"And with the final pick in the NWFL Entry Draft, the commissioner chooses... the Pleasantview Plumbbobs!"

Over and over the image replayed on team owner Frank Pratch's crystal ball. A cosmic joke is what it felt like to him, a joke and he was the punchline. The Plumbbobs were not a real team, of hard living, harder hitting sportselfs. They were a ragtag collection of upper middle-class elves; fathers, mothers, co-workers, and friends who had for years played in the local no-touch FlagBowl league. An event to get out of the house, run around a bit, and have some wholesome, lighthearted fun.

But one small mistake in paperwork meant all that was gone. As always, every season they had to submit their application to the NFWL, the National Flag Wearer's League. However, the team secretary, drunk after a night consorting with dark elven girls, transposed one little letter, and the application was mailed off to the NWFL, a Blood Bowl league.

Several players had quit the team immediatly upon hearing the news. One, Skip Broke, even was found dead in a suspicious pool ladder accident, with rumors that his insurance policy did not consider death on the Blood Bowl pitch "accidental" and his policy was about to be terminated. And now Mr. Pratch had the unenviable task of convincing more townsfolk to sign up for something non of them had ever prepared for.

Sure, many were Blood Bowl fans, the wealth of Pleasantview affording many families the ability to purchase season tickets for surrounding teams. But watching Blood Bowl gives a strong appreciation of how much you don't want to actually be on the field. Looking over the files on his desk, he saw nothing but disappointment. Willy No-Legs? Harold the Concussed? His Mother in Law?! None of these players would even pass the league's admittedly lackluster physical examination, let along actually win.

It pained him, but he knew he had no choice. Ten players. He had managed to scrounge up ten players for the newly registered Pleasantview Plumbbobs, and the preseason was mere days away. If he failed to field a team he'd be faced with so many fines he'd be ruined. He picked up his pen, and filled out the last application himself. Frank Pratch would play on his own team.