Bludger prepares for Benfica

Playing against a foreign opponent is always tough, despite being backed by waves of loyal fans (some of which might comprise of illegal immigrants) on home soil. This occassion was no different. We must breakdown their pulsating attack and pearce through sturdy defence. Yes, we can do it, thought Bludger, who sat solemnly in the changing room - the ladies changing room. He gripped his hands tightly in immense belief, but he felt a tab on this shoulder. "Excuse me, but you're in the wrong changing room. The men's is down the hall way. And please put some clothes on", hinted the head coach of the girls team. The big game had distorted Bludger's concentration.

As Bludger returned to his seat in the men's room, he checked his gears and status. Drink bottle, checked. Boots, checked. Cigars, why would that be necesary? Ok, still checked. He was adequately prepared. He was fit - fit enough to outrun a 5 year old kid in a 100 metre race but no more than that). His socks were brand new, though strangely an unmatched pair. He's acquired a sleeky new hair do, well, fully shaven to be in fact. He was clothed in a bright blood red club shirt with a chalky 10 written on the back. He glazed up at one corner of the room with a smirk, picturing his magnificent stance with this famous number 10 shirt (number 10 shirt is worn by the best player in each club) in front of all the fanatical female fans. Then a familiar voice echoed into Bludger's consciousness. "Alright men! lets go and take them down!.... and Bludger, give me back that number 10 shirt!" yelled the captain.

Filled with a surging adrenaline rush, Bludger leaped out of his seat before hitting his head against a pipeline, and slapped on his number 99 shirt that he forgot to wash after yesterday's training. He followed his team mates and headed for the stadium entrance...