Scrivener's Reply - The Loser

Because you demanded it, (well, specifically, since Amy demanded it) here's a little something I cooked up in the confines of whatever skill at writing I have left.  Read and maybe be inspired to submit your approval/disapproval.  I really gotta do more of this stuff to stay in practice.  Anyone else out there want to see me attempt and fail to write stories?

The Loser

A television washes a blue light over a barren den.  The game long over and his mates long gone, Craig thought about retiring to the oversized twin bed upstairs and shutting it all down.  After several seemingly epic hours of stunned silence from the captain's chair, it was about time.

With the strength of Ajax, Craig peeled himself from the leather sleeve of his seat, stumbled towards the stairwell in a vertigo funk, and leaned on a caramel plaster wall laden with ancient trophies.  Cold weather still gave him a dull ache in his knee, but with the room spinning there were other pains to come.  An empty bottle of Wild Turkey told him as much and the sea-torn battle in his stomach proved it.  A soft chuckle burst through his lips as he spotted Tucker lapping up the bits of party left on the bamboo floor.  Numbly, a curt "Tucker!" got the dappled greyhound loping away.

Seven games it had lasted, of which the last being the most excruciatingly anxious back-and-forth contest he'd seen all year.  Seven games totaling more than 100 goals ending in one champion, one cup lifted, and hopes shattered.  He'd almost thrown the television out the window when Todd Bertuzzi scored the go-ahead goal on a cheap shot power play in the third period, but the game wasn't over.  It wasn't until triple zeroes hit the score board that his guests strained and yelled to keep him from going foaming mad.

A last stair cast an evil grin upon Craig's feeble attempt to ascend.  Just a few more bedward lurches to salvation laid before him.  Steeling himself and ignoring gravity-challenged eyelids, Craig attempted to focus on the feathery pillows, the heavy fleece blanket, and the thought that next season, things would be different.

Next season there would be new players, maybe some more new rules, and there would be no more team from British Columbia for his team to deal with in the finals. Next season, Craig would be married happily, living in a lakeside cottage along a golden coastline surrounded by glittering rocks and crystal, blue water.  Next season, there would be no whiskey and no tears.  There would be jubilant celebrations spilling into the frozen streets of Aurora, there would be embraces for everyone, and a gallant ticker-tape parade.  Headlines would scream, "The Cup is OURS!" and previous seasons' disappointments would be locked shut in the drawers of forgotten memory.

All this Craig dreamed as he lost his fight with consciousness.  The final step cackled with glee as an alcohol-swollen body thumped each redwood stair with the occasional crack of bone in flight. 

When they found Jigsaw Craig twisted across his polished floor the following morning, the television was in a test pattern, cold pizza sat alone in a crowd of empty silver bullets, Tucker was licking Craig's broken jaw in sympathy, and he had nothing on but the stained and tattered jersey of a losing team.

Gurgling through the assault of canine saliva, one could make out in strangled English...

"Next season..."