Retro: Bowl Onion ((better))

“Boys,” he said softly, “the mandate says an onion . It doesn’t specify the type .”

Within minutes, the locker room became a portrait of suffering. The quarterback tried to hide his onion inside his helmet, but the stench clung to his gloves. The kicker, a delicate soul, simply held his onion and sobbed. Coach Spuf watched as his star wide receiver bit into the onion like an apple, shuddered violently, and then curled into a fetal position.

The stadium lights of the Pixel Valley Coliseum hummed a low, 8-bit frequency. Coach T. K. “Spud” Fumbles had seen it all. He’d coached teams through blizzards, riots, and the infamous Gatorade shortage of ’87. But nothing prepared him for the news conference that Tuesday afternoon. retro bowl onion

In the post-game interview, a reporter asked Coach Spud the secret to his success.

He diced the shallot with his play-calling card, mixed it with a packet of mustard and a squirt of sports drink, and fed it to his quarterback. The QB’s eyes widened. It wasn’t good. But it wasn’t evil . “Boys,” he said softly, “the mandate says an onion

On the final play, as time expired, the QB dropped back. The onion fumes had cleared his sinuses so violently that he could see into the future. He threw a 99-yard bomb that deflected off an onion peel, bounced off a ref’s head, and landed perfectly in the end zone.

Touchdown. Championship.

The second half was a disaster. On the first play, Barry took the handoff, but as he cut left, a single tear blurred his vision. He fumbled. The onion, still undigested, gurgled in his gut like a dying dial-up modem. The opposing team—who had smuggled in a case of hidden ranch dressing—scored 21 unanswered points.