I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking to yourselves “Chris! College Basketball just ended! What are we going to do?”
You’re thinking “Chris! College football is still a few months off! And also, you are so handsome!”
You’re saying to yourself, if you are Dutch, “Ik heb sportennieuws nodig!”
You are crying out, fists aloft, “Give us some sort of sports news! That’s why we read this column!”
Relax, friends. Dr. Tomlin is here to cure thy ills. Because while we may be in a bit of a quiet season right now for many major sports, there’s one shining reason to love the onslaught of spring, for that is when many listless fans put pen to paper, get their creative juices flowing in the sunlight, and herald a fresh new batch of exciting Fan Fiction.
These underground would-be authors are found in all corners of cyberspace, slaving into the night, shirking work duties and imaginary Canadian girlfriends, all so you can have a glimpse into new worlds where your favorite beloved individuals can exist. You can deny them entry to your fancy clubs. You can deny them membership into your exclusive and fancy catered racquetball parties. But one thing you cannot deny them is their talent. In fan fiction, there is no offseason. And that reason alone is why I’ve gone to great lengths today to present to you the cream of this year’s crop —never-before seen excerpts from the web’s best and all-new Sports Fan Fiction:
Swords of Destiny
The Seattle Seahawks Dark Saga Trilogy: Chapter IV
Marcus Pollard held the Timbercrusher aloft. Its power seethed in his gauntlet. As he raised the mighty sword toward the heaven, he asked aloud to the gathering throng. “Who will follow me into Hemeroth?”
The crowd grew quiet, for it new well the dangers lurking there in the forest. Suddenly, a shout went up.
“We will protect you!” shouted fullback Leonard Weaver. Behind him stood Ryan Plackemeier, Maurice Morris and Floyd Womack, their axes above their heads. Offensive Coordinator Gil Haskell raised his magical throwing star in a clenched fist.
D.J. Hacket limped to the front, his eyes ablaze with revenge. “The Morgoths may have hobbled my hip flexor, but they have not hobbled my spirit!”
A mighty roar went up from the Seahawk Nation, and its denizens knew that Lord Garfor would no longer hold them in tyranny.
But the moment was to be short-lived, for a horde of flying tiger eagles came descending from the dark clouds above, their jaws moist with froth. The townspeople ran for cover as fire rained down, and Pollard turned to his left.
“Will you join me, Jordan Babineaux?” he asked, extending a hand of comraderie as the furor began.
“I will always be your strongest safety,” said Babineaux with a steely nod, and together they leapt into the air to perform crushing sword maneuvers against the creatures while their blades glowed with the fires of righteous and heavenly justice.
Murder Shifts to Overdrive: A NASCAR Mystery
Rain poured down like fetid bilgewater out of a rusty freighter. They don’t make nights like this anymore, thought Private Investigator Martin Truex Jr., as he made his way out of the dingy neon alley and into the Pink Cat Club.
“Let me get you a drink, friend,” growled Clint Bowyer as Martin tapped the rain off his hat. But Martin knew better. The last stranger in this club didn’t go out with a buzz — but a toe tag.
“I’ll pass,” said Martin. “Where can I find Reed Sorenson?”
“He’s in the back room playing cards,” muttered Clint Bowyer.
“But I wouldn’t go back there if I were you.”
“Good thing you’re not me, then,” said Martin as he turned the knob and stepped into the lion’s den.
Inside, Sorenson and his gang looked up from their filthy glasses of whiskey and scowled. “I don’t think you were invited to this party,” Greg Biffle said, parting the waist of his 3M jacket to reveal the cold steel of a nickel-plated .45 that was begging for action.
“Here’s my invitation,” said Martin, as he tossed a pendant onto the table. “I guess I just ante’d up.”
“That belonged to Joe Nemechek,” said Eliot Sadler. “You don’t look like Joe Nemechek to me.”
“Why don’t you ask your boss how I got it?” said Martin, slipping one hand into his pocket.
Reed Sorenson stood up. “I know how you got it, and now I know how you’re gonna die.”
“You may drive the Target car, but you’re the target,” said Martin as he squeezed the trigger and took Sorenson for his final lap.
PBA Bowlers Save the Big Concert
By : PrInCeSsPoNy13
OMG! said the Jonas Brothers. It’s totally time for the big concert to start and we don’t have any voices left!
I know it’s like something has zapped my voice away, said Carly Smithson!
Nobody knew what to do. Everyone was out in the audience, even Brad Stilson. If there wasn’t a concert then he wouldn’t kiss Madison!
Don’t worry everyone! A voice said when Dave D’Entremont came into the room. There’s going to be a big show after all!
But how? asked Raven Symone.
Because, said Norm Duke, we happened to be in your town on a bowling mission and we are also the coolest band you’ve ever heard!
Everyone clapped and Eugene McCune said I’ll go out to the bus and get our instruments!
The Jonas Brothers and Carly Smithson were so excited! They went out and sat down in the audience next to Regina, who Brad Stilson totally didn’t like back. There’s going to be a show! They said.
Walter Ray Williams Jr. got on the microphone. Westwoods Middle School are you ready to PARTY? he said. Everyone cheered. The show was the BEST and at the end Brad and Madison kissed as fireworks went off in front of a rainbow.
The Count of Monte Cristo
Featuring the 1977 Southern Illinois State Men’s Basketball Team
Alford Grant (who, although past the first bloom of
youth, was still strikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate piece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Mel Hughlett, standing before a small work-table, was turning over the pages of a book about basketball. Mel had found time, preparatory to the coach’s arrival, to relate many particulars concerning his defensive strategy to Alford Grant. It will be remembered that Mike Glenn had made a lively impression on the minds of the fans assembled at the Wichita State game because of the assists by Gary Wilson; and although Mike Glenn was not in the habit of passing the ball, he had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in his mind by the impressive look and manner of Head Coach Paul Lambert, consequently the description given by Mel Hughlett to the baroness bore the highly-colored tinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful Missouri Valley Conference stories related of the Coach by Gary Wilson, it is no wonder that Alford eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional circumstances detailed by Mel Hughlett. This posing at the piano and over the book about basketball was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most gracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on Alford; Coach Lambert, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though graceful courtesy, while Mel Hughlett exchanged with the coach a sort of distant recognition, and with Alford a free and easy nod.
I think you see my point now. Classic stuff, all of it. I don’t know about you guys, but my mind is tingling with great literature. I certainly hope yours is too. Until next week, dear readers, enjoy the following amazing feat of excellence.