Graydar was a magician in time. He awoke to a sunny morning, a good omen. Graydar ate a simple, humble breakfast of toast, hold the jam. His tummy had butterflies today, he felt a tad nervous. Quite an understatement, that. Graydar was totally excited and nervous.
Graydar--also a pilgrim--washed and dressed head to foot in his magician gear, including the hood. His couture was quite colorful, all ritual, as he was a symbol for his tribe.
At the appointed hour, Graydar set off. He had fixed onto his garb some of his sorcerer's charms, like amulets. They were symbols of symbolism. Graydar drove off in his ageing, horseless chariot to the meeting place of fellow mages in his society.
There was a throng of good guys and bad boys, all heading along to the central magicians' Mecca. It was their annual mage and pilgrim devotion, and holy obligation, befitting such loyal beings.
The good guys stuck together as they gathered around Graydar, clutching iconic emblems, like-minded voyagers in time. The throng boarded clackety-clack carriages, drawn by a locomotive. All the while, they were casting suspicious glances at the sky, to see if rain impended.
Traditional cheering and hymn singing soon emanated, as their destination was reached. Threats were muttered by the bad boys. Graydar ignored them, while he led his tribe in search of their quest, their holy grail. The magicians were destined to follow their path to glory, and so they did.
Prayers were heard, beseeching their great Yahweh to bless the good guys today, magic in time and history. Mecca was found, so they wandered in and sat down together. There was safety in numbers, with those bad boys around, abounding.
"Yes, dear fellow magicians," Graydar spoke his pearls of wisdom of a gray. "Tis grand final day. A playoff in time. We must seek prayers for our boys to be blessed with the holy grail today. We shall sit here worshiping, to see if history can be made. This is day in the life of all the magician good guys. You are all permitted to boo, hiss, and hurl verbs at the bad boys. So mote it be."
Let this vital match begin. The bad boys, on this fateful final day, were up and about early in this classic contest. There were goals kicked and missed, chances blown, bad passes, brilliant intercepts. Unfortunately for Graydar, the good guys were soon trailing behind miserably.
Graydar yelled mightily, on the verge of apoplexy. Being dramatic, he was sitting right behind the goals in the fence line. At one stage in this match, Graydar threatened to hurl himself over the fence, to engage in fisticuffs with the umpire.
"Play on!" said the umpire, setting aside his whistle. Then, a miracle happened. Yahweh sent the good guys a sign. The sun was shining, liniment was wafting through the air, junk food everywhere. Onto the playing field lumbered the star recruit for the good guys.
He was titled, "Twinkletoes." This player stood six foot five inches tall, broad of chest, bold of glistening muscles, snowy white bloomers, and flaunting immaculate, gleaming boots. This was his first match. The bad boys hurled much abuse, Twinkletoes stood proudly.
Graydar and the good magicians placed all their hopes and dreams in Twinkletoes. A surprise in a big parcel. Could he swing the game, weave his own magic? Graydar raised his sorcerer's hands, and joined his voice in the good guys' chanting. The magicians were feeling lucky.
History unfolded on center stage. It was like magic, the mystique of true football. Twinkletoes starred. He kicked winning goal after goals, despite the abuse from the bad boy players, and their mages in the crowd.
Yes, the good guys staged a massive comeback, and kicked to a winning lead. Finally, it was all over, at last. The good guys won the grand final. Epic magical glory. Graydar's team was on history's page. In the crowds, Graydar was one of the first to receive a free replica of the premiership cup--a mini trophy in gold. His holy grail.
Graydar kissed it with his wrinkled lips, and headed off home amid all the throngs of pilgrims.
Bad luck really, after all those years of waiting, the hand of fate dealt an unkind twist in this tale of a mage. Graydar took a wrong turn home to a clackety-clack carriage station.
Graydar suddenly found himself among a host of bad boy fanatic magicians. They were cross, hostile, abusive, angry, sullen, melancholic, and inebriated. While drowning their great sorrows, they noticed Graydar holding his golden grail.
Resentful and jealous, the bad boys hurled rude words and beer bottles at poor old Graydar. One full bottle hit him on the temple, and he collapsed on the roadside. Graydar struck his head on the concrete kerb, and he knew no more.
Graydar did not even wake up in the crematorium. His psyche was now stardust, drifting in time. He was still clutching his holy grail, still wearing his magician hood. Strange, but true. From the cradle to his grave, in ritual football gear he had been swathed. He traveled in his ship of souls, off to his eternity. Graydar gazed at the face of the universe, his dreams achieved.
Now, Graydar's best was yet to be, after his good old days on Earth. He was wandering through the glitter of the galaxies, but he had never been alone. His faith in Yahweh had been so strong, on this path Graydar had trod along.
Meanwhile, back on Earth, Mrs. Graydar was eating a box of chocolates, the front porch light still on. She was waiting up to see exactly what time Graydar hove back home. She was used to his magician's wanderings. Not such a little woman, she answered the doorbell, late that eventful night.
A pair of police people entered to inform Mrs. Magician Graydar about the miserable demise of her husband. She could sort the arrangements on Monday morning, down at the funeral parlor. The police made her a cup of tea, which sat cooling. Mrs. Graydar shed not a tear, and muttered so only she could hear, "Football, bloody football."