosmetology
Fightin' Hairdressers, were already out on the field: 40 of the meanest-
looking women Plucky had every laid eyes on.  They were stretching
and running offensive plays against a phantom defense.  Their uniforms
were colored a light brown, with gold highlights around the edges. 
They looked like more than a match for the Acme Toonsters, who,
much to Plucky's surprise, hadn't even come out onto the field to warm
up yet.
     "Hmph," Plucky said smugly, "I KNEW we were gonna forfeit this
game after all," contrary to what Shirley had told him.
     The ringing feedback of a Public Address microphone made Plucky
sit up in surprise.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, let's get ready to
RUMMMBLE!!  Here they are, the 1997 ACME TOONSTERS!!!"
     Everyone in the stands, all of them apparently as surprised to hear
the announcement as Plucky was, stood on their feet and looked
dumbfoundedly toward the players' tunnel, leading onto the field.
     There was an uneasy silence in the stadium as the fans anxiously
waited to see what was about to happen.  "Who's coming out here?"
Plucky asked himself.
     Plucky's question was answered after a moment's pause.  Buster
Bunny, wearing his blue and white uniform, emblazoned with a large
number "1" on the front and back, carrying his helmet in one hand and
a football in another, stomped out of the tunnel and onto the field. 
Alone.
     In the distance, some crickets were chirping.
     In a state of disbelief, Plucky's jaw dangled from his mandible
sockets.  He looked around further.  There could be NO WAY Buster
could be thinking about playing the game all by himself.  The only other
thng he noticed, besides a total lack of other blue jerseys, was a
disapproving scowl firmly pressed onto Babs's lips; the same kind of
look his mother gave him when he was caught doing something he
wasn't allowed to.  Babs, Plucky thought, must've already known, or at
least suspected Buster was going to try to pull something like this.
     It was slowly starting to come together in Plucky's mind.  Babs told
Shirley and Fifi what she thought was going to happen, and they made
some elaborate plan to make sure all the guys who quit the football
team showed up at the game.  Hmph.  Tricked again.  Plucky mumbled
angrily to himself.  He thought about walking out, but then Shirley, or
Babs or Fifi for that matter, would never let him hear the end of it. 
Besides, the nacho guy was coming down the aisle.
*****
     Three women - two several inches taller than Buster, including the
ears, and the third came up to Buster's ear level, but she looked to be
even wider than she was tall - stomped their way over to the exact
center of the field where a giant red concentric circle pattern was
painted on, spanning five yards out on either side of the fifty yard line. 
Buster was already out there waiting for them, tugging at his jersey
collar and swallowing hard enough for everyone in the stands to see his
adam's apple bob up and down in his throat.
     The short, girthy woman pounded her right fist into her palm of her
left hand, making Buster fidget uncomfortably.  Even more so than he
already was.
     It was then that Gogo Dodo, the game's referee, decked out in a
zebra-striped shirt, white knee pants and knee socks, and a gigantic
whistle hanging from a croakie around his neck, bounded into the
innermost concentric circle and instructed the teams' capitains to shake
hands with one another.
     Cautiously, Buster stuck his hand out to shake with the women. 
The first woman grasped his hand firmly; so firmly, in fact, that a dull
pain was starting to spread throughout Buster's hand as she let go.  The
second woman grabbed Buster's hand and squeezed on it before Buster
had even offered it to her.  Everyone in the stadium could hear a loud
*crack*, like a tree just after the coup de gracie from a lumberjack's ax. 
Buster cringed with pain, as did most of the grandstand.  She let go
after about ten excruciating seconds.  Buster reflexively grabbed his
knuckles with his other hand, then looked down at his fingers.  Crushed
like overripe grapes.  He didn't even offer a handshake to the third
woman.
     Gogo reached into an earhole on the side of his head and removed a
large silver coin.  He pointed at Buster.  "Call it in the air," he
instructed the rabbit, then tossed the coin high into the air.
     "Tails," Buster called out.  The coin hit the ground with a *ping*.
     "Heads it is," Gogo announced.
     Buster whinced, just now realizing that when Gogo was officiating
the game "the coin toss ALWAYS comes up heads!"  which prompted
Gogo to lean over toward him and whisper "that's because it's a two-
headed coin!"  The dodo put a finger to its mouth and told Buster
"shhhh!"
     The women, feeling a bit confident, Buster figured, decided THEY
would kick off to him.  That's all it could've been.  There was no wind
to speak of which would've warranted them to choose which side of the
field they wanted instead of having the ball.
     *WHOOMP!!*  The kickoff flew in an arc, end-over-end, toward
Buster standing at his own goal line.  Buster caught the ball and
pressed it hard into his right arm.  He put his head down and ran.
     ...About three steps as he was hit by a battallion of brown and gold-
highlighted jerseys.  All eleven of the 'Dressers seemed to slam into him
at once like eleven runaway trains meeting inside a common
roundhouse.  The roundhouse was Buster.  A dust-bowl sized haze
rose up from the impact point before all eleven women hustled out of
it, giving each other congratulatory high-fives as they went back to
their side of the field.  The only thing left behind was the dust and a
gasping, wheezing bunny.
     It took some time, but the dust cleared, revealing Buster, flat on his
back and crumpled like a Ruffles potato chip.   His helmet was askew,
his jersey torn and stained with sod smears.  After a few moments, he
popped himself back into shape, turned his helmet so that he was no
longer looking out the earhole, and shook his head quickly, trying to
clear out the cobwebs.
     Buster had thought the first couple of plays out in the locker room,
but he was counting on better field position than he had.  If he took
two big steps backward, he'd hit the back of his head on the goalpost. 
The sight of the defense, the eleven women standing in front of him
now, all dripping white froth from their mouths, wasn't doing anything
to help him concentrate on what he needed to be doing. 
     As quickly as his brain - still rattling in his head somewhat - could
manage, he mentally flipped through the pages of his playbook.  One
drawback that seemed common to every play that he was running
through his mind was that it required ten other people to run.  "Hmm,"
Buster told himself as he started to thoughtfully rub his chin, "this
might not be as easy as I thought."
     Gogo floated toward Buster, who didn't even notice him.  The dodo
stuffed his oversized whistle into his mouth and blew into it with every
fluid ounce of his lung capacity, sending a high-pitched squeal running
through his ears, down his spinal cord and all through his nervous
system, causing him to quake violently.  "Get goin', quarterback!" he
barked at Buster, who chattered "Y-y-yes, sir" through his teeth.
     Buster grabbed his jaw with his hands and forcibly clamped them
together.  He steadied himself, then stepped gingerly toward the line of
scrimage, looking straight into the eye whites of the defensive unit. 
Obviously, he was going to have to improvise... Buster style.
     Putting his hand on the ball, Buster picked the nose off the ground
and prepared to snap it to himself.  "O-right!  O-right!  42!  16!  37! 
Hut!  Hut..."
     Fortune smiled on Buster that moment, and at the same time
laughed in his face.  At that moment, his loud forcible snap count drew
the defensive team, all as one, offsides.  However, they didn't stop
coming at him.  All as one, the women jumped on top of him, punching
and biting just like a pack of wolves pouncing on their prey.
     A yellow flag flew into the fray.  That too got ripped to shreds.
     Even Plucky, in the stands, had to put his hands over his eyes. 
"Ouch," he remarked.  "That's gonna be sore tomorrow."
     Gogo made the call over wireless field microphone.  "Offsides, on
the defense.  Five yard penalty, repeat first down."
     The defense got up off Buster, who lay inside a big indention shaped
just like himself in the grass, his eyes spinning like globes in his sockets. 
"Just think," he said in a weary voice, "only nineteen more of these and
I'll score!"
     A tense silence  swept over the crowd, as well as the cheerleaders;
an uneasiness that struck Babs clean through to her stomach.  "I've got
to do something about this NOW," she told herself.  There was a little
part of her deep down inside that thought Buster was getting what he
deserved, but, fortunately for him, she didn't listen to it.
     She stooped down and picked up her blue and white pompoms,
telling Shriley and Fifi to do the same.  "Let's shake it, girls,"she
instructed.
     Doing a little swaying of their hips from side to side, they cheered
"We can do it!  Yes we can!  Even though we've only got one man!" 
Babs whirled around, hoping to see the cheer had buoyed everyone's
spirits.  It didn't work like she hoped it would.  Time for the second
part of her plan.
     Buster snapped the ball and did his patented 3-step drop, only to be
mobbed by ten of the eleven members of the defense.  The other waited
outside the pit of carnage to pick up the inevitable fumble, which she
did, and stepped over the goal line for a touchdown.  6-zip in favor of
the Fightin' Hairdressers.
     Right after the play, Buster called a timeout.  He had been trampled
into a pile of blue mush, oozing across the field back to his bench to,
hopefully pull himself together (not to collect his thoughts so much as
to coagulate).
     Meanwhile, in the stands, Plucky hand buried his attention inside the
bowl of six dollar nachos, refusing to watch the action on the field.  As
he sat there wondering what the yellow goo that passed for nacho
cheese was on his corn chips really was, he felt a little nudge from the
person sitting next to him on his left.  Strange, Plucky thought, seeing
as how maybe twenty people were sitting in the entire stadium.  Why
would anyone sit right by him when they could have their own row,
heck, their own SECTION to themselves?
     "What a  loser, eh?" observed the voice sitting next to Plucky. 
"Doesn't he have any sense?"
     Plucky looked up, and met the glassy stare of some big-bellied guy
with a grey mustache, wearing a grey fedora and a grey overcoat. 
Plucky motioned to the field and answered the guy with a mouthful of
nachos.  "Hey, have a little respect, would ya'?  I don't see you out
there!"
     "Ya' know something about Acme Loo?" the guy started again as if
Plucky hadn't said a word, "they're ALL losers!"  Every last one of 'em! 
Plucky could feel his blood starting to boil.  "Yep, L-O-S-E-R-S!  And
nobody can prove different!"
     That was all Plucky could stand.  No one talked bad about a school
PLUCKY DUCK was attending!  Nobody.  He jumped up out of his
chair, knocking the nachos out of his lap, and glared out at the football
field.
     The other guys around him saw this, and they all got up on their feet
as well, each of them on the same page.  Plucky waved his hand toward
the field, like Moses over the Red Sea.  "Come on, fellas, we've got a
football game to play!"  Right behind the green duck, they all marched
in step out onto the field like a parading flag corp.
     As soon as the others were gone, the old guy in the stands tugged at
his facial skin, pulling off a rubber mask.  It wasn't an old guy there
after all.  "I KNEW I could talk some sense into 'em," Babs said out
loud, with just a hint of guilty pleasure in her voice.
*****
     It was ugly.  Real ugly.  56 to nothing.  The papers said it might
have been closer if Buster had played the entire game by himself instead
of letting the guys who walked off before back onto the team.
     Even Buster's biggest fan whinced at the phraseology used to
describe the game in newsprint.  But that's not what was important. 
There were two things that were important to her that came out of the
game that last night.  Number one, Buster learned to keep his trap shut
when he couldn't back up his words.  Number two was the big photo
next to the article in the paper of Buster carrying Babs off the field after
the game, just like in the movie "An Officer and a Gentlemen", except,
of course, no Joe Cocker.  Babs smiled at the picture, as she studied it.
     Then, something caught her eye in the background of the picture. 
Something she hadn't noticed before.  Some big guy, maybe a football
player himself standing behind Buster and Babs, smiling at them both. 
He was wearing a dark football jersey, which might have been the
number 40.  Babs squinted at the picture, but she couldn't quite make it
out.  For some reason, it looked washed out, as if the guy had some
strange aura around him wherever he went.

THE END

Epilogue

     Every sports fan in America sat on the edge of their overstuffed
chairs to hear the announcement about to be made on national TV.
     Every sports writer in the area was there at the press conference.
     An electric silence flowed through the room as the president of the
National Collegiate Athletics Association stepped up to the
microphoned podium in the front of the room.
     "We have a three-way tie this year in the voting for the 1997 NCAA
National Championship, between the Nebraska Cornhuskers, the
Michigan Wolveriens... and the Coachella Valley School of
Cosmetology Fighting Hairdressers."
     Shock.  Complete shock on the faces of everyone in the room. 
They could hardly believe their ears.  Virtually every jaw dropped and
every eye bugged out at the announcement.
     Keith Jackson, the veteran college football sportscaster shook his
head, and turned to Bob Griese, his partner.  "I thought for SURE the
'Dressers were going to win it outright.  We really need a National
Championship game to decide who wins."  Bob Griese nodded in total
agreement.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The appearance of Gayle Sayers in this story should in no way denote
the author's endorsement of the Chicago Bears.  He's a Minnesota
Viking fan... hey!   I hear you snickering back there!!
No nachos were harmed during the writing of this story.
Gogo's whistle was furnished by my next door neighbors.  If it's loud
and annoying, they're guaranteed to have one.