Part Two: Altador Cup V, Practice

Three Years Later

And so I joined the Lost Desert Yooyuball team in Y9, as the new left defender. I was advertised as a "journeyman"—not exactly flattering, but a lot better than "clueless uncultured know-nothing" or "amateur-league n00b".

Whether I was a pleasant surprise or a disappointment wasn't very clear. In Y9, Altador Cup II, the Lost Desert ended up with another fifth place stading. However, I don't think it was so terrible this time around. The Altador Cup had adopted a new double round robin format, which, unlike the old system, didn't eliminte any teams if they lost a match. I think it was just dumb luck that they changed the format that year. Otherwise, I might've been a goner.

Leera Heggle, my trusty captain, reassured me that I was an asset to the team, that my consistency was a breath of fresh air and a much-needed aspect to our roster. While I did acknowledge that I was a good, solid defender, and helped keep the team afloat, I was no star player. I played a small, stupid, but necessary part, making sure the Yooyu neither reached our goal nor got to the opposing forwards. It was possibly the hardest and most overlooked role in the game.

It was the forwards who got the fame, and goalkeeper who got the sympathy. But defenders were the ones who were blamed when something went wrong. Rarely does the team manager consider knocking out a forward. Goalies are sometimes taken into consideration, but it's always too much of a risk. But defenders were forever at the mercy of roster changes, tournament failures, and the threat of possibly being taken off or traded.

And I knew full well, when I entered this championship, that I wouldn't be recognized as a star, or have legions of fans asking for my autograph, or exclusive live interviews, anything like that. I knew that I was the one they would count on to keep the game going. And that I was the one who would take the blame if anything went wrong.

But apparently I did well. Well enough, anyway. I was a solid defenseman, who stepped up when I needed to. I got into the game, and played with everything I had. Okay, I wasn't amazing, but I was something.

Of course, to my opponents, I wasn't anything really special—I wasn't an all out threat, a terrible obstacle in the way of their victories, but I was certainly no weakling. I was at the middle of the pack, just another defender to get past. They were aware that I was a pushover—it was evident from the moment I arrived in ACII, just ask Wan Dirx and 'Wizard' Windelle. I was subjected to being pranked, shoved, tripped, and humiliated. "Trip-on Trivon," they called it. "Unnecessary sadism," I called it.

And, of course, there was the issue of my stutter. I was Luvea T-t-t-t-trivon.

I eventually got used to being pushed around. I got used to being taunted, laughed at, tripped, snorted at, and being cut in line for the water coolers or the showers. And I also got used to the strange habits of the other players, my opponents. While I didn't know anything about the places they came from, I knew that each team had its own quirks. I became familiar with their strange accents—the bouncing vowels of Roo Island, the dropped h's and g's of Krawk Island, and the choppy glottal stops of the Darigan Citadel, the guttural sounds of the Haunted Woods, the lilting sing-song of Terror Mountain, the posh, proper consonants of Brightvale, the lack of finishing or starting consonants of Mystery Island, and so on.

After I got over the initial shock, I was able to communicate with pretty much everybody. But more than anything, they still seemed like strange, exotic beings from other worlds, other planets, far removed from my own. I wanted to understand them better, as Leera advised me. I wanted to show them that maybe, just maybe, I was more than a faceless pushover defender.

But more than anything, I wanted to win. I wanted the Cup.

And it was overwhelming. Even after three years, I was still blown away by everything. Every year was like a blank slate. It was almost as if I were learning something new every day.

Before I knew it, it was that time of the year again. The fifth Altador Cup.

A lot had happened in our team. After ACII was finished, 'Dirty' Navers' contact ran out, and he announced to the manager that he would be retiring from the Altador Cup in favor of playing the major regional leagues back home. (Apparently he was tired of being lectured for his dirty play.) And so, having lost our right defender, the manager brought in a recruit, a Kiko named Lamelle Turow, famed in the Desert regionals for his unwavering determination and Herculean strength. Of course, when we first met him, we had our doubts. He was half my size and very innocent looking—not something that would make opponents quake in their boots. But looks were deceiving. Lamelle showed us his true colors in practice—he was relentless, dogged, swift, and had the strength of a Skeith. No player, when he or she had the ball, was safe from Lamelle's sneaky ball-stealing maneuvers.

With Lamelle on our team in ACIII, we did better than fifth place. We made it to the top three!

And the same thing happened in ACIV.

Both times, we had made it to the big one. And both times, we fell shy of true greatness. The gold always seemed to be out of our grasp. We got close, yeah, but never close enough. We were happy with the bronze—it was more than most people could hope for. But we knew that we could be capable of so much more. We knew that there was something in our way, something that kept us from making it to the top.

But this year—the fifth Altador Cup—this year, we wanted to make a difference.

It was early in the Month of Hunting, in Year 12, when I arrived in Altador. Already there were other athletes in the grounds, not yet in their uniforms. The days leading up to the beginning of the game were always crammed with activity. Players came in in groups, coming in from trains, boats, or by the air. Everyone got their equipment, uniforms, and rooms, and went to practice.

Leera Heggle, my trusty captain, was, as always, the first to arrive. He had been setting up goalposts, practicing, and had gotten all of his equipment by the time everyone else had arrived. I was among the last of us to get to Altador.

I ran into vonde and Lamelle on my way to the locker rooms. They were hanging out by the fountain, yards away. Lamelle, who dehydrated easily, was enjoying himself in the water, trying to splash at Vonde, despite his protests. They hadn't noticed me before Lamelle sent a huge wave at Vonde, who ducked, leaving me at the mercy of the incoming water.

"Dude!" Vonde shouted as soon as he saw me, sputtering and wiping my face.

Lamelle blanched. "Uh…whoops. Sorry, Luvea. Didn't see you there."

"It's okay." I wiped off my face. "I'm good."

"All right!" Lamelle darted out of the water, sending more droplets at us. "Great, so now that you're here, we're ready to kick ass! Good to see you again, Trivon!" He whacked my back. Hard. It was like getting hit by a truck. I fell over on my face.

"Whoops. Sorry, Luvea. Guess I don't know my own strength."

Right. Sure you don't. "It's okay."

Derbi arrived a day later. She found us in our team lounge, taking advantage of the air-conditioning—something we don't really have much of back home. Immediately she and Vonde got started on the forward-drama.

"Well, it looks like the princess is here," Vonde said, sarcastically. "Certainly took your sweet freakin' time, didn't you?"

Derbi did a deep, mocking curtsy. "As always, my humble servant."

"Derbi…" Leera said, warningly. "You've only been in this room for ten seconds. Don't get started now."

Derbi sighed and headed for her seat next to me. Leera saw Vonde's triumphant smirk, and shot him a warning glare. Vonde shrank back but said nothing. Satisfied that everything was in order for the time being, Leera nodded.

But most of all, we wondered—after two back-to-back third place finishes, everyone wondered how well we, the Lost Desert, would do this year. The gold fell out of our clutches numerous times, and now that we were considered powerhouses, we had to prove it to everyone that we were true title contenders. But could we do it?

And then Leera Heggle stood, and he addressed us all, as team captain.

"I have an announcement to make," he said. "I've been thinking long and hard over these past few months. During the off-season, I've thought about what we have accomplished so far. You're all good—you all have the skill, the technique, and the vision. But it will take more than that this time around. We've come so close to the gold these past two tourneys, and now it's time for us to step up. All we need is the will to become champions. We can do it. We are going to win this year. This is my vow."

The Altador Cup was not just a time for statistics, competition, suspense, good sportsmanship, the Altador Cup Code of Honor, and the Soul of the Tournament, yadda, yadda, yadda. It was also a journalist's heaven, a time of gossip and rumors. It was only a few days before practice and already the fans were whispering—and so were we.

Apparently, there were rumors that there was going to be a new Yooyuball team, coming from the exotic new land, Moltara. We were all very curious. We wondered what they would be like, how they played, whether they were an offensive powerhouse or an underdoggish dark horse, waiting for their moment.

But they weren't the only new players that would be coming. News of roster changes were flying around the tournament grounds.

It was possible that Krawk Island would finally meet up with their new right forward—'Dasher' Soley's replacement—and that the Haunted Woods might be getting a new centre defender, and that Brightvale might actually show up for the tournament this year. There was also something going around that maybe Terror Mountain and Tyrannia—the self-proclaimed 'Forsaken Five'—might be changing their lineups.

One by one, each of the rumors started coming true.

One day, on my way to the bathroom, I saw the Haunted Woods' team captain, Krell Vitor, dragging someone by the arm down the hall across from me. "Come on," he was coaxing. "Pick up the pace. Don't be shy."

He was leading a muscular, broad shouldered Usul about my age, with messy hair and a headband. He had to be the palest creature I'd ever seen. At first, I thought he was sick or on the verge of death, and wondered, why the hell would Krell have a sick or dying person on his team? And then I noticed that this Usul had stitches all over his body, like a rag doll, that his eyes were grey, glazed and dull, with dark circles under them, like he'd been woken up from a restless sleep, and he had a disturbingly vacant expression on his face.

It took me a minute to realize that this guy was a zombie.

I gaped at him. The impact still hadn't sunk in by the time Krell realized the zombie Usul hadn't been following him, came back, and gently dragged him away by the wrist.

The Haunted Woods' new centre defender, the poor unfortunate soul, was subjected to about a million dumbfounded stares wherever he went. But nobody dared go near him, for fear that he would bite, or worse. He didn't do much. He stayed close to his teammates and made no eye contact with anyone else, let alone speak. He pretty much just stood and stared at nothing. At least that's what it looked like.

While the new Haunted Woods zombie defender was a center of attention, he wasn't the only popular topic of conversation during the pre-season. One day, Pirates of Krawk Island went off to meet up with their new forward. Today, the goalkeeper, Garven Hale, was in the lead. He was a large, imposing Bori with grey fur, a scar, and a comically brutal face. His ear was pierced and notched, and he wore a red bandana on his head. He was a pirate—a real, honest to god pirate, just like his other grey, scarred, bandana-ed teammates.

It was a complicated era for the Pirates. Dasher, their former leader, was finally doing good on his many threats of retirement. Now they needed a new forward (not to mention a new leader). As happy as they were to meet their new teammate, it was clear to see they missed Ol' Dash already. They all looked excited, but at the same time rather glum. Even the ever-confident Garven Hale and the excitable Zayle Sufhaux were looking rather downtrodden.

They were just standing around the front opening of the colosseum, waiting, when Layton Vickles, the captain of Team Darigan Citadel, slithered by, just returning from an apparenty tiring practice. He was a Hissi, and like his teammates, was painted Darigan. He had spines down his back, and very sharp, witty yellow eyes. Only right now, they looked more exhausted than clever. He was panting and sweaty.

Garven smirked as he passed, said, in a voice roughened by alcohol and seafaring, "Well, it looks like ye finally decided to hit at the tavern, eh, Layton? Ye decided to take a washin' this time, have ye? Arr, well, welcome to the club, matey!"

Layton was clearly irritated. He turned his head and glared at him. "Shut your mouth or I'll take your Bori tail and stuff it down your noise tube, Captain Crapulous." And with that, he slithered away. Garven laughed loudly in response.

I should mention that those two were the best of friends and the greatest of rivals. It was sort of a bizarre love-hate thing. Of course, I suppose that's what happened when the greatest forward in Neopia collided with the greatest goalie in Neopia.

The hours passed. While most of us were hanging around the common lounge, the four pirates came in, looking a little less glum. Immediately we all started firing questions.

"Did you meet your new forward?"

The pirates exchanged glances. Garven nodded. "Arr, that we did."

"Aye," said Nitri, nodding, "We did get a roster change, we did."

"You miss Dasher, don't you?"

The Pirates looked at each other. And then they all grinned.

"No," said Nitri, happy as could be. "I don't miss 'im at all."

"Me neither." Ealyn was trying hard not to laugh. He turned to Zayle, who was grinning like crazy. "'Ow about ye? D'ye miss 'im?

"Nope. Not a bit." Zayle was proud of himself.

"Arr, nor do I," said Garven. He turned to his teammates. "Ahoy, mateys! Any of ye deckswabbers miss Ol' Dasher?"

"No!" The response was unanimous.

We were all stunned.

"Why don't you guys miss him?"

A familiar voice came from behind the doorway. "Yarr, because 'e 'appens to be 'ere!"

The pirates stepped out of the way to reveal Ol' Dasher himself. The same, good Ol' Dasher, in all his grey, scarred glory. He was a hale-looking Krawk, in his early fifties, his grizzled white hair a testimony to his age an experience.

Every jumped up and huddled around him. We were all so happy to see him. We all asked him if he changed his mind, and decided not to retire after all. But Ol' Dash just smiled, chuckled and shook his head. "Arr, don't be getting' yer 'opes up, mateys. Avast, me replacement got injured. Arr, a terrible sprain it was, she can't play, she couldn't, the poor lass. So I be returning for this one last game, I will. And this'd be the last one, ye 'ear? Arr, after this, I'd be retirin' for good, I will."

And so began Dasher Soley's final flight in the Altador Cup.

It was only a day before the practice season started when the Moltarans arrived at last.

They were a Kougra and an Acara, both colored magma, a very large relic Moehog, a fire Scorchio, and a purple Yurble. The Yurble and Acara were female, the rest were male.

Everybody stared. The Kougra was muscular, with broad shoulders, and strong arms and legs. The Acara was lean and athletic. The Relic Moehog was big and blocky, and moved in sharp, mechanical movements. The Yurble was smaller than the Acara, and definitely smaller than the Kougra and the Moehog. She was purple, and had wild hair pulled into a tight ponytail. The last was a small fire Scorchio, around fifteen years old. Small flames lashed from the edges of his fiery wings. His green eyes averted constantly. They were all wearing aviator caps, goggles, and other inventive gear.

Most striking of all, the Kougra and Acara were black, like coal, and flickering as if on fire.

Later that day, the Moltarans were led to the Common Lounge, and beheld us all for the first time.

I knew what would come next. Everyone began to size up the new players, who stared back without flinching (except the Scorchio).

"Well, boys," Krell said, "It looks we have a change of diet—we're having spicy food tonight."

The Moltarans seemed to falter, but they didn't back away.

Krell addressed them further. "Normally, I prefer my new meat medium rare," he said. "But I guess well will have to do."

He bared his teeth. The Scorchio immediately scooted and hid behind the Moehog. I heard snickers. The Moltarans were pretty wary just then. Only the Kougra in front wasn't afraid. He stepped forward.

"I guess that's your way of saying 'hello'," he said, assertively. He seemed more confident than the others, and more like a leader. He was the captain, for sure. "Unfortunately, I think you may find us too hot to eat."

"OOOOOHH!" Everyone gasped. Nobody ever wisecracked one of Krell's greetings before.

Krell seemed impressed. "Well," he said, "Looks like the food bites back."

The Kougra turned to face everyone, holding up his confident front. "Hello, everybody. I'm Aldric Beign, captain of Team Moltara." He went on fearlessly, regardless of stares, dirty looks, and whispers. "These guys are my squad—Tulah, Mor, Vere and Zax."

"I'm Tulah Kisner," the Acara said, getting her courage to step forward. "Pleasure to meet you folks." She paused and muttered, "I guess."

The Yurble managed a friendly smile and a wave. "Um…hi there! I'm Vere. Polnicek. Vere Polnicek! Hi!"

The relic Moehog spoke brusquely, "I'm Mor Gollog. Good to be here."

Awkward silence. Aldric looked around. "Zax? Zax, are you gonna introduce yourself?" He looked behind Mor. "Oh. Come on out, Zax."

"No way!"

"Zax, come on. They're not that scary. I'm sure that guy was just kidding about the food part. Get out."

The fire Scorchio looked out from behind Mor. His eyes were skittish as he took us in. He stepped out. "Hi." Then he hid back behind Mor.

"Come on, Zax, Aldric coaxed, "Give them a little more than that."

'Zax' peeked out again, and spoke, as quickly as he could, "I'm Zax Bannet. Hi." And then he hid again. It sounded more like 'Im-zax-bannet-hi', as if it were one word.

Aldric sighed. "Zax…"

"Okay, Captain." Zax came out and addressed us, with little eye contact. "Uh…hi. I'm Zax Bannet."

"There," said Aldric. "Now, that wasn't so awful, was it?"

Zax stepped back.

Trapper Remis got up to them first, and locked his gaze on Aldric's with his unsettlingly intense, accurate eye contact. Aldric didn't flinch. But he got just a trifle uneasy as the other captains—mine included—gathered around him.

"Well then," Trapper said, "Welcome to the Altador Cup, Moltara. You're in for it."

"I can imagine," Aldric said, brightly.

"We're the captains," Trapper continued. "I am 'Trapper' Remis, so called 'cause of my defensive 'trapping' methods. I am the captain for Altador."

Squeaky held his head higher. "I am 'Squeaky' Tressif, representing Brightvale."

"Layton Vickles, of the Darigan Citadel. How's it goin'?"

"I'm Kakoni Worril of Faerieland. Good to meet you, dude."

"For the Haunted Woods, Krell Vitor." He licked his lips at Aldric.

"Representing Team Kiko Lake, I am called 'Poke' Cellers." Poke nodded at him.

Garven stepped up. "I'd be Garven Hale, new captain for Krawk Island!"

Layton gaped in horror before turning, glaring at Dasher. "You did this to me on purpose!" he hissed. Dasher only laughed.

Derlyn tossed her hair. "I represent Kreludor, Derlyn Fonnet."

"Of the Lost Desert, I am the captain, Leera Heggle."

Elon smirked and preened himself. "I'm Elon Hughlis, sometimes called 'The Black Hole', and I am the captain and centre forward and best player of Team Maraqua. Perhaps you've heard of me. I'm quite the household name. You see, I happen to be the best scorer in this tournament, and I—"

Wizard had to talk loudly over Elon until he finally shut up (when Loryche whacked him in the face). "I am 'Wizard' Windelle, representing the Kingdom of Meridell as of Y10."

Volgoth grunted. "Volgoth, Mystery Island. Put 'em there, mon."

"Proud to represent Roo Island, I'm Lilo Blumario."

"I'm Mirsha Grelinek, team captain of Shenkuu." Somebody whistled suggestively. Mirsha rolled her eyes.

"Hello there, I am Prytariel, and I lead Terror Mountain."

"Well, hon, I'm the captain of Tyrannia, my name's Loryche."

Keetra hopped up and down. "Ooh, ooh, it's my turn! Hi, I'm Keetra Deile! And I'm from the Virtupets Space Station! Whee!"

It was easy to tell that Aldric was a little confused by the outrageously different captains. But he didn't have a lot of time to let it sink in. Trapper stepped right back in front of him. "Perhaps we should get to know each other more and see what we can do, Aldric."

It wasn't a welcome. It was a challenge. Trapper's eyes almost glowed with menace. But Aldric wasn't frightened. The flames on his body flickered. "I wouldn't mind that at all, Trapper," he volleyed back. "I'd actually appreciate it."

"I know you would. It's always good to get a head start. Isn't it?"

"I should say so."

"How long have you been playing Yooyuball, Aldric?" A sneer played on Trapper's mouth. "Six months, maybe?"

"I've been playing for more than a year," Aldric replied. "Not much in the way of professional experience, but you know what? I can survive."

"See to it that you do," Trapper said—no, threatened. "What do you say? Your team vs. mine as soon as the practices start. We can get to know each other a little better, as I said. So, do you accept?"

"Nothing would delight me more," said Aldric, thrusting his paw out for a shake. It was blackened like coal, with veins of glowing lava in the cracks.

I expected Trapper to shy away fro it, but to everyone's awe, he took Aldric's paw and shook it firmly, without drawing his own paw back. "Good," he said, and sort of smiled, showing his big, pointed Poogle teeth. "I'll see you first thing on the Twentieth Day of Hunting. Good luck."

"Thanks," said Aldric, smiling back, equally challenging. "I'm looking forward to it."

The next day, the fifteenth day of Hunting, every single player had arrived, and the practice rounds were ready to start. We all had to get our athlete entry IDs, and then our uniforms and gear. There were ninety of us altogether, so the line was pretty long. I was just lucky enough to get there before it got too long.

The man in charge of admitting us was this blue Quiggle of a calm, dour appearance. He was totally nonchalant, and maybe a little out to lunch. He never seemed totally there, to be honest. He'd barely even look at our IDs, except for the newcomers. He'd just take out his clipboard, ask for our name, scribble, our team, scribble, our ID, scribble, and shout "NEXT". And that was it.

When that was over, we all got our uniforms. The newcomers had to be fitted a couple of times, especially the giant, blocky Mor Gollog. Within hours, we were transformed from common, foreign civilians to uniformed, professional athletes. And now our fans could recognize us.

After that was done, there was only one thing left to do—endure a speech from the Committee. We all sat in the lounge, awaiting the gruesomely boring few hours that lied ahead of us. And suddenly, after having freshened up completely, the Moltarans came in.

"Hey," Vere said. "What's going on?"

"Psst!" Vonde motioned to them frantically. "Sit! Sit down! The Committee is coming! Hurry, sit with us!"

The Moltarans sat on the couch next to us. The Rules Committee came in. We all exchanged looks and groaned very quietly. Most of us knew what came next.

"Oh, no," I said. "They're gonna start a speech."

Aldric looked at me. "Why? Don't you know the rules already?"

"I do. But they're doing this mostly for your benefit."

Aldric, Tulah, Zax, Vere, and Mor suddenly became aware that all eyes were on them. "Oh," Aldric mumbled. "I see."

"Welcome back, players," said the Draik. "As some of you may know, we are the Altador Cup Rules Committee. We are here to make sure everything is in order for the fairness and safety of this tournament."

"I see we have a new team playing in our field this year," the Aisha said, straightening her robe. She looked over to the Moltarans to see if they knew whom she was referring to. (They did.)

The Aisha nodded in satisfaction. "And, it has come to my attention that we have another new player—" she stared at the zombie Usul, who seemed completely oblivious of her speech—"and two returning players." She looked at Orie Dinelle, who whistled awkwardly, and Dasher Soley, who just nodded, cleared his throat, and looked away.

The Draik approached the Moltarans. "And what are your names, newcomers?"

"Um, us?" Aldric asked. "Oh yeah, okay. I'm—"

"On fire."

"That will do, Mr. Vitor. Yes, tell us your name. Your full name."

"Alright! I'm Aldric Beign, the team captain."

"Ah, yes, the team captain. It should be interesting for you to experience the captains' meeting at 2:15. Perhaps you could make some acquaintances."

Aldric took a look at the other captains he'd met—Derlyn flipping her hair, Elon smirking, Krell licking his lips at him, Garven and Layton nudging each other roughly, Volgoth with his finger in his ear, etc.—and could tell that he probably wasn't gonna make any 'acquaintances' anytime soon.

"Because you are team captain," the Draik went on, "we expect you to pay very close attention to the rules of this tournament. After all, if any of your teammates were to somehow lose sight of the Altador Cup's honor, it will be your responsibility to guide them back into the light."

Aldric's facial expression clearly said, What the hell?

"And we assume that the four individuals beside you are your teammates?"

"Oh, yeah! Yes, they are! This here is my squad."

"I'm Tulah Kisner," said Tulah, greeting the Committee suspiciously.

"Mor Gollog," said Mor, bluntly.

"Uh…Vere Polnicek," said Vere, with a small wave. "Hi."

Silence. The Draik rested his eyes on Zax. "And you?"

Zax squeaked abruptly. "Zax Bannet! Right Defender! From Moltara! Hi! How are you?"

"Thank you…Mr. Bannet," said the Draik, snorting. "Team Moltara. Welcome to the Altador Cup. We expect all of you to remember proper conduct here in this tournament, and be exemplars of good sportsmanship. Good sportsmanship, is that clear?"

The Moltarans were smart enough not to say anything else.

"Very good." Satisfied that he made the right impression on the new team, the Draik looked up to where the zombie Usul sat. He eyed him warily. The zombie didn't notice.

"Ahem," said the Draik.

The zombie didn't respond.

"Ahem. Excuse me, sir."

It took a while before the zombie caught on that the Draik was addressing him. He looked up at Krell, who reached over and turned his head directly at the Committee.

The Draik looked a little warier. "Ahem. Yes, thank you. Er…what is your name?"

No answer.

"Sir. Please tell us your name."

Krell intervened. "Uh…this is 'Brains' Mortigan. He's our centre defender."

"'Brains' Mor—?!" The Draik looked very wary. He tried to regain his composure. "Ah, yes. Of course. Of course it is. Well, then. Thank you, Mr. Vitor. Welcome, Mr. Mortigan."

'Brains' Mortigan made no reply. He continued to stare vacantly.

"Now this is all well and good," the Skeith jumped in, eager to change the subject, "but the six of you are new to the Altador Cup, and therefore are unfamiliar with the Altador Cup Code of Honor and the rules here. It is for this reason that we believe that it is our duty to inform you on the Altador Cup code of honor. Players who are enlightened with this vital knowledge more easily uphold the very soul of the tournament." He snorted for emphasis.

The Moltarans' faces were full of indignant disbelief. Are these guys wack?

And so the torture began, complete with the same old speeches about slushies, fans, Yooyu training, competition, history, the Altador Cup code of honor, good sportsmanship, the soul of the tournament, etc., etc., etc. All we could do was just sit there, stare into space and try to make it look as though we were listening. ('Brains' Mortigan was a natural at this.) Then they seemed to wrap up on the speech about history.

"For those of you who have returned this year, we expect nothing less than your best," the Aisha said. "And for those of you who are newcomers…" her eyes rested upon the Moltarans—"Please, try your hardest. We expect nothing less."

Translation: Try not to disappoint us. Don't make us regret having let you in.

The Aisha had finished in a conclusive tone, and Aldric took this as a cue to leave and that the speech was over. He started to get up from his seat. I reached and grabbed at his wrist. "Dude. They've only just started."

Aldric panicked, and quickly sat down. There were snickers. The Rules Committee stared at him disapprovingly. "Have you had enough, Mr. Beign?" the Aisha asked.

"Uh…no, ma'am."

"Very good. Now, please, do be so kind as to listen."

After humiliating Aldric, they continued another long speech. By this time, I was sure that the Moltarans regretted having come, that Dasher and Orie were sorry they returned, and that Brains Mortigan was probably dying a second death of boredom. After forty-five minutes more of rambling, the Rules Committee members finally closed up shop and proceeded to tell us the rules.

The Draik straightened his spine. "There are a few more simple rules about what not to do in the stadium during a game."

He looked at the Skeith, who recognized his cue. "Indeed," he said. "First off, there is to be NO CHEATING. Understand?"

Duh, dude.

"You may not kick each other, or punch each other in any attempt to assault another team member or opponent. There is to be no hitting, slapping, or starting of any petty arguments or rumbles. There is to be no spitting, no scratching, no head-butting, no cutting, no mauling, no slamming the Yooyus on opponents' heads, no flying any higher than five—FIVE—feet high, no fire-breathing, no magical attacks, no pushing people to the ground, no martial arts, and please, for god's sakes, no biting."

"Now we do hope that is all clear to you," the Aisha huffed.

We all groaned in unison.

She frowned. "We beg your pardon?"

"Yes, ma'am," we mumbled.

"Very good." The Skeith harrumphed in satisfaction. "Now, we hope we have been thorough in teaching you the essential duties within the Altador Cup. We sincerely believe that if you perform with correct and upright conduct, you will make a positive contribution to the very soul of the tournament."

"Even if they're losers like the Faeries?" Elon sneered.

Valtonous Rea snorted. Delma Harrence leaned over and hissed in Elon's ear, "Up yours."

The Draik wagged his finger at Elon. "Good sportsmanship, Mr. Hughlis, good sportsmanship."

Elon scoffed. I wanted to scoff, too. The Draik should've figured out by now that it would take less of a wagging finger and more of a good punch in the face to get the concept of good sportsmanship across to Elon Hughlis.

The Draik wasn't finished. "That goes for all of you. If any of you have any confusion regarding proper conduct, please follow Mr. Tressif's example. He is the very pinnacle of good sportsmanship."

Squeaky cleared his throat, looked out the window and pretended that the Draik didn't just humiliate him.

Wizard Windelle seemed amused. "Well, don't they make a nice couple. It's rather romantic, right, Zo?"

Zo Junior made a laughing noise in his throat and quickly disguised it as a cough. The Draik frowned forbiddingly. "Mr. Windelle and Mr. Junior, is there something you both would like to share with us?"

"No, sir," said Wizard, calm as could be. "Please excuse us."

"Yeah. Sorry, sir." Zo was trying hard not to laugh again.

The Draik snorted. Believing that the concept of proper conduct had not yet gotten through to us, the Committee started up a whole new speech. They were about fifteen minutes in and just getting to the really juicy part (the part about the very soul of the tournament), when a prolonged, squeaking fart came from somewhere in the room. The Skeith stopped prattling, turned red with rage, and he and his two minions scanned the room for the culprit.

Garven Hale laughed loudly. Harlis Neyhbol shrugged. Zenor Kevix whistled innocently. Volgoth rubbed his nose and snorted. Tonie Plessix blushed. Elbin Kroe hung his innocent head in shame.

The newcomers caught on that maybe the Altador Cup wasn't such a pinnacle of the Altador Cup Code of Honor, good sportsmanship, and the soul of the tournament. Aldric, Mor, Tulah, Vere, and Zax exchanged looks and gaped in astonishment.

'Brains' Mortigan kept staring vacantly ahead.

With an indignant display of huffs, grunts, snorts and harrumphs, the Committtee bid us a curt "good day" and stormed off in righteous fury.

We all heaved a great sigh of relief. Saved by the fart. Nothing unusual in the world of the Altador Cup.

The final day before the games began, the Twenty-Fifth day of Hunting, the interviewers came swarming in. Their main targets were the team captains, whom they hounded without mercy. Layton Vickles tried to put on his best disguise to avoid them, but to no avail. (Then again, his "best disguise" consisted only of dark glasses and a scarf.)

Meanwhile, other athletes seemed to bask in this attention. Shenkuu, the favorites to win, got plenty of attention. Mirsha assured the crowd that she would lead her team in an effortless victory. Trapper Remis grimly stated that he would try everything in his power to help his team win. "We will take back what is ours," he said, ominously.

One of the most popular topics was the Winner's Curse. The interviewers all flocked over to the Teams Haunted Woods, Darigan Citadel, Roo Island, and Krawk Island. Krell Vitor of the Haunted Woods said that he and his teammates were vicious, ruthless, and ready to break the curse. "Among other things," he added.

Layton Vickles, as evenly as he could, said that, curse or no curse, he and his teammates would fight for the Cup, and bring honor to the Citadel. Lilo Blumario, the most recent victim of the Winner's Curse, was understandably embarrassed around the press, but, between nervous laughs, he managed to assure them that the Rooligans would do nothing less than their best. Finally, Garven Hale, the new captain of the Pirates, proclaimed that he wasn't afraid of the curse. "Yarr," he said, "I'd be ready to sail this ship, I am. I won't be failin' Ol' Dasher, now, me hearties!"

After the press was done with the captains, they proceeded to attack the returning players, Dasher Soley and Orie Dinelle. When asked why she was brought back to Brightvale's team, Orie explained, "It's simple. I was there when we did better. Maybe that's the trick we should keep up our sleeve."

Dasher Soley, when asked about his return, shook his head sadly. "Arr. It'd be a shame, poor lassie Collibridge injurin' herself before the games. Avast. But I be 'ere to 'elp me team, but this'd be the last time. Arr, ye 'ear that? Just one last time, and that'd be it."

The newcomers were the next victims. The Moltarans were chased down and interviewed, in a group or individually. I managed to overhear bits and pieces of their interviews. I watched them carefully, knowing that these people were going to be my opponents, and I had to know as much about them as I could.

There was a definite family dynamic going on in that group. Aldric Beign was the indisputed leader, levelheaded, energetic, confident, and an impressive public speaker. He handled the pushy interviewers like a pro. Tulah Kisner was more reluctant, a bit more suspicious of the press, sharp-tongued and short tempered, with a fiery attitude. Mor Gollog was straightforward, monosyllabic, curt, and frighteningly stoic, keeping to himself. Vere Polnicek was cheerful and upbeat, clearly enthusiastic about being in such an exciting place.

It was little Zax Bannet who got my attention the most. He was uneasier than his teammates, clearly overwhelmed by this strange new place. He seemed almost terrified of the reporters, but he held his ground and stuck through the interviews, answering with simple "yes" and "no" until he gradually became calmer and more confident. He reminded me of myself, when I first arrived in the Cup.

The Haunted Woods' zombie, 'Brains' Mortigan, was the last to go, probably because the reporters were afraid to go near him first, for fear of getting eaten. When they crowded around him, it was clear that he wasn't very comfortable, but he kept up his impassive blank stare. I saw from his interviews that he was quiet, and very shy. He barely spoke or made eye contact with anyone. Near the end, he started moaning like had indigestion, and immediately all of the reporters ran away like hell. Brains was very, very confused about why they left, but looked rather relieved, and contentedly stared into space.

As an Altador Cup tradition, when a male athlete has his birthday during the season, the other guys must give him a 'birthday present'—in other words, we'd come up with a cruel and unusual punishment to make his birthday as unpleasant as possible.

Today was such a hallmark day—Garven Hale's birthday, the twenty-fifth day of Hunting. We were determined to give him the most dreadful and painful birthday ever. But we had to come up with a good plan first, and then catch him before midnight.

Trapper Remis, as always, was the brains behind the operation. He gathered most of us together in secret (away from Garven's knowledge) and pitched up some ideas. Finally, we settled on a plan, and right before showering time, he led his teammates and a few brave volunteers to sneak into the infirmary and steal about fifteen bottles of iodine and conceal them until, as Trapper said, "the time was ripe".

The time was definitely ripe when it was time for the showers—which, before the games started, were later at night. Garven, getting in line for the showers, left his duffel of underwear and pants unprotected—which Reshar Collifey, Lyvon Cibaire, and Barit Jowes took advantage of immediately as the rest of us waited for Trapper's signal.

Thirty minutes passed. Right as Garven was stepping towards one of the showers, Trapper put his fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly. Instantly we all leapt onto Garven in a vicious Gelert-pile. We dragged him, kicking, screaming, and cursing, down onto the floor. The strongest of the guys pinned his limbs down so he couldn't slash us with his claws. And then the rest of us, on Trapper's lead, poured the iodine on him—one excruciating bottle at a time. Garven screamed blue murder and the vile liquid burned his skin. When we were finished, Garven's skin was bright red and stinging, making his grey fur look purple.

Finally, after about an hour, we were done torturing the birthday boy. We shouted, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" to let him know were were done and were letting him escape.

Garven didn't bother trying to find his clothes. He grabbed a towel, sped out the bathroom, ran outside and found that Reshar, Lyvon and Barit had just finished lifting the official Altador Cup flag—replaced by all of Garven's underwear and pants. They immediately ran like hell before he could get his sharp claws on them.

By the time Garven, while desperately trying to keep his towel from falling off, got his clothes back from the flagpole, I bet he wished more than anything that he'd been born a girl.

And the new guys—Aldric Beign, Mor Gollog, Zax Bannet and Brains Mortigan—were very happy they came to the wonderful world of the Altador Cup, and that their birthdays were nowhere near the game season.

I had a hard time sleeping that night. I was too excited. And nervous. Very nervous. Tomorrow the games would start. I'd have to go out there and prove myself all over again. I kept hearing Leera's vow in my ears, on repeat.

This is our year.

It was hard to be a champion. That's why I was glad that I was an underdog.