“"When it was reported to Jeans mum about the horrible death of the teams one and only starplayer, she knelt and swung a gallon of acid in the face of the coach. Running from their swamphut, screaming, tumbling, he realised that Nothing could be as before... the he past away... Jean had been the star and the city had a time for sorrow for 8 days... a ridiculous hit (some mean folks said that she fell over too easily, perhaps being druged before) and then one of those nasty hitters. He was hated everywhere, Vichel... Vichel... Vichel... the tiny thrall had apparently brought a knife on the pitch. Everyone agreed, probably for the first time ever. Vichel had a knife! Yes! Directly after the game Dark Gentlemen (bah! They had a hitter, gentlemen... bah!) had put up the record so everyone could see who did the kill. Coach was down, noone knew if he was to survive, or if the team was to be split, and only time could tell."

Thanks for a sweet game. I was truly lucky except for one minor dice. One. Hope to see you around again.”