“Chapter 7


“No!” screamed Coach Robsson. “No, no no no no!”
The FFB match official standing before him looked down at his clipboard.
“I’ve double checked,” he said, “and it clearly says, Pestigor.es versus White Men in Black Suits, which, may I just add, is a really odd name for a wood elf team.”
“Thank you. You may not,” barked the coach.
“The official shrugged. That’s what it says. That’s what was agreed. That’s what gets played.”
And with that he turned and limped away, his wooden leg making small indentations in the soft turf.
Coach Robsson sank back down onto his stool and shook his head.
“My beautiful new pitch,” he muttered. “Why oh why did it have to be a team of nurgles? I’m sure it said Pestogor.es was a team of slann. That would have been fine. All that hopping wouldn’t have done any damage to my new grass, but nurgle. Anything but that, please. The slime and the bits of decayed flesh and the disease, not to mention the blood that’s sure to be added to the mix. Bah!”

The day before, Coach Robsson had presented the new pitch to his players. It had cost him most of the gold he’d saved up over the previous few matches, plus a couple of favours he’d had to call in with the Wood Wizards of Waverley, but he’d managed to get a brand new turf laid while the team had been out on the road. Now the field was lush and green and soft, and there were, in true wood elf style, even some patches of daisies here and there. The players had been delighted, running and jumping and frolicking on the new grass like a bunch of… well, wood elves really. Even The Lion and the Unicorn had taken a deep breath, stretched and wiggled his toes, but Robsson had been firm and banned him from taking root – at least until the turf had had time to settle.

And now it was all about to be ruined by a bunch of slime-ridden monsters who wouldn’t know a well-cultivated pitch if it got up and bit them. And Coach Robsson sincerely hoped the Waverley Wizards had left something magical in the soil that might help it do just that.
“Beds!” he shouted to his wardancer. “Stop hugging the grass and get set up. We’ve won the toss and I want a score on the board before I sit down again.”
“Yes, Boss,” the wardancer replied and went off to sort out his players.

Sure enough, the first score came almost at once, in typical White Men style. A long bomb from passer to catcher in what was now called the So Much-One More move.
“Hey, Coach,” called One More Cup of Coffee as he set up for the kick-off. This new grass is great. It’s like I’m floating.”
In fact, the new grass was having a marked effect on team moral – much more than even Robsson had imagined it would. His players were dodging well, bouncing back from blows that would have floored them only a few days before, and even dishing out some punishment of their own. Peace Frog was doing especially well, with two rotters to his credit and The Lion and the Unicorn added another to his slowly growing total.

Crunch! Splinters of wood flew in all directions and The Lion pitched sideways – unfortunately gouging out a deep groove in the new soil.
Even before Coach Robsson could shout, Doc Onholiday was on his feet and sprinting out to the centre of the field. By now he was quite skilled in tree surgery and he worked quickly to stem the trickle of sap that was oozing from the snapped trunk.
It took a while for the poor treeman to be removed from the field, especially as Coach Robsson refused to allow the groundsmen to drag him across the new grass and Doc Onholiday spoke to the coach while he waited.
“It’s touch and go. I’ve stopped the sap but I’ll need to find something to plug up the gap and he’ll lose a bit of his mobility as a result.”
Robsson nodded and shrugged. He wasn’t much of a mover anyway. As long as he can still stand there and hit things he should be okay. Do what you can and get him back to me as soon as possible.”

But even without The Lion propping up the front line, the wood elves were playing the game of their lives, running rings round the nurgles and doing what they could to stay just out of reach of the slimy fists which came their way. And whenever they fumbled the ball, there was One More Cup of Coffee waiting to collect it and take it home. By the time the final whistle blew, he had scored five of the team’s six touchdowns, the other one going to Snow (Hey-Oh) – her first.


* * * * *


“Six fouls!” complained Coach Robsson to the referee. “How could you fail to notice six fouls?” The old dwarf looked up at the coach and shrugged.
“It’s a rough game. Players get injured from time to time. You don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
“But there are rules. Blocking is one thing, but kicking a guy when he’s down… well, I know it happens… a lot, but it is still against the rules.”
“All I saw out there today was good, old-fashioned BloodBowl. Listen. You won the match, humiliated the opposition, came away with a bit of gold. So what if they got a bit cross and maybe stretched the rules a bit…”
“Stretched the rules?”
“…but you survived it didn’t you. Now, stop complaining and go celebrate or something. I’ve got to go and, erm, talk to my bank manager about something.”
And with that the dwarf hurried off, the large bulge in his jacket pocket clinking as he went.
”