Halloween Ghost Story Contest -- 2001
Extras

The All-American Turkey

By
(The Phantom)
Kevin J. Lopes

The year was 1963 and it was Thanksgiving Day in the old village of Goffstowne. The sky was covered in a quilt of billowing grey as the air was sweet with the odoriferous emanations of roasting turkey and Grandma's mince meat pie.

My name is Harold Pillingsworth quarterback of the Goffstowne Gobblers and like the tradition of Thanksgiving, the Gobblers have kept their own tradition of losing alive, having never won a game in their history.

Our team was called the Gobblers because there were an abundance of turkey farms surrounding the Goffstowne area. There were many different accounts of the Gobblers actual win-loss record but Old Man Cogsworth the Town Historian, adamantly stated that the record was 0 wins and 238 losses.

Whatever the record the Gobblers were undoubtedly the worst high school football team to ever step upon a football field.

That Thanksgiving Day in 63' the Gobblers were to face the meanest, dirtiest team in the league, the Crouton High Cannibals. Yes, the Cannibals were meeting the Gobblers and my stomach twisted like a rubbery wishbone because I felt the Cannibals would not leave Goffstowne stadium hungry.

As I put on my uniform I prepared for the Thanksgiving Day massacre by stuffing my football jersey with any soft articles I could find. Socks rolled in balls, bags of cotton, padded bras and support hose from my sister's dresser and towels from my mother's linen closet were used to fill my torso, adding bulk to my weak physique. I began to frightenly imagine which Cannibal would have me for their feast; or would it be a total team buffet.

Feeling extremely unprotected I piled white goose down from and old pillow I found in the attic, into my immensely overstuffed jersey. Suddenly the peace that I had gained from my soft protective suit of armor was spoiled by the blaring horn of my best friend Peter Tugsbill's Dads' station wagon.

As I rolled myself into the back of his dad's car I looked at the long faces of my teammates Franky and Johnny Lupingo. I did not have to ask what was wrong because the fear in their eyes spoke a thousand frightful words.

The short ride to the stadium felt like an eternity as neither Peter, Franky, Johnny or I uttered a syllable. The only sounds that could be heard were a squeaky shock on the station wagon and the churning of our nervous stomachs.

Arriving at the stadium of our Thanksgiving doom we were excitedly greeted at the locker room doors by our coach, Coach Grud Bramble.

Coach Bramble was a portly man with a multicolored moustache of yellow; brown and grey that made him look like an overweight walrus.

The coach was well liked and respected but he did not line up his thoughts on the side of intelligence.

For example that day as we entered the locker room the coach asked me, "Have you been lifting weights Harold?" As I adjusted my sister's teddy bears within my jersey I sarcastically said "Yeah coach just started yesterday." "Good boy" he replied as the team bowed their heads in fearful silence praying for their safety.

A starting pistol sounded for players to make their way to the field. Each player slowly and reluctantly stood and began their trek toward their Thanksgiving Day punishment.

As I ventured past the cheerleaders and the sounds of Gobbler fans blowing their turkey callers, I bent down to pet the head of the Gobbler's mascot, Thomas T. Turkey. Tom the turkey was a marvelous bird of white down, and had a wrinkled face and beard of scarlet red.

Tom was proudly dressed in the official gobbler team sweater of candied yam gold and Idaho potato white. As I patted his head Tom seemed to wish me well with his coal black eyes and a cheerful gobble. All of a sudden the turkey moment I was enjoying was destroyed by the announcement of the Cannibals arrival from the loud speaker system.

One by one the Cannibals trudged on to the field. To my surprise many of the players were smaller than I. As the last players made their way onto the field, a gargantuan player trodded slowly towards the Cannibal bench, leaving sinkholes in the turf like a monstrous big foot.

I asked Coach Bramble why this player was so large and who or what he was. The coach declared that his name was Monty or as his team calls him Monty the Marrow Muncher. Monty has repeated ninth grade six times so he still remained a freshman.

The coach went on to extol "Beware of Monty"s ravenous hunger as has 27 blue notches carved into his helmet. Each one of these notches stands for the players that the Marrow Muncher has feasted on and sent to the hospital". The coach also said, "Monty also two red notches upon his helmet that represent the players that still painfully resided there."

I still believed we had a chance to win although the Cannibals had an enormous mutant on their side. I gave the Gobblers a pep talk truly believing we had a slight chance in gaining our first victory.

As the game began my slight belief in victory was vanquished and my fears were realized as Monty began his feast. Monty's inhumanity was quickly realized as he was squashing, munching and tossing the Gobblers like Godzilla ravaging Tokyo. Although we were losing our players to the Marrow Muncher, the Cannibals were having as much trouble putting the ball in the end zone as the Gobblers. As the game clock ticked fumbles, interceptions and sacks were on the Thanksgiving menu for both squads.

The end of the third quarter was near, and the score remained zero to zero. Monty's feeding frenzy was taking a toll on the Gobblers as four players were taken away to the hospital and another three lay suffering on the sidelines.

Monty not only had hunger for the Gobbler players but during timeouts would use his size eighteen-inch cleats to dig up the turf and commence to devour any unlucky grub or worm-like insect he found.

As we changed sides for the fourth quarter I knew that I would be the next Thanksgiving Day menu item for Monty. One down after another Monty munched on me. He pummeled me to the earth and I felt not only the weight of his hurt but also the pain of itching support hose and the pricking of my sister's bra buckles inside my uniform.

Every time my face and helmet were embedded in the cold, damp, sod Monty would growl his displeasure with words of reassurance, "Rest in peace turkey", or "Where can I send the flowers?"

I slowly lost hope for a victory as Monty declared an all out hunting season on the Gobblers. Monty single handedly had emptied our bench and there were no remaining substitutes lefts to play. One more injury would surely spell defeat and you knew that Monty was still only enjoying his appetizers.

Monty lined up over the Gobblers center and began to rabidly froth at the mouth. I knew we were doomed, as the only snap that came my way was that of the center himself airborne from the force of the Marrow Muncher.

Monty had fulfilled his mission as he evilly trudged towards the water bucket. Drinking like an elephant he pointed at me with one of his seven fingers.

Looking in defeat towards the score board there were twenty-two seconds remaining in the game and the football lay on the 49 yard line of the Cannibals.

I knew that without enough players to put on the field we would have to forfeit the game. Taking our last time out Coach Brambel and I regretfully reviewed the team roster. As we followed each painful name to the bottom of the page we hung our heads in defeat. Suddenly the last name on the roster read Thomas T. Turkey.

Pointing the name out to Coach Bramble he laughed and said, "Thomas T. Turkey is Tom Turkey the Gobbler's mascot." "I'm sorry Harold but we must call the game."

My heart sank, as I knew this might have been the only chance ever for the Goffstowne Gobblers to taste victory.

As my eyes filled with tears an outrageous idea popped into my head. Grabbing the rulebook from a nearby referee I quickly fingered through the pages. As the referee was about to call the contest I summoned Coach Brambel to my side.

Whispering my plan in the coach's ear, I handed him the rulebook. Growing impatient the referee yelled out "Do you or do you not have another player?" The coach holding back his laughter said "Yes we do and he is a small freshman named Thomas T. Turkey. The referee looked at the roster sheet and said "Okay now get him on the field or I'm going to be late for my turkey and gravy."

I ran to Tom and looked into his black eyes and said, "This game depends on you Tom."

Tom let out a gobble of acknowledgement as a twinkle arose from his eyes.

I picked the ostrich like fowl from the ground and brought him into the game.

The Cannibals coach was completely stunned by the appearance of the new fowl running back. The cannibal's coach took his fit of protest out on the referees. His beet red face boiled as the referees showed him there was no foul in letting a fowl play in the rule book. With extreme anger the Cannibal coach agreed to let the bird play.

The fans laughed hysterically at the new-feathered player. The players from both the Cannibals and the Gobblers stared in confused amazement. As play began Tom trotted around the cannibal players as if to taunt them.

This embarrassing Thanksgiving bird did not play well with Monty the Marrow Muncher. Monty seethed then salivated upon his uniform. He then growled to Tom Turkey, "There isn't anything I love more than the taste of raw turkey on Thanksgiving."

Tom Turkey quickly dashed back to the Gobbler's huddle. Twenty-two seconds left I decided on what else but a wishbone formation with Tom Turkey on my right. I began my call 42,37,26, canned Spam, dried yams, okay guys lets do the turkey flim flam Hut, Hut, Hut.

Receiving the football from one of my painfully disabled players, I faked a hand off to my halfback. Unfortunately Monty the Marrow Muncher did not fall for my plan and trodded straight for the unsuspecting Tom Turkey.

I plucked the immense bird from the ground thwarting Monty's quest to relieve his hunger pains. Turkey in one hand, football in the other, I retreated towards my own end zone as Monty hungrily followed.

All of a sudden my feet were flailing in the cold November air as I felt the grasp of Monty's giant gorilla like hands. As I returned to earth white feathers exploded from beneath my painful body as Monty lay crushingly atop of me. Monty with a hideous laugh rolled me over to begin his feast on Tom the turkey the flattened mascot.

Suddenly deafening cheers arose from the stands. Struggling to my feet and wiping the sod from my face I saw Tom Turkey trotting around the field with the football protruding from beneath his sweater. Realizing the white feathers were from the extra pillow padding I stuffed in my jersey, I laughed as I watched the Turkey hunter Monty giving chase with the rest of the Cannibal team following.

Cannibal by Cannibal attempted to tackle the wiry Tom but not one Cannibal even had a nibble. As the turkey hunt went on Tom weaved, spun, leaped and even flew a foot or two driving the Cannibals into frenzy.

All of the Goffstowne fans banded together at the end of the Cannibal end zone and began to blow their turkey callers. Cackles, gobbles, and squawks filled the frosty autumn air. Tom Turkey turned and started to trot for the Cannibal end zone.

Monty worn out from the chase grabbed a musket from a one of the pilgrims from the half time show and rushed to protect the Cannibal goal line. The angry Muncher sweating profusely cocked the hammer of the musket as Tom drew closer.

Monty with fiendish enjoyment in his eyes watched as Tom was now at the Cannibal 20-yard line. Trying to stop the Thanksgiving slaughter I quarterback Harold Pillingsworth, darted at the Marrow Monster as fast as an arrow shooting from an Indian's bow.

As Tom hit the Cannibal ten-yard line, I painfully hit Monty's legs that were the size of California redwoods.

As I released my forceful blow to Monty's legs, the musket exploded and Monty hit the earth with a tremendous thud. Dazed, I struggled to my feet but Monty the Marrow Muncher still lay upon the ground moaning.

I glanced at the scoreboard clock and noticed that time had expired. The cheers and turkey calls were still coming from the Cannibal end zone. I turned to see Tom standing on the Cannibal goal line. I ran towards Tom and pleaded with the Thanksgiving bird to take one more step into the end zone.

Tom stared at me with his coal black eyes and as they twinkled he let loose the grandest of gobbles. Then with no more words or gobbles Tom strutted over the goal line and the Goffstowne Gobblers were once and for all on the side of victory.

Thomas the magnificent running back turkey was now the hometown hero and Monty well he took his maiden voyage to the hospital. As the Marshmallow Muncher passed by on the stretcher I took one of my cleats and carved one large black notch into my helmet signifying my giant Thanksgiving kill.

This story may seem a little unbelievable but the people of Goffstowne know it is their historical truth. So the next time you are driving in rural America and you pass a small village called Goffstowne, Stop. Ask one of the residents to show you the Goffstowne yearbook or the Goffstowne Gazette from Thanksgiving Day, 1963. To your surprise you will see a picture of THOMAS T. TURKEY in his Goffstowne team sweater and a football under his snow-white wing and the twinkle of love in his coal black eyes.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL, GOBBLE, GOBBLE.

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