Demarkus Johanson, the League of Planets cultural scientist who invented the GFL in 2658, tried to adapt the “season” concept created by the National Football League of ancient Earth, just as he adapted the majority of rules, strategy and league organization. Based on Earth seasons, which were as random a choice as any other planet’s orbital cycles, the GFL’s first seventeen seasons involved a fixed 16-game schedule that began at the same time every year.
In 2665 Purist Nation officials seized the team bus for the New Rodina Astronauts and executed all non-Human players. Following that event, the Creterakians shut down the GFL. That shutdown created what League of Planets sociologist Clarissa Cho dubbed an “entertainment vacuum.” Ki businessman Huichy-O-Wyl filled that vacuum with the creation of the Universal Football League.
While the caliber of UFL teams was far below that of the GFL, the new league had two distinct advantages. First, it had very few regulations regarding new franchises. Anyone with the money to afford a payroll, equipment, and an interstellar-capable team bus could bring a new team into the league. Second, the UFL embraced the Creterakian calendar, a year of which is 241.25 Earth days. The UFL played a 12-game season with a two round playoff, allowing two “seasons” each Creterakian year.
This resulted in many new teams and a constant football presence. By 2668, the UFL boasted 32 teams and had crowned six champions. The “never-ending season” format worked so well and created so much fan interest, the Creterakians modified it when they forcibly disbanded the UFL and reinstated the GFL. The first half of the year is the Tier Two season. The second half is for Tier One. Tier Three runs constantly, with two seasons a year. Roughly half of the Tier Three leagues run simultaneously with the Tier Two season, and the other half run simultaneously with Tier One.
The result of this “back-to-back” scheduling is that some rookies moving up from Tier Three to an Upper Tier team have only two weeks before the season’s first game. Rookies must be cleared through the Combine, and can only be brought in for the roughly one week that remains of the preseason. After the preseason, teams can fill roster gaps only by grabbing free agents who have already played on a GFL roster.
THE SECOND DAY, the computer woke Quentin and told him to dress. He followed directions, and didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and something started to come through, to float through. Quentin jumped away from the door, his back hitting the small cell’s wall.
It floated at chest height, a white, tapered, flattish creature about four feet across and six feet long. At the outer edges of the body, thick skin moved in undulating waves, like the long wings of a stingray or a skate. A row of six deep, black sensory pits lined the creature’s curved front.
A Harrah.
“My goodness,” the creature said. “Are you all right?”
The creature hadn’t said it, because Quentin didn’t see movement from anything that might be a mouth. He realized that the words came from a small metal machine strapped to the creature’s back.
He recognized the creature as resident of one of the five gas giant planets that made up the Harrah Tribal Accord. He’d never seen one in person, just on holos as GFL refs. He’d also studied them in the classes that taught every Purist Nation child how to kill the sub-races. The common nursery rhyme jumped unbidden into his head:
A punch in the pit, any of them will do
Grab the wings and pull down, so blessed are you
Bring up your knee, oh so so so high
Let this enemy of High One die
He remembered that kind of move put sudden compression on the Harrah’s heart, causing it to rupture.
The Harrah’s sensory pits combined to produce a kind of sonar that let them “see” everything via sound waves. A curled tentacle sat outside the leftmost and rightmost black pit — the Harrah equivalent of hands. It wore a pack of some kind on its back, an orange-and-black pack with many compartments and pockets.
Quentin stared for a second before he realized his hands were balled up into tight fists. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Krakens’ team doctor. You may call me Doc. Please relax, my good man. I’m here for your physical.”
“I don’t get a Human doctor?”
“Harrah make excellent doctors, I assure you. I’ve been studying multi-species sports medicine for fifty years. I realize that my appearance may be a bit startling to you, Quentin, but I pose no danger. Now please, sit and relax.”
Doc reached a tentacle into his backpack and came out with a bracelet done in a bluish metal.
“Please disrobe and hold out your wrist.”
“I want a Human doctor.”
“That’s fine. But I’m the team doctor for the Ionath Krakens. If you want to play for the Krakens, I have to examine you. If you want to go back to the PNFL for another year so you can find a team with a Human doctor, that is your prerogative.”
Quentin gritted his teeth. He wasn’t waiting another year. He stripped out of his bodysuit and held out his hand.
Doc’s tentacles shot to the long scar on Quentin’s right arm. Quentin managed not to flinch as the alien examined the old wound.
“How did this happen?”
“Grinder accident when I was a kid, working in the mines. I almost lost my arm.”
“But that scar… did they use stitches? With a needle and thread?”
“It was a pretty bad injury, I think they did a great job. They grafted the bone together, repaired the muscle connections and stitched the whole thing up.”
“Stitches and bone grafts,” Doc said quietly. “Sheer barbarism.”
Doc fastened the bracelet around his wrist.
“This device will check all of your vital signs. I already have a great deal of physical information on you from yesterday’s test, so this is somewhat of a formality. Now I’m going to check your joints — machines can’t always find what can be found by touch.”
Quentin’s lip curled involuntarily at the thought of that thing touching him. But he’d have to get used to aliens, so he might as well start now.
Doc’s tentacles gripped his arm. They were warm and soft, not cold and clammy as he’d expected. Doc bent his arm at the elbow, then straightened it, pushing against the joint.
“Does it hurt when I do this?”
“No,” Quentin said. Doc continued his examination, moving from joint to joint.
“PNFL doesn’t give out medical records. What sports-related injuries have you sustained?”
“None.”
Doc paused. “There’s no use in lying, my good man, I’m going to find any injuries you’ve had.”
“Search all you want,” Quentin said.
The Harrah doctor continued looking. After five minutes of gentle poking, prodding, and bending, he stopped. He pulled the device off Quentin’s wrist, looked at it for a moment, then returned it to his backpack.
“How is it,” Doc said, “that you played football for four years yet you have no injuries?”
Quentin shrugged. “I don’t get hit very much.”
“Yes, well I suppose you don’t. Now we have just one more test, Quentin. We must check you for a hernia.”
Quentin’s heart sank. He’d forgotten about that most invasive part of the sports physical.
“I don’t have one.”
“I need to check. Please stand.”