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“I came over under the stands after they took me off,” he said. “One of the guards is a friend of mine and he let me in. You mind?”

A little shakily, I took some of the Fuel. It helped me find my voice. “No,” I said, “I don’t mind, Cranker.”

“Leon,” he said. “Just plain Leon Gulp. I’m not The Granker any more.”

“Sure you are. You’re still The Granker and you’re still the best there is, no matter what happened today. A legend...”

He laughed — a hoarse, humorless sound. He’d had a lot more Fuel before coming over here, I could see that. Still, he looked better than he had on the field, more composed.

He said, “Legend? There aren’t any legends, kid. Just pros, good and bad. And the best of us are remembered only as long as we keep on winning, stay near the top. Nobody gives a damn about the has-beens and the losers.”

“The fans could never forget you—”

“The fans? Hell, you heard them out there when the pressure got to me and I lost it in the stretch. Boos, nothing but boos. It’s just a game to them. You think they understand what it’s like for us inside, the loneliness and the pain? You think they understand it’s not a game for us at all? No, kid, the fans know I’m finished. And so does everybody else in the business.”

“You’re not finished,” I said. “You’ll come back again next season.”

“Don’t be naive. My agent’s already called it quits, and there’s not another ten-percenter who’ll touch me. Or a League Editor either. I’m through in the pros, kid.”

“But what’ll you do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never saved any of the money; I’m almost as broke now as when I started thirty-five years ago. Maybe I can get a job coaching in one of the Junior Leagues — anything that’ll buy bread and Fuel. It doesn’t matter much, I guess.”

“It matters to me.”

“Does it? Well, you’re a pro, you understand the way it is. I figured you might.”

There seemed to be a thickness in my throat; I swallowed against it. “I understand,” I said.

“Then let me give you a little advice. If you’re smart, this will be your last competition too. You’ve got the prize money; invest it right and you can live on it for the rest of your life; you’ll never have to write another line. Go out a winner, kid, because if you don’t maybe someday you’ll go out just like me.”

He raised a hand in a kind of awkward salute and shuffled over to the door panel.

“Cranker — wait.”

He turned.

“What you typed out there at the end, about the stuff we do being garbage. Did you really mean it?”

A small bitter smile curved his mouth. “What do you think, kid?” he said and turned again and went out into the tunnel. The panel slid shut behind him and he was gone.

I sat down in front of the Fuel container. But I didn’t want any more of it now; I didn’t need it. The emptiness was gone. I could feel again, waves of feeling.

I knew now why I had been so hollow when the Face-Off ended; talking to The Cranker had made me admit the truth. It wasn’t because of exhaustion, as I’d wanted to believe. It was because everything he’d said about the business I had intuited myself on the field. And it was because of the insight I’d had at halftime — that The Cranker and I were soul brothers and in going up against him I was going up against myself, that beating him would be, and was, a little like beating myself.

But there was something else too, the most important thing of all. Gulp was the one who had broken under the pressure, yet it could just as easily have been Rex Sackett. Gould still be Rex Sackett in some other match, some other Prose Bowl — typing GARBAGE GARBAGE and then stumbling around on a lonely field, weeping.

Go out a winner, kid, because if you don’t maybe someday you’ll go out just like me.

I had already made a decision; I didn’t even need to think about it. Sally and my parents would be the first ones I’d tell, then Mort, and after that I would make an official announcement at the press conference.

It was all over for The Cranker and all over for me too.

This would be my last Prose Bowl.

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