Tales of Great Valor

I've been reading Lord of the Rings. This evening I had a nice game of football, just a turn-up and play affair. The opposition were a bit too ball-hogging, and not too good at shooting on target.

So, as the golden sun set over the western woods, the game moved toward the eastern goal. Thus did their striker the ball smite, that its resting place in the bramble thicket lay. The left-back, clad in long socks and leather shoes was driven back by the sharp spikes of the blackberry bush. The striker strode round the bush, eyeing for the missing leather orb, but was led astray by the sweet taste of blackberries, and searched no longer.

As hopes faded, Mr. Endofphil took it upon himself to find the lost ball. Starting his journey to the western woods, he found the great wooden sword carved by storms past. He took it in his hands, and named it Stick. Weary, without food or drink, and with the weight of Stick slowing down his already tired legs, he returned to the bramble bush. The sight of those fearful spikes which had torn many a mortal leg to shreds roused his anger, and smiting Stick with all his might did he force a way through the bush. The bramble bush was resilient, but as he smote to the left, to the right, and to the floor, the path became clear. He saw the ball and dropped Stick so as to hold the ball tightly. The brambles sensed their chance, and began to rise again, determined to take their toll. As the stalks rose, pushing their spikes into his legs, Mr. Endofphil ran, jumped, and landed safe from the bush. The ball was once more on the Pitch, and Stick may be found by future adventurers.