"Ready! Get set!"
My breath came harsh and ragged through my beak as I panted, sweat soaking the plumage that was crumpled down by the helmet protecting my head. Ponies were cheering wildly from the stands around us. I was set at the line of scrimmage, the rest of my teammates to my left. Two other receivers, a tight end, and the offensive line; five burly stallions tasked with protecting our quarterbuck, who was calling our play behind them. Behind him was our runningbuck, set to charge. Our opponent's defensive line was set across from our offensive line and would stop at nothing to tackle our quarterbuck to the ground before he could get the hoofball out of his hooves. Unfortunately for them, they were exhausted.
It was the final minute of the fourth quarter. This was the Academy Championship; Vanhoover Academy versus Canterlot Prep, the last game of the season. Over 2,000 ponies filled the stands of Canterlot Academy Field. Most of them cheered for our opposition, but there were plenty of voices calling out for the Vanhoover Academy Parasprites. On top of the championship being up for grabs, both teams also knew for a fact that there were EHL talent scouts in the crowd, which compounded the pressure even further. Among the throng of voices were my adoptive parents, two ponies that had spent their entire lives in Vanhoover; wheat farmers by the names of Splitgrain and Oat Cake. Even among the huge throngs of fans, I could just barely make out my dad's distinct voice, probably about to burst a blood vessel from shouting so hard. Sometimes, he took hoofball even more seriously than I did, and I was aiming for the pros.
The game was close. The score was 17-21 in their favor, but our offense had controlled the ball far longer throughout the game. As a result, their defensive unit was beaten down, tired beyond recognition. They were dragging their hooves across the field in the final moments of the biggest game of their lives. All we needed was a touchdown; six points would be scored and the game would be ours. The clock was ticking; it was only second down and five, but we had to move the ball up the field if we were going to win. I measured up the cornerbuck across from me through my facemask. Despite my tiredness, he looked looked far more battered than me. It was his job to guard me, do anything he could to keep me from catching the ball if my quarterbuck threw it to me, as long as he didn't grab me or tackle me before I touched the ball. He was a fast, lanky young stallion with an auburn coat and stark gray eyes, the number 40 emblazoned on his jersey. The ideal situation for him would be if he got between me and my quarterbuck and batted the ball away, or even caught the ball himself for an interception. That scenario would end the game for us, and I wouldn't let it happen.
My quarterbuck. Bronze Cartwheel was a stout young stallion and talented hoofball thrower. He was the son of a wagon repairpony who was well-respected in Vanhoover. Most importantly, though, he was my best friend. He just might have had a shot at the EHL, but he wanted to take over his father's business after graduation. I watched him diligently, waiting for the second he hiked the ball so I could explode from my spot on the line without penalty. I had to get away from my cornerbuck and get open to receive the pass.
We were doing a trick play. Bronze would pretend to hand the ball off to the runningbuck in an effort to confuse the enemy team's defense, and then throw it to me. Our other receivers would traverse down the left side of the field to try to get open in case something happened and I couldn't. It was my job to shake off the cornerbuck across from me and run as fast as I could to get in position for the catch.
You'd think that as a griffon, it would more advantageous for me to fly, but that was impossible. Underneath my grass-stained yellow jersey and protective padding, there was a harness that kept my wings pinned to my side. This was a requirement for all griffons and pegasi, as flight was seen as an unfair advantage in a sport played on the ground. Unicorns weren't immune either, as they were forced to wear horn guards that both protected their magical appendages and prohibited the casting of any spell. Plus, every hoofball used in any game, whether it be Academy or EHL, has an anti-magic ward cast on it in order to avoid any kind of magical interference, whether it be from a player or the audience. In the EHL, jerseys and helmets were warded as well. The limitations didn't stop with the wing harness for me, however. I also had thick rubber guards on the end of my talons to keep from slicing the ball, other players, or the finely groomed field we were all standing on.
Bronze Cartwheel moved back and held his front hooves out. It was time.
"Set, HUT!"
Our center linepony, Solid Rock, snapped the ball backwards through his hind legs into the waiting hooves of Bronze Cartwheel. Then all chaos broke loose.
There was a strong chorus of grunts and crashing bodies as the offensive line collided with the defensive line. Their defense tried with all of their might to make it past the offensive lineponies in order to stop the quarterbuck as he turned backwards to hoof off the ball to our runningbuck, Snapdragon. Little did they yet know, Snapdragon would never touch the ball. He'd crash into the mass of bodies in front of him, buying extra precious time for Bronze to throw to me.
As soon as the ball was hiked, I took off. The poor auburn cornerbuck in front of me had no chance of keeping up, he was just too worn down. I bounded straight ahead, trying to convince the deep-field defenders that I was going to run straight down the field towards the end zone, right into their waiting hooves.
Most hoofball defenders aren't used to guarding a receiver like me. Ponies gallop when they run for a completion, but as a griffon, galloping was foreign to me. My run was a cat-like gait, with both talons and both hind legs hitting the ground in unison; my body working like a piston to send me down the field. It makes me faster, more agile, but it also makes me easier to tackle than a pony due to a less solid base. But that was only if they could catch me.
I had fooled the defense. They were waiting in their zones, ready to cover me deeper down the field. But I turned left, headed to center field. The cornerbuck was well behind me. The zone was clear, I was wide open. I looked towards the mass of colliding lineponies, searching for Bronze Cartwheel, ready to throw behind it. The offensive line had protected him, the ball was securely in his fetlock. He saw me, exactly where I needed to be, and he threw.
How a pony can throw a hoofball without the use of claws or talons, I'll never know. But they can. And he did. The pass went right into my talons as cheers and yells of frustration rose from the stands. I tucked the ball away with my left talon, meaning I could only use the right to run. As a receiver, I knew how to run efficiently with three legs, and was still able to keep a consistent speed. I had the ball, I had the first down, but we needed more. Time was almost out, I had to end the game here and now. I had the opposing team's two safeties between me and the end zone, and more defenders converging behind me to give chase. Individually, they were all stronger than me.
But even with just three legs, I knew I was faster.
I took to the right side of the field, forcing my tired body into overdrive. Ponies were still closing in on me, but I just ran. Their safeties dove at me, but I weaved around them, spinning and using my quickness to avoid the tackles. The strong safety got a foreleg around my back leg, but I pulled away with just a light stumble. The free safety was still hot on my tail, but he wasn't fast enough. I had fifteen yards. Ten. Five. The free safety dove for my hind legs in one last move of desperation. He missed. I dove for the end zone. Touchdown.