"The Play"

We immediately dart for the back staircase, up the way we came. When I glance over my shoulder behind us - there’s Ingrid and company, marching toward us with a righteous fury. There’s more men in black and gray now, fedoras covering their eyes. Something tells me they're not gonna accept sorry as an answer if they catch me. Gulp!

Bobby and I make it topside. Nobody pays any attention to us - all eyes are on the field. It’s dark now, stars in the sky. The announcer, a local college kid doing his best Cronkite impression, gives us the dope.

“One second left on the clock. With the Armitage Deep Ones having taken the lead, Salem Slot will need to return this kickoff for a touchdown, otherwise, there’ll be a lot of sad fellas this Homecoming…”

Bobby and I dash across the bleachers, heading back towards the entrance. The School men presumably have it blocked off, but there’s a chain link fence we can hop over. The metal pounds beneath our sneakers as we get close to the other side.

We slide to a halt. A row of cheerleaders and jocks from the basketball team block our way, Connie in the lead.

“You stole my man,” Connie sez, pointing an accusing pom-pom at me. “He’s the star quarterback, but we’re losing the game now because of you.”

“Nah,” points out Bobby. “It’s ‘cuz the Slot still uses the Notre Dame Box, when we oughta be using the T formation-”

“Enough!” Connie’s not having it. The pack of jocks and cheerleaders approach us, menace in their eyes.

Bobby and I back away tepidly, but then Ingrid and the grays emerge from the back staircase. We’re blocked in. Maybe we can go up? But then several gray-suited men stand up, pistols hidden in popcorn buckets.

“Only one way out!” I tell Bobby Wood, then I grab his hand and leapt over the fence, onto the green grass of the football field, right behind the Scarecrows' bench. They don’t notice, 'cuz-

“And here’s the kickoff, folks!”

Connie’s gang stops at the fence, fuming, not willing to jump over. But the grays don’t mind. One of the town cops on the sidelines finally notices, but a gray simply knocks him away. The movement reveals the Tommy Gun hidden beneath his jacket. Double gulp!

“Ball is recovered by the Slot…”

I lead Bobby towards the Armitage end zone, passing behind the Deep Ones’ bench in the process. They all kind of look and smell like fish, but I heard there’s a tuna factory in that port city, so I ‘spose it makes sense. A pack of linebackers with gills on their faces notices us, but then-

“The Scarecrows have begun lateraling the ball…”

More grays leapt down into the field. We arrive behind the end zone, looking for the fence so we can hop back over into parking lot and into freedom, but thousands (well, dozens) of fishy-looking band members block our way. They’re dressed up in a solid dark blue color, the color of the Atlantic, and look eager to rush the field once Armitage claims victory.

Mary Lou Sunday, that’s a bingo.

“He’s down!” I call out. “Game’s over, Armitage won!”

“Down?” an anchovy sez.

“Down!” a sardine repeats.

“The ball is still loose-”

“He’s down!” Bobby Wood cries out. “Down, down, Deep Ones win!”

The grays are getting close, but then-

The conductor blows a whistle, and the Armitage High Marching Band begins trumpeting their way onto the end zone. They don’t stop for nobody, not even the grays, who get caught up in the sea of footsteps and trombones. I even find the Armitage mascot, some sort of silver-colored fish-man.

“Swell costume,” I say.

The fish-man chuckles. “Yeah…it’s definitely a costume, heh…”

For some reason he’s chained up, but I deliver a karate chop to a rusted portion of the chain. The Fish-Man stumbles forward, not used to the freedom of movement.

“Human,” he sez. “You’ve saved me. For that, I shall grant you one wish.”

“Really? You can do that?”

“...well, no. But if you’re ever boating off of Cape Ann, I’ll come say hello.”

Fish-Man runs off onto the field, hooting and hollering, blubbering about freedom.

“I’ve seen better costumes,” Bobby grumbles.

The band continues its blitzkrieg onto the football field, the grays struggling to get through tubas and drums.

“Down to the forty, down to the thirty, down to the - OH, AND THE BAND IS OUT ON THE FIELD!”

The players rush down the field, but the marching band refuses to yield. We could see it now - there’s Brad, looking like a tank, rumbling and stumbling the last few yards, knocking over grays and anchovies alike, until finally, finally-

“TOUCHDOWN! THE SCARECROWS WIN!”

Brad punctuates this by spiking the ball into the closest person - a very pissed off Ingrid.

I can’t help but laugh. Bobby too. That’s when I remember we’re still holding hands. We let go slowly and return to business. We’re over a back fence and onto freedom, leaving the chaos behind us.

The parking lot’s dark as we leave the glow of the stadium.

“C’mon,” Bobby tells me. “Let’s hotwire a car.”