Chapter 72.
Gordon frowned from the safety of his ground-dwelling vantage point.
After Penelope had finished introducing the match, his brothers had hastily dispersed themselves around the pitch in an attempt to make it look like they knew what the hell they were doing.
Alan donning his 'oh shit' face debunked that façade in a heartbeat.
"Why do I just know this isn't going to end well?" Gordon muttered.
Halfway across the pitch, John screamed in a mixture of outrage and horror as Virgil experimentally swung his mallet and whacked Inka on the backside. The polo pony gave a snort of terror and catapulted several feet off the ground, her eyes wide with shock.
Gordon cringed and instinctively rose to his feet, but stopped upon hearing the string of profanities spilling from his brother's mouth. Anyone who thought that John was the quiet, meek brother was oh so wrong. Was he a loner? Yes. Was he anti-social? Most definitely. Was he a grade A pain in the ass? Oh yes siree.
But quiet? Absolutely not. And meek? The only thing meek about John was the pitiful lack of patterned socks in his wardrobe.
A half-eaten strawberry was wedged back between Gordon's gums as he retook his seat on the grass. Both he and Kayo had a bet going that John would be the first of them to snap and go on a murdering spree. Neither of them had any doubts about his ability to snuff out a life if he wanted to; he was cold, calm, and collected when angered. A deadly combination.
Gordon quirked a brow as John returned Virgil's unintentional whack with a very intentional whack of his own. No way was he getting involved in whatever had his psychotic brother's boxers in a bunch. As things stood he'd have to get within murdering distance just to ask John if he was okay, which was something even Scott had learnt not to do. Their ginger brother had ridiculously long arms.
Speaking of Scott…
"Virgil, you're our defence!" he yelled, swinging Cosmos in a circle as two mounted umpires and a referee trotted out, "I'll take primary offense while Alan covers midfield. John, you're our tactical link."
Alan looked as if Scott had just recited a death poem in Arabic, "What?"
Scott ground his molars in frustration, "You and I play forward while John and Virgil worry about defence."
"Does that mean I get to whack people with my mallet?" Alan asked, scowling in anticipation of the inevitable 'no' he knew Scott would take delight in delivering.
Much to everyone's surprise, the prophesised refusal never came.
"Be my guest. Onward to victory, my savages!"
-x-
One hour later, it was indeed a solid victory that the newly dubbed 'International Savages' were clawing their way towards.
Consistent with their self-appointed team name, the Tracys were indeed playing in a manner that could only be described as savage. Or feral, depending on which side of the pitch they were on. Spectators occupying the south terrace had been forced to duck multiple stray balls, courtesy of an overenthusiastic Alan. Up in the safety of the balconies, nudges and whispers were exchanged when it became obvious that the match had more in common with cage fighting than with polo. John hurtling across the pitch and brandishing his mallet with a lot more force than was necessary, only to mistime his swing and catch a flanking Virgil square in the jaw offered both visual and auditory confirmation that yes, what was taking place was indeed glorified cage fighting.
Virgil losing two teeth offered medical confirmation.
Unsurprisingly, the decorum commonly associated with polo sailed clean out the window when it became clear that Scott was utterly incapable of losing. More to the point, he was utterly incapable of keeping his trap shut when it looked as if the other team might potentially, maybe, just possibly, gain possession of the ball.
"VIRGIL!" Scott screamed, ploughing Cosmos into the rival team's Number Three player in an effort to thwart the attempted ballnapping, "Get your ass over here and help me box this guy in!"
Virgil managed to twist his bloodstained face into an appropriate expression of outrage, "I've just lost two teeth, Scott!"
"And I couldn't give two shits!" Scott bit back, unable to process the magnitude of his brother's injury, "I need backup and I need it now!"
Up the other end of the pitch, John ceased patrolling the goalposts to action Scott's request. One swift kick and Inka was galloping towards Cosmos, throwing up great chunks of earth as she blasted to the rescue.
"I've got it! I've got it!" John cried, zeroing in on the ball like their grandmother on a two for one deal.
"It's mine! It's mine!" Alan yelled, boomeranging across the pitch like a bullet.
"John, you moron!" Scott yelled, banking to the right in an effort to redirect the ball away from its captor, "Stay by those posts! You've left us wide open!"
"We're down a player," John retaliated, jerking his head in Virgil's direction, "Beggars can't be choosers!"
Scott felt himself wilt as Cosmos struggled to keep pace with the other team's Number Three. They were two chukkas in and had yet to change ponies. Unsurprisingly, the cracks were starting to show.
The home team surged ahead and managed to snag their first goal. Over by the hotdog stand, Gordon stood with Delta and Hellfire, their reins clasped in the hand that was attached to his uninjured arm.
"Oh boy," he muttered, chancing a glance at Virgil's bloodied face as Penelope announced the commencement of half time, "This is going to be interesting."
As the crowd began to filter onto the pitch to tread in the divots ready for the second half of the match, Sally bustled over to tend to her dentally deprived grandson, "Oh, my poor boy! Look at you! Quick, hand the beast over to Gordon and come with me. We're getting you straight to the medical tent, young man."
Virgil put up no resistance as he handed Zantor's reins to Gordon and allowed Sally to guide him away from the ferociousness of upper-class sport.
"You ginger tomato!" Scott snapped, swinging off Cosmos and glaring daggers at John, "Now what are we supposed to do? There's no way we'll be able to maintain our two-point lead if we're down a player! We'll be lucky to make it to the next chukka at this rate!"
Alan frowned and loosened Dala's girth, "Why did you just call him a tomato?"
"People think he's a vegetable, but he's really a fruit!"
Gordon cocked his head, "So, I'm guessing that's a creative way of saying he's two-faced?"
Scott stuck his nose in the air and made a grab for Delta's reins, "I can never tell what his motives are. Staying near the goalposts would have been the obvious defensive choice, but he decided to trot off and do the exact opposite instead. You're not in cahoots with the other team's Number One, are you? I saw you making moony eyes at her at the end of the first chukka."
John recoiled in disapproval, "Of course not! I took the initiative and did what I thought was right."
The expression of stupefaction on Scott's face was almost funny, "Listen here, Johnny Boy. This isn't about you, okay? This is about something much bigger than you. This is about me."
Out on the pitch, Penelope hesitated when she saw brothers one and three lock horns, "Oh heavens, what's being said now?"
Kayo glanced up from stamping on a particularly stubborn divot, "Probably something deeply insulting and unforgivable. Leave them to it, the extra adrenalin might help them to net the match."
On the edge of the churned-up field, Tracy War Three continued to escalate, not helped by Scott and John's concluding insults.
"Suck it up, gingernut!"
"Kiss the fattest part of my ass!"
-x-
Thankfully, victory remained firmly clasped in the hands of the International Savages.
In light of having to surrender Virgil to the sterilised horror of a dentist's chair, Gordon volunteered to unofficially take John's place as goalkeeper. The position required fairly minimal movement of his bad arm and afforded his brothers the time and manpower needed to maintain possession of the ball. It wasn't like poor Dynamo was going to see any action with Virgil out of commission anyway, and patrolling the goalposts at least afforded the chestnut pony a smidgen of excitement.
The match ended on a score of eleven to seven. The cheers of elation from the crowd were mind-blowing, and the Tracys found themselves riding a high that surpassed even the one Penelope's expensive whiskey had given them. However, the combined screams of three hundred people didn't come close to the animalistic shrieks that had torn out of Kayo's lungs when Scott had battled against the opposing team's Number Four to reclaim ownership of the ball, expertly hooking it out from beneath the hooves of his horse before walloping it towards the goal with pinpoint accuracy.
"Take 'em down, babe!" she'd roared, punching the air triumphantly when the ball cartwheeled over the line and netted the boys their eleventh and final goal. Naturally, the press fell all over this statement like bird shit on a freshly washed car. The great Scott Tracy discarding Penelope Creighton-Ward, his rumoured fiancé, in favour of the steel-fisted Tanusha Kyrano.
It didn't get juicier than that.
With everyone busy gushing over Scott's heroic final goal, John, Gordon, and Alan took the opportunity to slip away and regroup.
"Look at him," John muttered sourly, "Taking all the credit like he won the match single-handedly."
Gordon tilted his head and looped Dynamo's reins over his shoulder, "Well, he did score most of the goals."
"I scored four!" John snapped, "He just didn't see, what with his head being wedged so far up his ass and all."
Alan shrugged and offered a piece of his hotdog bun to Flare, "I didn't manage to score any. In fact, I can't even remember what I did for most of the match."
"You charged around and screamed if the ball got within five feet of you," John informed, "Which was better than Gordon's failure to pass it to someone on the same team as him."
Gordon harrumphed, "Land-based sports aren't my forte. The umpire should have listened to my suggestion and just flooded the pitch. Not like you can get up much speed with all those damn divots anyway. Water polo is much more fun, though you two probably would have drowned."
"Sport isn't my forte, full stop," John clipped, "All of my muscle is mental. Say, did you have regular milk in that latte I saw you slurping earlier?"
"Almond," Gordon replied, making a face, "Tasted like dishwater."
"Did you know that the average person farts thirteen times a day?" Alan chimed, "And dairy is the most common culprit."
Gordon looked nothing short of delighted, "Finally, something I'm above average at!"