Transcribed by his goblin scribe, Ian H. McKinley
OK, scribe, little buddy, start writing. Finish this one off and I’ll finally let you get back to your rotting little hovel in the forest.
Yup! This is it. It’s my last chronicle entry because …
I’M A FREAKING CHAMPION!!! AGAIN!!
I mean, I had already guided a team to a league title, so no one can ever take that away from me. What is it when you’re, like, the actual champion?
“The reigning champion, Boss? Is that what you’re thinkin’?”
Raining? No, it ain’t raining champions, you idiot.
What? What’s that? Oh … yeah … well, sure, that might be it. It sounds all right …
I’M A FREAKING RULING CHAMPION!!!
Yes, loyal reader, the Bytown Maulers won the Bloodweiser Champions League Final! It’s taken me a couple’o nights for me to take feather to scroll, or rather get my little buddy here to do it, to make those scratches on parchment that Taureau Amiral is payin’ for. So, sorry for the delay, but first I was drunker’n that Baron von Worst-en-Ham idiot, and then too hung-over to get around to my chronicle before now. But we’re back home with tonnes of loot and a trophy we can display for a few months before shipping it over to the Worst End Warriors.
“West, Boss! West End Warriors.”
Really? Ha. I reckoned it was a neat name … like the team was the Worst End another team could meet …
Yeah, so you see, the Warriors get to have the trophy for half the year because we both won. Yeah, that might sound strange, but really, it’s kinda true and kinda not true. Let me explain. So, the Cup Final …
We won the toss and elected to receive. I like doin’ that ’cause we can control the pain better. The opposition’ve gotta get stuck in. They can’t resist tryin’ to get the boarskin, which means they take stupid risks. So, Puss Jak’zun got the ball and we drove forward. I’d brought in Helmut Wolff again seein’ as he did a good job against the Fart Foundation. Right off the start, he chops up a Humie lineman, but then he gets blitzed, put on his ass, and cut to smithereens! Luckily he’s got his own Apo ’cause I doubt our guy woulda been able to fix him up. Anyway, that was that … Helmut was gone. But we kept on pressing, doin’ our thing. We ended up thrusting up the left flank and, my lads started doin’ something we hadn’t done much of before … lettin’ the Ultras get stuck in. We surfed a pair of Humie Blitzers, including the one who could tackle and hit with the most mighty of blows … that latter got proper roughed up by the fans and couldn’t return to the game. It was all goin’ so well, we took the time to kick ’em when they were down. But the Humies’ coach prayed to Nuffle and one of their fans threw a rock at Puss, knockin’ him down. The ball bounced into that rank of fans, who threw it as far away from our Gobbos as they could. So, there was no ass-wagging in the first half.
Then came the second half. The Humies got through the lines after hurting Slag Killdwarf. We maintained pressure on ’em as best we could but WE didn’t have the fans throwing rocks … oh no, not us. Anyway, they ass-wagged and the Gobbos were all anxious about losing the final. But they got into position and managed to wag their own smelly green ass just as the ref raised her whistle to her lips.
And I suppose I should point out Bloodweiser brought in proper refs for the Cup Final. They didn’t interfere with play and let everyone get on with playing decent dirty Blood Bowl. I had a bribe in the bag but never even had to use it. So, Neon “Slime Time” Slanders was able to get stuck in and managed to put out a player or three with his foulin’.
Anyway, it was tied two-two at the end of the game …
“One – one, Boss, one – one.”
You know, little buddy, scribes is best when they keep their traps shut! I keep tellin’ ya, what really counts is Casualties.
Right, so, we go into overtime. We’re puttin’ their players out left and right, but only with KO’s. Meanwhile, they take the lead by putting Konvisse Yeux out of the game with a Stunty Casualty. But they’re down to half a team so they get desperate and pull off an unlikely run-throw-run to a Blitzer, who got right downfield. But we hemmed him in, with Ad’aam BigKILL taggin’ him and Puss, our diving tackler, tucked in beside Ad’aam. I had Greenoch Hork on the far side, just out of hittin’ range, so we could proper kill ’im. So he blitzes Puss, pushing him away, then dodges outta there like slippery Elf and wags his ass at the end of the pitch!
So, we have four turns to equalize … or so we thought. There was a riot in the stands and the ref didn’t bother stoppin’ the clock! To make it worse, three out of four of the Humies who’d been KO’ed came back to play. I tells ya, that bastard Nuffle was against us!
But we press forward and Barfur Slovenly the troll gets an equalizer, putting a Thrower out for good. Meanwhile, the Gobbos, who love dancing their asses off, have to run like hell to get the ball in the backfield. On the last turn, Puss sprints forward, rushes twice and hands the ball off to Neon “Slime Time” Slanders. Then, for some reason, Barfur decides not to hit anyone, grabs Slime Time, and tosses him downfield. Now, ol’ Neon’s been practising such things, so he lands on his feet and takes off, rushing twice to do his own ass-wagging. Just like the end of regular time, we had made ass-wagging as even as the Casualty count just as the ref brought an end to the game!
Everyone fell to the ground, exhausted: Us from having run around and done some hurtin’, Them from having gotten caught running away and done some gettin’ hurt.
Now, at this point I gotta tell you even I, the great Gorn N’hleg, can learn some things. I was arguin’ with the ref about what to do. She wanted each team to kick the ball at the uprights at the end of the pitch and wasn’t listening to my perfectly logical arguments that the Gobbo counted for only a half and that we’d won three – two and a half. That’s when the Humie coach comes up, throws an arm over my shoulder and says, “Let’s just go crack a barrel of Bloodweiser.”
That’s when I learned that thing; Humies can be all right. Yeah, they’re fun to beat up, but you can go round to a tavern with ’em and have fun. A brawl broke out in the tavern and we all joined in roughing up some locals. It was brilliant!
So, we’re champions! Some people are sayin’ it’s only “co-champions” but I don’t care because I know we actually won three – two and a half!
Here’s the bit where I have to quote that walking sirloin, Taureau Amiral, the Blood Bowl Bison. Also, because of the Cup Final sponsors, I’m supposed to throw in a reference to them. So, here it is: in Part Six, thingy twenty-nine of his Art of Coaching, he says:
“Tactics are like a torrent of Bloodweiser ale in its natural course, flowing from an elevated keg and finding its way into your belly.”
I agree, put Bloodweiser in your belly. In terms of tactical take-aways, here’s what I conclude:
Take-away One: If you’re gonna shell out on bringin’ in a star like Helmut Wolff, it behooves you to protect him! Helmut coulda chopped up as many Humies as he chopped up Elves in the Quarter-Final had he been on the pitch for longer than a turn! All it took was a one-die block for all that gold to evaporate.
Take-away Next One: Prayers to Nuffle are shite. You can pretty well count on them only having an effect on the game if it’s negative to you!
Take-away Next, Next One: I was right about bringin’ Barfur into the team way back when. I don’t really care about ass-wagging in the end zone, but he made a key throw of a Gobbo to put pressure on the Humies when they were stallin’. That helped give us the time we needed to equalize and the crowd really loved seein’ that touchdown Slime Time scored in turn twenty-four.
Final One: I leave you all with a final conclusion. If you wanna win a cup, get in a brilliant coach like the legendary Gorn N’hleg.
OK, scribe little buddy, you can go back to your woods. Here, let me take those shackles off …