Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

The goalposts themselves are violet-colored holograms that activate for field goal or extra point attempts. Striking the ‘post’ causes the ball to spin wildly, the outcome always a crapshoot.

Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler, Miami’s twenty-year-old star sophomore tailback lines up in the backfield behind his quarterback and best friend, K. C. Renner, as the game ball is set into place by Robo-Ref-a two-foot-high mobile trash-can-shaped device.

On the Miami sidelines, Mike Lavoie, the team’s offensive coordinator, selects a play from his Port-a-Coach. Sam listens as the annoying computerized voice chirps in his left ear.

Sixty-three, halfback, pitch right… on two.

Sam blocks out the crowd’s thundering crescendo and slows his pulse. His mind focuses inward, directing his consciousness into what his sports psychiatrist calls ‘the zone,’ a soothing pool of existence harbored somewhere deep within his brain.

Senior lineman Jerry Tucker squats over the pigskin, the massive 378-pound center’s buttocks stretching the reinforced polyurethane-and-steel fibers in his pants to their max. As he touches the ball, all player-coach field transmissions are instantaneously severed.

The play clock ticks backward from fifteen.

Now Sam immerses himself fully into the zone, grimacing as the familiar ripples of queasiness magnify into waves of intense pain – and time and space suddenly appear to slow to a surreal crawl. The din of noise evaporates to a dull baritone buzz. The football rises away from the turf in slow motion.

Easy… don’t jump offside. Sam waits impatiently, the burning in his gut intensifying as the leather object momentarily disappears between Tucker’s elephantine thighs, reappearing a lifetime later within K. C. Renner’s hands. The quarterback fakes left, then pivots to his right, his planted cleat tearing away a clump of artificial grass and sand that spins as it rises, twirling in the air like an orbiting Kelly green satellite.

Sam eyes the divot, his attention momentarily transfixed by grains of plastic dropping away like a comet’s tail.

Enough!

Renner pitches the football to Sam’s right. Sam plucks the floating object out of midair and secures it within the crook of his right arm. His dark eyes set upon the wall of moving bodies, his mind dissecting the fluctuating current of pads and flesh.

Miami’s right guard and tackle are pulling, but Florida State’s all-American, Ryan Ehrensberger, is blitzing from his linebacker position, and fat Tucker is too slow to stop him. Ehrensberger shoots the gap in slow motion, his eyes widening, his face a mask of contortion and glee as he bears down on the ball carrier like a child on Christmas Day.

Not today, pal…

The Mule’s quadriceps fire, the capacity crowd gasping as number 23 gallops away from the Seminole’s blitzing linebacker with an almost inhuman burst of speed.

Slipping from Ehrensberger’s lunging tackle, Sam heads for the outside corner, only to see wideout Rusty Bradford tumble in slow motion as he misses his block on FSU’s strong safety.

The outside linebacker joins him, cutting off the corner.

Have to do it the hard way…

Planting his right foot, the Mule changes direction with an ankle-breaking pivot and rushes back toward the mounds of flesh now rolling in disarray along the line of scrimmage. The safety’s expression drops as he flails helplessly at a blur of orange and white that, only seconds before, had been the Miami tailback.

A wall of bodies looms ahead. The ‘Mule’ targets Joe Mastrangelo, FSU’s 377-pound all-American, Sam’s powerful ‘stiff arm’ striking the defensive tackle’s chest like a lance, the blow knocking the bulky lineman clear off his size eighteen triple-E shoes, opening a sliver of Kelly green daylight.

Samuel Agler slips through the hole and into the clear, leaving a half dozen would-be tacklers in his wake. Invisible flames of lactic acid singe his insides as he gallops untouched toward the end zone.

He crosses the thirty yard line… the forty Who’s out there?

The female’s voice startles him. He nearly stumbles at midfield.

Speak to me, cousin. Identify yourself.

Terrified, Sam wrenches his mind free of the zone.

The crowd noise returns.

Sam staggers down the right hash marks, his chest heaving, his mind urging his exhausted muscles to move faster.

‘He’s at midfield… the forty… the thirty… the Mule’s heading for the end zone, and no one in this arena’s going to catch him-touchdown!’ Todd Hoagland, the Hurricanes’ visual color commentator, is on his feet screaming into his remote headset as waves of hysteria bombard the MTI arena.

Samuel ‘the Mule’ Agler drops to his knees in the end zone, gasping great breaths of air as his delirious teammates rush to embrace him.

4:17 p.m.

Sam leans back against the carpeted cubicle in the Hurricanes’ locker room, his aching muscles in desperate need of a rubdown. The faint scent of ammonia moves through an air-conditioned current tinged with the scent of human sweat. Wearily, he raises a plastic container of tangy cold liquid to his lips and quaffs the beverage, a few drops dribbling past his chin. The high-protein drink is loaded with amino acids and biogenic fuel designed to stimulate tissue repair and help flush his system of lactic acid.

The media converge upon him. A dozen wireless videocams are shoved toward his face, linking each telecast to computer feeds around the world.

‘Sam, you’ve already broken the PCAA’s rushing record for a freshman, now it looks like you’re well on your way to smashing the all-time single-season rushing record. Can we safely assume you’ll bypass your junior year and declare yourself eligible for the GFL’s draft?’

‘Look, we lost a tough game today. I don’t want to talk about my future. Christ, don’t you guys ever get tired of asking the same questions?’

‘We’ll stop asking when you start giving us answers.’ Diane Tanner leans in, the blond bombshell’s tight gray-and-red ESPN leotard revealing more than most of the toweled athletes watching in the wings. ‘For instance, can you confirm rumors you’ve negotiated a contract to play basketball with the GBA next season?’

Sam steals a glance at K. C. Renner, who is flicking his pierced tongue at him from across the locker room. ‘I’ve been offered a dozen contracts, but I haven’t signed anything. Besides, if and when I do turn pro, it will be to play football. The Global Basketball season is way too long.’

‘A lot of GBA owners would be willing to sign you just for the playoffs. The London Monarchs’ owner told me last week that he’d even allow you to use his private jet.’

‘Enough! Ask me about today’s game, or we’re done.’

‘I have a question.’ Sun Sentinel beat writer Ethan McElwee pushes his video feed a little closer. ‘Miami only scored one touchdown, four below its season average. Was the FSU defense really that tough?’

‘They’re tops in the nation for a reason. They hit hard, as hard as any team we’ve faced.’

CNN sportscaster Cal Kitson squeezes between McElwee and Sam, offering the football star a tantalizing view of her Indian red-tinged cleavage. ‘Mule, in two years, no one’s ever come close to tackling you behind the line of scrimmage, yet in the third quarter alone, Jesse Gordon, Florida State’s left defensive end, caught you twice. How do you explain that?’

‘Gordon’s quick. He made a coupla nice plays.’

‘And those rumors about point spreads?’

‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’