[Co-D'ohs]

Originally posted by Godzilla Blitz:


I am standing at a press conference, answering questions about the Penn State defeat, when Bibi Gunn, that damn ESPN reporter, appears out of nowhere. She is frantically waving her hand and trying to get me to pick her, but she finally just blurts out, “Blitz’s been fired!!!! It just hit the news!!!” A roar of joy goes up from everyone there. They stand up and frantically strip off their suits and dresses. Underneath they have gold Notre Dame sweatsuits. The Notre Dame fight song starts to play somewhere in the background. One of the reporters screams, "Let's get him!" and they surge forward towards me. Suddenly I realize that I am standing in the middle of the stadium field on what is a cool, clear, beaufitul autumn afternoon. 80,000 fans are roaring and pouring onto the field, screaming for my blood. Cries of “Kill Blitz!” and “Get him!” fill the air. My players, led by Eggers, Stephens, Goodwin, and others I have abused, are rushing forward as well. The reporters are the first ones to me. They start sticking me with their pens, try to pummel me with their notebooks. I recoil in pain and try to protect myself but there are just too many of them. Then the players and fans hit the mob around me, and push the now kicking and punching reporters into me. We all go down into a pile, me on the bottom. The weight is unbearable, the noise deafening. And the pain--everywhere there is pain. I can feel my nose snap, the blood rush back into my mouth. My ankles twist, bones crack and snap with violent, ripping pain. I start to lose consciousness, the pain and the weight pressing me further into an onrushing darkness. With a rush, the din subsides, and I find myself floating in a pitch black void. My heart pounds. I gasp for air. I can feel the blood running down my face, the stings of the pens, the ache of the blows; I can still smell the autumn turf and the chalk on my body. I taste sticky sweet blood in my mouth. But there is no light. I am suspended in ebony nothingness. Suddenly a door clicks opens below me, there is blinding light from behind it, the world swivels so I come level with the door. I can see the siloettes of three persons standing in the door. I can tell from the shapes that they are men and they are wearing old football uniforms; the distinct shape of the helmets gives them away. Tough men, wide shoulders, gangly arms, thick legs. They are walking towards me now, unseen eyes on me, their slow swagger suggesting grim purpose. The click of their cleats the only sound. With the light behind them, I cannot see faces. But I know who they are: Hornung, Gipp, Rockne. Upon reaching me, the Gipper, in the middle, looks left then right, quietly asks “Shall we?” to the others. The others nod. A frantic fear washes over me, and I make the effort to struggle, but I cannot move a muscle—the fly in the web. They step forward, their thick arms encircle my head, I cannot breathe, everything is going black again. I try to scream, to free the arms around my neck and head, but my lungs grasp no air, my arms no hold on their iron grip. Suddenly, my head twists violently, white light explodes inside my skull, I feel the snaps shoot down my spine. A silent scream…

I wake up. I am at home, in bed. It is the middle of night. I am covered in sweat. That's what I get for moving that damn dream catcher.

The pressure is getting to me, guys.

One more day to “The click”.