Tevun Krus #124 - SportPunk Game 2: The Rematch

Seventeen Pendulums - A Story by @theidiotmachine

Seventeen Pendulums

By theidiotmachine

The Great Seer of Hammersmith -  or Dave, as he was known to his friends — fidgeted under the bright lights. The presenter was on the other side of the room, interviewing York's All-Seeing Aye, but Dave could never tell when the cameras were recording him. Last week he'd been shown scratching his bum, and he didn't want that to happen again today.

I hate this, he thought. I wish I'd never been subbed in.

The All-Seeing Aye — or Kirstie — was wrapping up her schtick. She was so much better at this than Dave: she seemed to love the publicity and the paparazzi and the sponsorship deals and the general grind to monetize her time here. Dave found it grubby and exhausting and wished he had her drive. In fact, all the other Team GB divinators were better at it than him. Even Iain, a grumpy old Scott who went by the stage name of Scottstrodamus, managed to project a roguish charm when needed. Whereas when he saw himself on TV, Dave just looked old, surly, and fat.

He sighed, and tried to focus on the game ahead.

This was the last game of the group stage. They were up against the Chileans, while the Flemish played the Moroccans. The Flemish were useless, unlikely to make it into the last sixteen. The Moroccans were passable. But the Chileans: they were really good. They were all shamans called machi, and they carried big round leather drums and wore huge black cloaks with their numbers on the back. They looked much more imposing than the flimsy red, white and blue of his kit, which, while great for sporting endeavours like running, didn't do much for his figure.

I don't know how we're going to stop them, he thought. I'm sure half the reason they're so successful is their crazy drumming.

He rubbed his forehead and hoped he wouldn't look stupid on live TV.

Outside, the crowd was roaring one of the track heats. Dave thought that it might be the men's eight hundred metres. The presenter was making the kind of noises that meant she would soon say '...and now, back to the studio...' which implied she wouldn't be interviewing him, which was a relief. But that just meant that soon he'd be facing that crowd, and he wasn't sure that made him much happier.

Kirstie was their captain and attacking psychic, as far as Dave could tell, mostly just shouted at them, and everyone else. Iain was their blocker: his job was to stop the other teams from reading what they were doing. Dave and his other team-mate, Clara (professional name of Disputin — she'd been a solicitor from Exeter before being a professional psychic athlete) did the actual divinations. He quite liked Clara. She wrinkled her nose in amusement when he made bad jokes and was good at predicting cards; but the fact was that she was frightened of slugs and everyone knew it, and a good offensive team would push past Iain's defence and make Clara hallucinate the damn things everywhere.

Dave was only in the team because their first choice had become embroiled in a betting scandal involving the dressage team. He'd been subbed in at the last minute. The other three had trained together for weeks, knew each other incredibly well, were a well-oiled machine. He felt like a rusty cog.

The presenter finished her interview; she smiled, wished them luck, and trooped out, followed by the camera and lighting people. Kirstie smiled back, which vanished as soon as the only people in the room were the athletes.

'Right then, you lot,' she said. 'I'm not having my backside handed to me by those drumming weirdos. Iain: you're gonna keep them out of our head. No inch given, not at all. Clara and Dave: do not lose your shit, no matter what happens. I will pummel them into the ground. Do we all understand?'