and intense pain is a few millimeters of tennis shoe? Of course not. The boot protects the striker, and it also makes the skull fly a lot farther, which makes the game more exciting.
There you go again making that disgusted face. It’s not like the person needs his skull anymore. He’s moved on; he’s playing harps, floating on clouds, and all of that other angel stuff. For big games like today, they usually pull out some special skulls. At last year’s junior championship—which we lost twenty-one to five, if you must know—we used this Italian dude’s skull. His name was Mike Angel or Marvin Angelo … No, that’s not right … Michelangelo. That’s it.
Supposedly he was some famous shorty that sculpted another dude name David and painted some nice pictures on a ceiling somewhere. I’m not too sure, though, because I don’t keep up with whole shorty history thing too much. But I do have to say he had a very lopsided skull. That thing wouldn’t roll straightto save my life, and I had to do some major in-game adjustments to get it to roll the way I wanted.
Mal buckles the last strap on her foot and stomps over to the middle of the yard. I trot to the other side and eye the distance between us.
“Is that about forty feet?” I ask.
“More or less. Come on. Let’s see this new roll so I can go back inside and lie down,” Mal barks.
“Pushy, pushy,” I say.
I get in my stance. My heels together, my knees bowed away from each other. I spit on my hands and rub them together. I clasp the skull by sticking one finger in the nose hole, another in the ear hole and two in the mouth. This is called the Lou-cow-ski hold, a little unorthodox but an essential ingredient for my new roll.
“You ready?” I ask.
She spits and gets into position. “Roll it.”
I flex my wrist, bringing the skull to my forearm. I twist my hips to the side and swing my arm forward. I flick my wrist counterclockwise, giving the ear hole a jab with my finger at the same time.
The skull springs from my hand, hits the ground, and speeds toward Mal like a tumbleweed caught in a tornado, whirling one way and then another. Mal swings her foot at the skull, but misjudges it, and it darts just out of her reach. The momentum of her kick sends her sprawling onto the earth with a thud.
“Holy cow!” Mal exclaims from the seat of her pants.
I do three exuberant scissor kicks into the air in celebration.
“Did you see that?” I yell.
“How did you do that? I’ve never seen a skull do that before,” Mal says and jumps up.
I give her one of my million-dollar smiles. “Not telling.”
“Do it again! That was probably just a fluke,” she says.
I pick up the other skull and get in position.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I’m gonna knock this one over the fence,” she growls.
I smile, do my windup, and roll the skull toward her. This time she mistimes it completely, and the skull passes her before she even tries to make contact. She watches as it zips by and then peers up at me.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Who did you learn it from?”
“I came up with it,” I lie.
“You did?”
“More or less,” I say.
Mal’s eyebrows shoot up and she locks her hands onto her hips. The sight reminds me uncomfortably of my mom.
I sigh. “All right, all right. I found it in this ancient book at the library.”
“You’ve been to the library?” she says, her eyebrows still arched.
I decide to overlook her rude question. “The roll was made up by this foreign guy named something Mikhail. He was a famous roller a few hundred years ago. I found the instructions in the back of the book and I have been practicing it for quite a while.”
“Hmm … Mikhail? Where is that name from?” Mal asks, rubbing her chin.
“Dunno. Sounds Canadian. Now go get dressed. We gotta go,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and makes her way toward the back door.
“Hey, Mal!”
“What?” she says over her
There you go again making that disgusted face. It’s not like the person needs his skull anymore. He’s moved on; he’s playing harps, floating on clouds, and all of that other angel stuff. For big games like today, they usually pull out some special skulls. At last year’s junior championship—which we lost twenty-one to five, if you must know—we used this Italian dude’s skull. His name was Mike Angel or Marvin Angelo … No, that’s not right … Michelangelo. That’s it.
Supposedly he was some famous shorty that sculpted another dude name David and painted some nice pictures on a ceiling somewhere. I’m not too sure, though, because I don’t keep up with whole shorty history thing too much. But I do have to say he had a very lopsided skull. That thing wouldn’t roll straightto save my life, and I had to do some major in-game adjustments to get it to roll the way I wanted.
Mal buckles the last strap on her foot and stomps over to the middle of the yard. I trot to the other side and eye the distance between us.
“Is that about forty feet?” I ask.
“More or less. Come on. Let’s see this new roll so I can go back inside and lie down,” Mal barks.
“Pushy, pushy,” I say.
I get in my stance. My heels together, my knees bowed away from each other. I spit on my hands and rub them together. I clasp the skull by sticking one finger in the nose hole, another in the ear hole and two in the mouth. This is called the Lou-cow-ski hold, a little unorthodox but an essential ingredient for my new roll.
“You ready?” I ask.
She spits and gets into position. “Roll it.”
I flex my wrist, bringing the skull to my forearm. I twist my hips to the side and swing my arm forward. I flick my wrist counterclockwise, giving the ear hole a jab with my finger at the same time.
The skull springs from my hand, hits the ground, and speeds toward Mal like a tumbleweed caught in a tornado, whirling one way and then another. Mal swings her foot at the skull, but misjudges it, and it darts just out of her reach. The momentum of her kick sends her sprawling onto the earth with a thud.
“Holy cow!” Mal exclaims from the seat of her pants.
I do three exuberant scissor kicks into the air in celebration.
“Did you see that?” I yell.
“How did you do that? I’ve never seen a skull do that before,” Mal says and jumps up.
I give her one of my million-dollar smiles. “Not telling.”
“Do it again! That was probably just a fluke,” she says.
I pick up the other skull and get in position.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I’m gonna knock this one over the fence,” she growls.
I smile, do my windup, and roll the skull toward her. This time she mistimes it completely, and the skull passes her before she even tries to make contact. She watches as it zips by and then peers up at me.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Who did you learn it from?”
“I came up with it,” I lie.
“You did?”
“More or less,” I say.
Mal’s eyebrows shoot up and she locks her hands onto her hips. The sight reminds me uncomfortably of my mom.
I sigh. “All right, all right. I found it in this ancient book at the library.”
“You’ve been to the library?” she says, her eyebrows still arched.
I decide to overlook her rude question. “The roll was made up by this foreign guy named something Mikhail. He was a famous roller a few hundred years ago. I found the instructions in the back of the book and I have been practicing it for quite a while.”
“Hmm … Mikhail? Where is that name from?” Mal asks, rubbing her chin.
“Dunno. Sounds Canadian. Now go get dressed. We gotta go,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and makes her way toward the back door.
“Hey, Mal!”
“What?” she says over her
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