It was a hectic day for the Plumbobs, as well as every other team in the league. The divisions were being drawn, the schedules banged out, and most importantly. last minute sponsorship deals to be decided. "No No No!" Frank yelled as he slammed the Skellephone down on his desk, the arcane energy cackling against the receiver. The Plumbobs were, in a sense, screwed. They managed to secure endorsement from the Enchanters Association, a council of the scummiest, greediest arcane wizards known this side of Altdorf, but that was besides the point.

The draw had been made, the Plumbbobs were to join the AWC West. With such teams as the Slan Fran 49ers, the Hellheim Reavers, and the Broken Hill Super Mutants. Other than the 49ers, who he had met previously, the rest of the AWC East was a bunch of new teams like the Plumbobs, something Frank could work with, something he could survive. But the NWFL was not so simple of a league, becuase of one phrase. Interdivisional Matchups.

A byzantine system of matchups making each team play their bretherin twice, their league rivals once, and a division from the other side as well. Maddness, absolute madness. It was enough charting and paperwork to drive Frank mad. But simple league structure wasn't the issue. No it was who they drew against across the isle. The NWC West. The meanest, hardest sons of squiggs in the entire league. And the Plumbobs got to play the two meanest, nastiest, steel plated and ice hearted foes first. The Chaotic Butte Kickers and the Nurgelite St. Paul Apostles, both of whom were at the league salary cap.

A few scant days later, they were suiting up. Frank's protests to the league were met with silence, or worse derision. He was explained to in no uncertain terms what would happen to him, personally, if his team failed to show up. Something about his undying soul, a Slaneeshi cult, and 18 barrels of warpstone. He didn't ask for clarification. But still, they were street elves! Not the namby pamby prissy high elves in their fancy armor, but real, hardworking elves. Elves of honor. At leas tthat's what he told himself as he lead his team of suburbanites onto the pitch.

He had been given the numbers on his way through the tunnel by his league appointed assistant, a sniveling, smarmy little goblin named Nailbiter. Only six thousand supporters of the Plumbbobs had made the journey to Butte, while the Kickers had brought nearly four times that number. Their rousing chants were lost in a sea of groans, moans, daemonic chants and... other noises. Still Frank thanked Nailbiter, if only because of the little favor the runt had performed, acquiring the Kickers playbooks.




"The Kickers are dropping quickly against the Plumb- I spoke too soon!"

"McAxel is being taken off with what appears to be a shattered femur. The medical staff seems content to just ice it down though"

"Touchdown for the Kickers! Right as the halftime whistle was about to blow! The Elves are stilling putting up a close fight!"

"Simon Hardball has the.. well ball! He's going for a pass but! Oh my Nuffle! His face has just been intercepted by Rheagar the Destroyer's fist! But he manages to shrug it off! CRACK! Ah, but the old one two from Blart VanStomp sets him down. Good Play Blart"

"What's this, team Owner Frank Practh has found himself on the sidelines, is he! He is! He's into the crowd!"



Everything after that is a blur to Frank, he remembers shouting, lots of shouting, and then the large, spiked boot of one of the Kicker's Nurglite (The stands were of course divided by patron gods) supporters coming down on his pelvis, hard. Then nothing but hot, searing pain, and blood. Granted, most of the blood was from security cutting through the supporters with their arming swords to retrieve him, but he was fairly certain some of the blood was actually his as well. Nurgelites didn't bleed bright red after all.

When he came too, it was looking into the face of Karl vanDoktor, the team's apothecary who Frank was fairly certain was using an alias, especially as he had been fired from another team who the good doctor refused to name. Looking down, he saw a horrifying metal contraption seemingly welded to his flesh. A loud, booming voice quickly startled him. "Ah! I see you are awake! It was tough work repairing that little wound you had. Not overly bad, we just had to replace your entire pelvis. Ah, don't worry don't worry, we only used a few grams of warpstone to power the pneumatic! Now you won't be quite as spritely as before but I assure you, it is better than the alternative!" Frank sincerely doubted that.

Limping back to his office, Frank collapsed into his office chair. His entire right side burned, and he could only hope it was from the warpstone device, not infection. Operated on by a doctor of questionable morals in a land tainted by Chaos was not how he had hoped to start the season. Even worse, that insufferable lot Joe Chipsman had managed to wrestle a higher salary out of the acting coach while he was under, citing his agility drills. It was going to be a long season.