Pa Footstompa woke up in his tent, disturbed by the racket outside. He grunted; a brawl had probably broken out, again. He'd have to crash some heads if he wanted to keep sleeping.
He picked up his mace and exited, screaming at the top of his lungs: "ARRIGHT, YA GITS! WHAT DA BIG DEAL?"

But, much to his surprise, the boys of the tribe weren't fighting. They were chanting, screaming at the Cabal Vision screen near the fire. The shaman of the tribe, Weirdo, looked at him, making gestures: "Oi, boss! Ya gotta see dis!".

Confused, Pa sat down and looked at the screen. What he saw there shocked him. The tribe's team was playing a necromantic one. It was late in the game, and the score was tied. A replay of the last play came out: Dakka Footstompa, one of the blitzers, had just scored a Touchdown, dodging wights and ghouls left and right. The boys had a chance at not losing.

For many Orc clans, the Bloodbowl team is a source of pride and revenue. Not for Clan Footstompa. The team was pathetic: they were costantly outmatched and, even more embarassing, more often than not there were more orcs left on the field than opposing players. They were the laughingstock of the nearby tribes, and they knew it. It was so bad that the tribe had already changed name one time to avoid derision, but if possible the situation became even worse. Pa had given up on the team, he didn't even bother to go to their games any more, and so did the rest of the clan. In the end, only a handful of fans kept watching the games, and even then it was mostly to throw rocks at the players to protest.

But this time, something was different.

The pouring rain transformed into a violent blizzard. The ball was given to Big Boss, the captain, who kicked it deep in the necromantic team zone. The werewolves and the wights scattered around, trying to tie up the orc blitzers deep in their half. On the line of scrimmage, one of the journeymen the team had to hire was knocked down, but the other two boys kept on their feet. "Dey puttin' up a good fight" said someone, only to be violently silenced by the crowd. One of the werewolves blitzed Pigchompa, but the blitzer stood strong and hit back the furry thing, crashing him on the ground. The crowd roared. A ghoul picked up the ball and tried to hand it over to the other werewolf, but the icy oval slipped out of his paws. The whole tribe held its breath. The referee whistled the end of the game. It was a draw, 1-1.

"THE BOYZ DID IT!" The tribe started chanting and dancing, jumping up from their seats. Only Pa remained on his seat. A single drop started to trickle down from his eye. Aghast, the shaman looked at him: "Oi, boss. Ya cryin'?". Pa crashed him with his mace, then stood up from his seat. The whole tribe stopped celebrating. Slowly, almost solemnly, the boss approached the blackboard in the corner. He wiped it off and then wrote on it with a piece of chalk.

Now, there was written 0/1/12.

Pa grinned. It was a good day.