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The Pork hadn't attached all that much significance to the damned game in the first place. Not like some of the guys, anyway. Christ, there was one dude who was convinced that every block he threw was a steppingstone to a contract with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Sure, the Pork daydreamed a little about getting past the last Fuzz safetyman and hauling in a nice, spiralling bomb just as he eased into the end zone at Schaefer Stadium.

But some of the gentlemen that signed up to play football for the Freaks were masters of self-delusion. One of them wept openly when that big hand descended upon his shoulder and he was told that no, there just wasn't a place for him on the Big Team. You'd think that you were taking bread out of his family's mouth or something, the way he carried on, slamming his helmet around, wailing like a goddamned banshee.

Most of the people that tried out for the Freak varsity were somewhat more realistic about their capabilities at least. A few of the boys had played college ball at Princeton or someplace else where they don't consider football too important. But most of them were hackers, you know. Guys out for a little fun, for charity. It was a casual thing. The Freaks versus The Fuzz in a tackle football game in front of 50,000 people at a $5 top. All of the proceeds go to Project Turnabout, a halfway-house for drug addicts. Beautiful.

There was one catch, though. Where did you draw the line between who qualified for each category? As it was originally envisioned, you'd essentially have a bunch of very strange people with long hair on the one hand, and a bunch of red-faced, beer-bloated law enforcement officials on the other. But it became apparent in the early going that the parameters were going to have to be stretched a little, because if one side didn't adhere precisely to the criteria that had been set down, the other side was going to get massacred, for sure. And one thing this country doesn't need is a little more division among the ranks.

So, on the sly, there would be some subtle winnowing out of the rosters. A lot of the guys in the funny T-shirts were going to go by the wayside, and a few studs would be imported to beef up the starting lineups. This worried The Pork. Among the first recruits, he had been an ace. Your basic wide receiver. Not with an arsenal of moves, but your standard head feints and hip fakes, and sticky hands. A former JV captain for the Boston Technical Tigers, who had gotten away from the game, but was still within a few hundred pushups and pass patterns of his top form.

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But the word was that the Fuzz, coached by former Patriot Earthquake Hunt, were deputizing guys, giving them badges so they'd qualify on the surface, at least. Drastic revisionary measurer were needed, and pretty soon these guys from the Malden Colts began showing up at Sunday practice and observing the proceedings. A couple at first, but the number began growing, and after a while the whole damn offense was running through signal drills. A guy named Rick Furbush, who handed off to Ed Marinaro at Cornell for two years, was quarterback. Richie Szaro who sent Furbush home a loser two years ago with a field goal in the snow at Harvard Stadium, was around to handle any kicking that might be desired. In all, the quality of the team had risen, you understand, but a lot of the newcomers weren't exactly the kind of Freaks you and I have been seeing down at Tommy's Lunch for the past couple of years. Quite a few of them looked like they got their hair styled at Annapolis. And they didn't hawk The Phoenix for a living either. These boys operated heavy equipment during the week. Steamshovels, Graders, Clamshells, Backhoes, Incredible stuff, flcrissake. It was like Volpe Construction Company and the Boston Park League all rolled into one.

Meanwhile, the word at the Fuzz training camp at Milton was that Freaks coach Gary Farneti was assembling The New Left College All-Stars or something. There was a guy on the roster from Oklahoma State, one from Marshall, a few from Northeastern, and a wide receiver from Villanova that eventually sent The Pork to the taxi squad. Earthquake began to tremble.

The latest rumor is that there are only 10 genuine law enforcement agents on the entire Fuzz squad, the rest consisting of concerned townspeople. If that's so, then one might be better off simply mailing a check to Project Turnabout, Brighton, Mass., and waiting to watch the Killilea Club play the South Boston Chippewas. At least there, there is truth in packaging.

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