Twelve giants, heroes all, kneel exhausted on the gridiron, arms raised in praise to a savage god. Their women watch from places of honor in the stands, each hoping that last night's revels have left within her the seeds of future victors. The throng cheers as acolytes carry the vanquished from the field.
A dozen priests raise a dozen obsidian blades. The clamor stills; the cameras close in. There is a clean crunch, this year, and a dozen heads strike the turf as one.
That night, after the stains have dried, an old man paints a fresh fifty-yard line.
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Last updated 11/4/1997
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