Robert Earnshaw and Quincy Amarikwa, seated side-by-side at the table, nod approvingly.
Robert Earnshaw: It was nothing, boss. Nice and handy, joining Chicago just a few days before that match, wouldn't you say?
Unnamed Man: Yes... "handy" indeed...
Quincy Amarikwa: What do you mean by that? What does he mean by that?!?
Earnshaw: He's just being shady and mysterious. Don't worry about it.
Amarikwa: Worry? Why would I worry? Is there something to be worried about?!
Amarikwa shifts nervously in his seat. Earnshaw rolls his eyes, then turns to Unnamed Man.
Earnshaw: Don't worry about him, boss. You know how he gets.
Amarikwa walks over to the table of potato chips and fumbles with several. Unable to open any of them, he returns to his seat, acting as though he never wanted any potato chips to begin with. Unnamed Man groans loudly, then stands to address the assembled group.
Unnamed Man: Gentlemen, we have a bit of a problem.
Eric Hassli: The high price of tattoo removal?
Unnamed Man: No.
Gabe Gala: Uncertainty in the real estate market?
Unnamed Man: No...
Matias Laba: The high prices in the real estate market?
Unnamed Man: No! Dammit, don't you people remember why we're here?
Men seated at table sit in silence, occasionally eying one another and shrugging in an exaggerated fashion for dramatic purposes.
Amarikwa breaks silence by laughing loudly.
Amarikwa: Ha, I get it!
Gala: No you don't!
Amarikwa: Shut up, yes I do!
Unnamed Man, growing increasingly agitated, slams his first on the table.
Unnamed Man: Enough!
Unnamed Man rubs his eyes thoroughly and exhales loudly.
Unnamed Man: We are here for one simple reason -- to make Toronto FC rue the day that they ever consigned us to the fate of being their castaways. Look around this table. Look at us! Look at all we've accomplished in the game of football. World Cups, national teams, championship trophies...
Gala: Scoring against Real Madrid!
Unnamed Man: Yes Gabe, scoring against Real Madrid. All of these achievements, and yet TFC felt that we were disposable. That we were a spent force.
Men at table turn attention to Mista, who is knitting a scarf. Upon becoming aware of the attention, he looks up, smiles politely and continuing knitting.
Unnamed Man: But as a unit, we are strong. We are powerful. We have the resources and the skills to bring this corrupt organization to its knees!
Marvell Wynne: Now hold on just a second.
Men assembled at table gasp loudly.
Wynne: I had a lot of good times with that team. Good city, good fans. They always treated me well. And I've carved out a pretty nice career for myself since then. Heck, I'm only here 'cause I thought this was, like, a meeting of old friends or something. We'd all get together and share stories about our time in Toronto. Plus I heard you had ketchup-flavoured chips. I love those things. Can't get 'em in Colorado.
Amarikwa loudly crunches on a chip.
Wynne: What's your problem, all of you? Sure, things coulda turned out differently for some of you...
Julian de Guzman nods head furiously.
Wynne: But that's football. That's life. Things don't always turn out the way you want. You gotta just roll with the punches, make the most of it and move on. I mean, if you're going to just hold grudges all your life, what kind of life is that?
Various men seated at table murmur in quasi-agreement.
Wynne: Anyway, sorry I misunderstood what this was all about; I think I'll see myself out.
Unknown voice: Whoa whoa, just wait a second there, old friend...
A man emerges from the shadows, clad in an over-sized leather jacket and holding an e-cigarette, from which he takes several quick and frantic puffs. Stepping into the light, the man is revealed to be Chad Barrett.
Wynne: Chad?! I... I thought you were dead!
Barrett: What? Dude, we play in the same league.
Wynne: Huh?
Barrett: Yeah, I started for Seattle, like, four days ago. Scored a goal.
Wynne: Wait, what's your last name again?
Barrett: Are you serious? We were teammates! In Toronto! Who did you think I was?
Wynne: I dunno, this whole thing has got me confused. I'm done with this. Later.
Wynne stands up, snatches bag of ketchup chips from Amarikwa and leaves room.
Barrett: Whoa, heavy.
Unnamed Man: You were saying, Chad?
Barrett: Yeah, right. You all may think Marvell made some good points. You may think they care about you. You may think "oh sure, I could walk up the streets of Toronto tomorrow and they'll remember me for my 18 appearances or my 7 appearances or my 3 appearances", but guess what? They don't!
Jonas Elmer frowns and looks at his shoes.
Barrett: I had 78 appearances for that team. SEVENTY-EIGHT. And I scored 21 goals. TWENTY-ONE. I scored the most important goal in team history. That "Miracle in Montreal" those people keep talking about. Do you know who scored the decisive goal? The goal that won them that Canadian Championship?
Earnshaw: Dwayne De Rosario?
Gala: Yeah, it was De Ro. Easy.
Unnamed Man: I'm pretty sure it was De Rosario, Chad.
Barrett: What?! No, dammit, it was me! It was me! But those lousy Torontoites, or whatever they're called, what do they remember? "Oh wow, what a great game De Ro had and he won us the Cup, but oh, that Chad Barrett, he always missed the net." I hit the net when it counted! But that means nothing to them.
Barrett takes a long, dramatic drag on the e-cigarette and exhales in clear and rising anger.
Barrett: Those Torontoites, they don't want success. They don't! You think every sports fan wants their team to win, wants their team to succeed? Guess what! In Toronto, it's the opposite! They want their teams to fail! They need it! They need scapegoats in their lives! They need to churn through players, churn through men (furious puff of e-cigarette) and we are men, dammit! We are men! (sputters and coughs out vapours) And that is not what sports are all about! That's not what we are all about!
Barrett breathes deeply to compose himself. Continues speaking in a slower, more deliberate manner.
Barrett: We are human beings. And we don't deserve their disrespect. That, gentlemen, is why we are here. To make them pay.
Assembled men at table stand in a rousing round of applause, except for Mista, who continues knitting. Amid the raucous congratulatory noise, a lone voice emerges.
Sam Cronin: Wait a minute!
Clapping dies down, group turns attention to Cronin.
Cronin: That doesn't make any sense. If Toronto fans want to lose, if that's what they really want, then why are we doing this? Instead of scoring goals against them, shouldn't we be letting them score against us?
Barrett: (puff of e-cig) Whoa. (cough) Heavy.
Unnamed Man: Oh Sam. One of the true believers, you are. A draft pick. You still feel like you owe them. That they're a part of you. Well, let me tell you -- you aren't. Or, they aren't. Whatever, I lost track of my sentences. The point is, there are things in this world that you may not yet understand. But all will become clear in due time, don't you worry.
Barrett: Uh, yeah, what he said.
Unnamed Man: Right. Well then, if there's no other business, then I think we can adjourn this meeting of the Toronto FC castaways. There are some chips over on the table, if Quincy hasn't eaten them all.
Group erupts in laughter.
Amarikwa: HAHAHA I get it. Wait...
Most seated at the table get up and turn towards the door.
Cronin: Wait, what about our "problem"?
Unnamed Man: Ah yes, that. One more order of business, everyone!
Audible groan. Amarikwa giggles loudly, begins devouring all dressed chips.
Unnamed Man: We don't have an operative in play for next week's match against the New England Revolution. Any ideas?
Earnshaw: How about that local kid, Bunbury? They'd hate that!
Unnamed Man: Hmm, good thinking.
Amado Guevara: Jerry Bengtson! You can always count on a good Honduran to come through!
De Guzman bows head into hands.
Unnamed Man: Yes, thinking outside of the box. I like this. Any more ideas?
Silence.
Unnamed Man: Really? No one? Things usually come in threes, especially in dramatic situations like this.
Silence.
Unnamed Man: Oh. Well. (clears throat) I'll think of something then, I guess. Something... forever! (evil laughter)
Cronin: What does that mean?
Unnamed Man: I... you... shut up! Get out of here, all of you! Don't you all have new teams you should be training with or something?
Majority of assembled group: No.
Unnamed Man: Ah, well then, maybe I've found my solution for next week after all... (more evil laughter)
Assembled group files out of room as Unnamed Man continues to laugh, except for Amarikwa, who sits slumped over in his chair, fingers covered in potato chip crumbs.
-end-