For those who’ve never played hitball, it plays like a cross between cricket, rugby, and a trip to the doctors. Two teams of fifteen play on opposite sides of a really big cricket pitch with two posts separated by roughly 40 meters. It has to be that long because when you get to the pro leagues everybody and their goat has max Agility and Abilities for moving fast and hitting hard.

A pitcher pitches to a batter, who bats the ball as far as he can. Then the batter runs to touch the wickets, back and forth, as many times as he can. Just like cricket.

But here’s where it gets different. The opposing team gets to try and tackle the runner to prevent the run, while his team tries to block them. Additionally, if you can bean the runner with the ball, that’s an out. If you can tackle the runner and hold him on the ground for 5 seconds without his team throwing you off, that’s an out. If you can catch the ball on the hit, that’s an out.

There are all kinds of advanced plays, like a big scrum with the runner in the middle. Jumping over the defenders to bean the runner with the ball. Running rucks to clear a tackled runner. So on and so forth. It was a brutal game, and the single most popular sport in Crack.

In Tree it was a far second, behind a sport called Topknots. After years of underground arenas, it was interesting to see the Tree equivalent. The Tree hitball dome reminded me of Roger’s Arena from back on Earth – a long low-slung oval with rounded edges and sweeping lines. Unlike most of the architecture in Tree, the arena was made of stone; no plant would’ve been big enough.

Today was the big semi-finals championship game between the Tree Springleafs and the Kinshasa Shalesharks. Two of the biggest names in hitball, and we had front row seats!

“Thanks again fer tha tickets, Kirk.” I said, nudging the big lug in the hip. “I haven’t been to a professional game yet.”

“Ach! You’ve been missin’ out! Me’n me Annie have been ta all tha farm games. But this is me first time to one of thasemi-finals! These tickets are almost impossible ta get!” Balin chirped.

He was right. The place was packed, and we weren’t even inside yet. We were currently in the gathering lot just outside the front entrance, and the mood was electric. Dwarves painted and dressed up in team colours jostled, fought, swore, and tossed each other with gleeful abandon. Every once in a while a dwarf would get tossed up into the crowd, and we’d crowd surf them away and then throw them somewhere inconvenient.

“Where’s Mister Goldstone?” Kirk asked, craning his neck. “I’m surprised you brought him. I figured you’d bring your lady friend.”

“Ran off to get beers. He said ‘No point in waitin’ in line with a dry mouth!’” Balin pointed to a bevy of carts and street vendors off in the distance. “He’s over there somewhere.”

“I hope he can find us.” Kirk said, his lips tight.

“Jeremiah was in need of a boys' night out, and you were offerin’.” I looked the giant up and down. He was nearly half again as tall as most of the other people here, and his snappy silken robin hood outfit really stood out amongst all the chainmail and leather. He stood out. “I think he’ll manage ta find us,” I snorted. “What about ‘yer buddy? Wasn’t he all eager ta come and chat?”

Kirk nodded. “Aye. He’ll be about. He just had to – ah, there he is! Oy! Val! This way!” Kirk waved, and just on the outside of the gathering area I made out a tall blonde giant who waved back.

“Is his name actually Val?” I asked.

“Nah. It’s just what we call him. His real name is Valarienne, but nobody can spell it. His mum and dad were… uh.”

I cringed. I’d had a cousin whose name was Zacharaeiagh – a true tragedy.

“Sorry I’m late,” Val said as he trotted up. He had the same Cascadian accent as Kirk, though much higher pitch. He was dressed fairly casually, in a frilly elven sarong and light cotton tee, with some thick leather hiking boots.

Up close he wasn’t quite as tall as Kirk, though still a giant. He had an affable clean-shaven face with slightly droopy eyes and an arched nose. He also had a serious dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were blue, and he was teeth-gnashingly handsome.

For a giant.

“No problem, Val.” Kirk gestured at me and Balin. “Val, meet Pete and Balin Roughtuff. Gents, meet Val.”

Val immediately hung his fist out for a fist bump, and cheerily greeted us. “Ah! The famed Roughtuff brothers! Or should it be Goldstone? I’ve heard both.” His motions were smooth and considered, which spoke of a high Dexterity.

“Not yet.” Balin smiled, blushing while he bumped back. “Hopin’ it’ll be soon.”

“So, are you the one our Kirk has been runnin’ off with in the evenings?” I asked, giving Val a wink. “He won’t tell us a bloody thing.”

Val and Kirk shared a look, and Val smiled. “Of a sort. Kirk certainly had a lot to say about you. It’s actually why I wanted to meet you.”

I feigned shock. “I thought you just wanted ta watch a good old game of hitball!”

“Hah! That too. It’s such a fun sport to watch!”

“There’s Jeremiah!” Kirk waved frantically, and Jeremiah maneuvered his way through the crowd, his arms full of beer. On one occasion a trio of dwarves tried to steal his tray, but it was nothing Jeremiah couldn’t handle with brutal efficiency.

“Here’s yer drinks.” Jeremiah muttered, passing a single mug to Balin, myself, and Kirk. “Do you want one too?” He asked Val.

Val pointed at a flask he was carrying at his hip. “I have my own drink, but thank you.”

There was a rustle in the crowd, and we began to move forward, carried by the eager wave of dwarves.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Don’t trip.” I snickered, as Val nearly fell over a pair of dwarfesses festooned in hitball paraphernalia.

We swept into the stands, which stretched up the sides of the arena a good dozen meters. It really did remind me of Roger’s Arena. But then again, the arenas in Minnova and Kinshasa hadn’t been that different. I guess there’s an ideal way to build a sport’s plaza, and it’s pretty universal.

Our seats were located halfway up, not in the nosebleeds, but not front row seating either.

Balin was still impressed. “I gotta ask how ya got these tickets. It’s been damn hard fer me and Annie to get even off-season, and here you got somma tha best seats, and fer tha semis!”

“Some friends in high places.” Val said, smiling softly. “Namely a friend willing to stand in line for a week to get them.”

“Ach! You can do that!?” Balin looked flabbergasted. “Don’t ya need ta buy tha’ tickets fer yerself!?”

Jeremiah and I gave Balin simultaneous pitious looks. He was so gosh darn innocent sometimes.

Val laughed, and then grew uncomfortable as he realized Balin was serious. “Ahem. Yes. Though you are limited to no more than 5 tickets.”

Balin looked like his entire world had turned upside down and I patted him on the back. “We’ll ask one of Ironbellow’s lads ta stand in line for tha finals, okay?”

“We coulda been doin’ that the entire time?” Balin moaned.

“Wonder why Annie never thought of it.” Jeremiah said, looking thoughtful.

“I imagine she tried to send Aqua and Aqua told her to shove off. Look over there!” I pointed down at the field, where a band was getting set up. They had bagpipes and a pretty big drumset, so I was expecting some traditional dwarven bagpiping.

Imagine my surprise when they broke into a rousing rendition of one of Berry’s original songs. The crowd roared their approval as fire erupted from the bagpipes and soared up into the air to form a flaming dragon that spiraled around the arena.

“More music magic?” Balin asked, entranced.

“Nah, look over there.” I pointed to where a gnome was hiding behind the bandstand. “He’s wavin’ a wand. Good showmanship!”

The band was soon joined by a large group of dwarves dressed in the black and silver, the colours of the Kinsahsa Shalesharks. They wore a serious amount of facepaint in a somewhat tribal style. They took up a pose as the band ran down, then began to stomp their feet in a slow cadence.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Ach, yer in fer a treat! Tha Shalesharks have one’a tha best pump squads in tha league!”

“Pump squad?” Was that like cheerleaders?

To answer my question, the dwarf at the front barked an order, and the squad began to stomp in greater intensity, faster and faster. They were soon joined by the crowd, as every dwarf wearing Shaleshark colours began to stomp their feet to the rhythm.

“It’s a haka.” I whispered, entranced by the display. The pump squad beat their chests and made threatening gestures and faces at the opposing stand, who did their best to jeer back, but they were drowned out by the stomping.

Suddenly, the dwarves at the end of the line broke off and swept around to meet in the middle. I’d figured they were going to do some kind of dance, but instead the dwarf on the left reached back and then socked his partner in the jaw.

His partner spun with the blow, and then spun around with a low kick, which was dodged with a quick leap. They traded blow after blow in what I began to recognize was a kata, and they were soon joined by another pair, and then another, until the entire pump squad was spinning in an intricate dance of fists and fury.

And then they began to scream a song. Well, it was more like angry poetical yelling. Each swing of fists and feet was punctuated by voices enhanced by [Project Voice].

Swing! Yer bat, and Swing! Yer fist!

Pound! Yer foe, and Pound! Them quick!

Make ‘em pay for every yard,

Break them ‘pon yer iron guard!

Smash! Their face, and Smash! The wick!

Hack! The keeper, Hack! The stick!

Ruck on over if ya fall,

Make them pay to get the ball!

Sink! Yer teeth, and Sink! Their hearts!

Bite! Their throats, yes Bite! Those tarts!

Raise yer fins and show yer flukes,

Then surprise them with yer dukes,

Shale! Sharks!

During each singing of the chorus, the crowd would scream “Shale! Sharks!” and the fighting would increase in intensity. Soon the entire arena was practically reverberating with the stomping of feet, and then just as suddenly as it had started, it ended as the fighters all crouched with one fist on the ground, forming a perfect outline of a shaleshark.

The crowd roared their approval.

The pump squad filed out, and were replaced by a surprising sight. A group of a dozen dwelves in the red and green of the Tree team entered to raucous cheers from the Tree side of the arena.

“Their pump squad is all elves?” I asked.

“Needs to be.” Kirk said, leaning forward excitedly. “I’ve heard about this. You’ll see.”

“It’s barbaric is what it is.” Balin groused. “Bad fer tha’ sport.”

“Shut it! I’m watching!” I grumbled.

There was a sudden hush, and I recognized an Ability of some sort being used. A powerful one, to silence such a large area.

There was a *shing* sound, as each of the dwelves pulled out a long saber. Like the team before them, they began to perform a choreographed kata. Except instead of song, they let the clang of their sabers act as a form of music. They spun faster and faster in a chiming dance of death. It was ethereal and terrifying.

Suddenly, one of the elves in the center tore off his uniform, revealing the black and silver of the Shalesharks. As one, the rest of the elves turned on him, their sabers flashing in the light. He fended them off in a brilliant display of footwork – dancing and spinning.

But then, to my horror, one of his feet went flying.

Then an arm. Then a leg.

He fell to the ground on his remaining knee, looking up at the stands in defiance.

And then the squad chopped his head off. It flew through the air in a graceful arc, and landed with a thud in the grass.

I squeaked, and there were a few yelps, but the Tree crowd rose to their feet as one and screamed bloody murder. “SPRINGLEAFS!!!!”

“By all tha bits of tha Gods!” I whispered.

“Effective.” Jeremiah mused, looking around at the Kinshasa crowd. They were definitely more subdued than they had been a moment ago.

“And he’ll be walking around tomorrow like nothing ever happened. Elves.” Kirk muttered.

“You know, the elves have a saying – ‘You can always live again’ – it makes sense when they do stuff like that,” Val said.

“Bah! It’s tha’ game that really matters.” Balin pointed to a passageway, where we could just see a dwarf walking out onto the field. He was dressed in the black and white of a referee, and he waved at everyone as he entered. His Ability enhanced voice echoed through the arena.

“IS EVERYONE READY FOR SOME HITBALL??”

The crowd roared their approval.

“THEN LET’S GET THESE SEMI-FINALS STARTED!”