The Passion Of Sports
Dust blows over the streets of a once beautiful city. Houses and buildings alike lay ruined in the wake of a mighty army. It is midday. The sun shines brightly and allows the devastation to be seen in it’s clearest form. There is no one around. The once booming and busy streets stand transformed into a barren wasteland. Smoldering wood and stone still radiate with heat from the day before. My palms are sweaty. I loosen the grip on my equipment long enough to quickly wipe my hands before returning them to their rightful position. I focus. I am very tired, but I somehow manage to pull a state of mental clarity from an ocean of fatigue. I look to my right. As I expected to see, my faithful companion is just at my side, never seeming to fall even a pace out of line. We are both warriors, trained in the arts of war for many years. Our skill is matched only by our honor and devotion.
But we are not alone. The landscape may look empty, but looks can be deceiving and therefore deadly. We expect our enemy to be around every wall, and every corner; that has gotten us this far. We put caution into every step, and although we are courageous we fear our enemy, for he is one that deserves respect. He is a marksman, a genius, a master of combat, with skill beyond our own. He is all that remains of the enemy, and of that we are afraid, for there will be no more easy kills.
The open road is dangerous, so we seek refuge in a hollowed out shop. As we sit and rest our legs I take a look around me. I notice that a bomb must have landed on the roof the day before, blasting the ceiling to the floor; only the walls remained. A minute passes. We feel unsafe in our position and decide to move on. The houses are close together and we find it easy to travel through them without going outside. We make our way through the neighborhood with caution. We move house to house using anything we can for cover. But our best efforts for discretion are not reassuring, for the feeling of paranoia seeps deeper and deeper into our souls.
“It feels like he’s watching us,” says my friend.
Trying to comfort him, I say, “If that were true we’d already be dead right now.” Knowing that I’m right, but for some reason not feeling any better, he sighs and reluctantly agrees.
Despite not seeing any signs of the assassin, we decide to take up a position in an abandoned warehouse and wait for him to come to us. We sit on the floor and lean our backs on an old desk. In front of us is a blasted-out opening in the wall about four feet wide and three feet deep. In silence, we wait in ambush position; waiting to take the life of any so unfortunate as to walk in front of us.
We seem to wait for an eternity when all of a sudden… something. A foot step. The sound comes from outside. My grip tightens, as I raise my cross-hairs to my eye. Out of the corner of my vision a horror unfolds before me as impatience gets the best of my friend. He stands up and leans forward to better look through the opening. Suddenly, the crack of a riffle rings through my ears. My friend’s grip loosens, and he drops his weapon. He falls to his knees and finally to the ground. I am alone.
In the horror of this gruesome site, a second chill runs down my spine .I realize that the shot had came from inside the same room as I. Questions begin to speed through my mind. Did he flank us, or were we actually so unfortunate as to choose the very shelter of the enemy? Does he know that I’m here, or does he think my friend was alone?
I sit clinching my Thompson unable to move. He could be slipping out the backdoor to evade me yet again, but all I can imagine is the evil sniper perched on a stool behind me aiming at my only source of cover. I form a strategy and make my move. I pluck a hand grenade from my belt, pull the pin, and hurl it as hard as I can behind me. I waste no time and dart out of the cover of the desk; aiming my Thompson to the back of the room. My plan is working, the assailant is flushed from his hole, and he is running towards me. I too am running, and I notice that he has left behind his riffle. He pulls out his pistol and begins firing. I waste no time and begin firing back.
We both make skillful maneuvers; trying not to get shot while trying to kill our opponents at the same time. Time slows down, and through the distractions of sound and flame, I steer each bullet into my opponent. In an instance it is over. My aim has been true and proved that his pistol is no match for my Thompson. Before he can even fall to the ground, my long over-due grenade erupts; propelling his body towards my feet.
As I stand triumphant over my dying opponent, I can‘t help feeling a sense of admiration, but before he dies he looks up at me and says, “We will meet again in another life.”
And, indeed, we would meet again; many times in fact. Our skills ever-sharpening. Our reflexes ever-quickening. The computer becomes an extension of my body. The monitor is my eyes. The keyboard is my body. And, the mouse is the hand that will send many warriors into the next world.
