| Warrick and I threaded our way through the throngs of people to find a spot in the stadium that was close to the action. Sitting down and glancing at the field which was empty, the younger CSI raised an eyebrow. "I'm no lacrosse expert, but I think there are supposed to be players out there," he said and I nodded. "It's half time. Lacrosse is broken up into 2 periods over 60 minutes at the college level," I explained and Warrick shook his head. "How do you play lacrosse anyway?" "Well, it's an ancient sport created by the Native Americans--" I started when he raised a hand. "Just the basics, Gris," he chuckled. "There's a yellow ball. They have sticks with nets called crosses. They put the ball in each other's net." "That's better." Players began to file out the locker rooms and onto the field, Natasha second out of the LV Rebels shoot. "Is that her?" he pointed and I nodded. Her helmet was bright red with 'RR' emblazoned in white on top of it, only wearing her helmet and padded gloves, no elbow or knee pads. Frowning, Warrick crossed his arms. "All these other girls are bigger than her by atleast half a foot and 40lbs. Are you sure she'll be alright?" I nodded again. "She's co-captian for a reason. They're down by 2, 8 to 6," I said, looking at the score board. "I think they can come back." "Let's hope so. What's the 'RR' for?" he asked and I smiled. "'Raging Russian'...she tends to use her native language more as the game progresses and it gets rougher," I answered as the ball was dropped into play and the women began to fight for it, tossing bodies and racking up the score to an even 10 to the cheers of the people in attendence as the clock wound down to twenty seconds left. Suddenly a 6'1 Syracuse player blindsided Natasha, sending her flying out of the arena and the Rebel bench cleared, ready to fight. Warrick stood up with the rest of the spectators as the whistle blew, stopping play. "Uh oh," he mused, tapping me on the shoulder. "Looks like things are about to get dirty." I stood, frowning as Natasha pulled herself to her feet slowly, a gash bleeding from her cheek bone, knee jerked at an arkward angle. 'That's going to take atleast 5 stitches,' I thought as she waved her teammates back to the bench in a combination of Russian and English. 'Fifty eight this season. Damn, why do you put your body on the line?' Ripping off her gloves, she jerked her knee, popping it back into place before jogging over to her coach. "Did she just fix her dislocated knee herself?" Warrick asked wide eyed. "Yes," I said, watching as a medic stopped the blood and put a clotting agent on her cut. "She's tough...sometimes too tough." Her coach kept waving at the field and Natasha shook her head, stabbing her crosse in the ground defiantly. As the time out was called, she brushed the medic aside and pointed at the other team, eyes I knew that were glaring even though they weren't directed at me. The coach gave a sigh, then a nod and called to the offical who crossed his arms and pointed at her cut. A few more minutes went by and finally the whistle blew and Natasha took her place on the grass in the setting Las Vegas sun, tossing comments at the other team in a combination of languages that could be heard above the noise. Twenty seconds. The ball was tossed to Natasha and she took off down the field towards the Orangemen-women's goal, going full tilt, long braid flying behind her. Fifteen seconds. A pass to one of her teammates and she fades to the background, going to a defensive mode. Ten seconds. The Rebels pass to one another, playing a nail biting game of keep away. Seven seconds. Syracuse rushes the Rebels, intending to have possesion in overtime by having possesion at the end of the game. But out of mid air, Natasha snags the ball, leaping towards the opposition. Five seconds. Three Orangemen-women rushed her and she planted her feet, launching into mid air, timing her strike with the top of her flip. Three seconds. The flying yellow sphere sails over the arm of the goalie and hits the back of the net. Natasha landed on the ground on one knee, black braid falling over her shoulder as the crowd erupted in a cheer, Warrick and I along with them. The whistle blew but it was too late; the clock had run out, the Rebels rushing the field in a frenzy of flying pads, helmets, and crosses. "Gris! Did you see that?!" Warrick pointed and I laughed outloud. "Yes Warrick. But I still don't believe it." The winning team was in a mass of disbelief, dog piling on top of each other and screaming, driving the crowd to be louder. Cameras, men in suits, and police were filing onto the grass under the bright stadium lights to take pictures, shake hands, or keep the peace as the other team left to leave the winners in their glory. Microphones appeared as the screaming women quieted down and stood along the sidelines as the trophies were bought out. "Ladies and Gentlemen!" the announcer called over the loudspeaker. "If I can have your attention directed to the field; the presentation of the awards will commence..." The bleachers quieted down and a shorter man step forward in the painted center circle, clad in a black suit that was too hot for the time of year. "Hello! And welcome to Las Vegas University! I'm President Dean Hall and you have witnessed history! Five years ago, LVU did not have a Women's Lacrosse team and now they are the champions!" he called out and cheers went up as Warrick snorted. "True politics even in a time like this," he muttered and I raised an eyebrow in question. "He means 'fund us more because look what we can do'...I played baseball here," he replied. "Happened every time we won." "I see..." I said and turned my attention back to the University President. "...And now to accept the NCAA Women's Lacrosse Championship Trophy for the Las Vegas University Rebles, Captain Karen Anderson!" A tall, lanky blonde girl stepped out of the ranks of her team mates to hoist the metal monstrosity above her head, illicting more noise from the stands. "Thank you for all your support!" she said into the microphone. "We couldn't have done this without the fans! And my teammates and Coach Walker who didn't give up on us; this is really theirs--I'm just the cute one who looks good on camera!" A laugh went through the people there and she carried the trophy back to her team who began to touch it reverently as though it might break. Suddenly, the Coach that Natasha was arguing with earlier took the mike from the President who gave him a miffed look. "Hi, my name is Coach Erwin Walker," he said, adjusting the red and white visor on his balding head and ignoring President Hall. "I usually let the gracious President give the MVP award at the end of the year but I felt that this was my duty...this woman has played for two years...is a fighter in every sense of the word, to the point of overzealousness sometimes but that's ok; we wouldn't have her any other way. She puts 200% in every game, every practice and she has the scars to prove it. This year's 2004 Women's Lacrosse MVP goes to co-captain Natasha Steward." Next |