Ball Runner 2049: The First Scene From a New #Huskers Screenplay
Text scrolls across the screen as ominous music plays, an orchestral, slowed down version of Hail Varsity, turning this former anthem into a dirge.
Run the Ball Guy/Girl [ ræn ðə bɔl ɡɑɪ/ ˈɡɜrl ] noun. A generally pejorative term focusing derision on one who is possessed by an inhuman fervor for the ancient art of the fullback dive
THE AMERICAN HERITAGE
DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH
LANGUAGE, HUSKER EDITION (2017)
Run the Ball Guy/Girl [ ræn ðə bɔl ɡɑɪ/ ˈɡɜrl ] noun. A militaristic ruling class that has taken power in Region 22 and has outlawed all throwing of the football on Saturdays in US Penal Colony 1995 AKA The People’s Republic of Cory Schlesinger, formerly known as Nebraska.
WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY
New International (2049)
Fade in:
Ext. The People’s Republic of Cory Schlesinger — Dusk
We are MOVING TOWARD a giant monolithic stadium, standing tall above a vast, sprawling scene of futuristic urban decay. There are neon signs erupting through the low-slung, dark clouds and the sky is the color of a heavy-handed pencil sketch.
The camera PANS TOWARDS an office building and zooms in on one window with a dull light coming out of it, perched at the top of the structure.
Cut to:
Int. a Giant office building — Dusk
There is a single black, metallic desk in the center of the dimly lit room. A scientist sits at the desk with his hands folded neatly on his lap. We know he is a scientist, because he’s wearing a lab coat. Duh.
Seated across from him is a large man with an immaculate, vintage “Restore the Order” T-Shirt over his wide frame.
The scientist slides his metal chair forward, metal scraping loudly along the floor, and sets down a holographic, futuristic tablet with blinking information scrolling across. It’s v fancy.
Scientist: Shall we begin, Callahan.
Callahan: Is this a test? I get kind of nervous with tests.
Scientist: (Ignoring the question and proceeding) Please don’t move.
Callahan: I already had a Xs and Os test this year but I don’t think I ever had one quite like th —
Scientist: Reaction time is a factor in this test, so do try to pay attention.
Callahan: Uh, okay. I’ll do my bes —
Scientist: 2004 S. Panico Lane —
Callahan: Oh, that’s my house. That’s where I live.
Scientist: Is it a nice place, where you live?
Callahan: Sure, I guess. It’s a nice little neighborhood. Quiet little place. About 3.1 yards on my street. Is this part of the test?
The scientist smiles condescendingly
Scientist: Just warming you up.
Callahan: (Slightly offput) Oh…okay. Well, anyway, it’s nothing too fancy.
Scientist: Very well. You’re on a football field, walking along on the artificial turf when —
Callahan: (Interrupting) Is this the test now?
Scientist: Yes. You’re on a football field, walking along on the artificial turf when you look down and see —
Callahan: (Barely audible, throat nervously almost closed) What one?
Scientist: What field?
Scientist: Maybe the one here, that’s right outside this office.
Callahan: Scott Frost field? Why am I all alone, there?
Scientist: I don’t know. Maybe you’re fed up or anxious or maybe it’s a bye week and you just gave up 56 points to The Federated District of Ohio. You look down and see a Terrapin crawling next to a traditional, leather football.
Callahan: What’s a Terrapin?
Scientist: Ever see a creepy, furry beaked-thing with dead eyes and a shell on its back that dances to pep band music? That. That’s what’s next to the football.
Callahan: I never seen that before.
He sees the scientist’s patience is wearing thin.
Callahan: But I understand what you mean. All mascots are creepy. Especially those ones that inflate and bounce around and —
Scientist: You reach down and pick up the football, Callahan.
Keeping an eye on his subject, the scientist watches the tablet in front of him as a blinking red light begins flashing, slowly.
Callahan: You make up these questions, Doctor, or do they write ’em down for you?
Disregarding the question, The Scientist continues, picking up the pace.
Scientist: The football sits in your hands, its pig skin baking in the hot sun, begging you silently to help move it downfield. Because it can’t. Not without your help. But you’re not helping.
Callahan’s upper lip is quivering.
Callahan: Whatya means, I’m not helping?
Scientist: (Snapping) I mean you’re not helping! You’re not running with the football to move it where it wants to go. Why is that, Callahan?
The Scientist looks hard at Callahan, a hard piercing look. Callahan is flushed with anger, breathing hard, he gestures wildly with his hand, making a slashing motion across his throat. He might erupt.
Suddenly the Scientist grins disarmingly.
Scientist: They’re just questions, Callahan. In answer to your query, they’re written down for me. It’s a test designed to provoke an emotional response.
Callahan is glaring now, the blush subsides, his anger slightly diffused. The Scientist smiles cheerfully, very smooth.
Scientist: Shall we continue?
Callahan nods, still frowning, suspiciously.
Scientist: Describe in one word: How you move the ball down the field.
The Words spill suddenly out of his mouth, he makes a slight gurgling gasp as soon as they become audible in the near silence of the room…
Callahan: Pass.
Scientist: (Grinning devilishly, hungrily, a dark feverish tint in his eyes) Pass? Do you mean the question or the ball?
Callahan: Uhh. The — look, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Scientist: Throw?
Callahan: Look, I mean, you’re over there tossing out all these questions. Chucking them out one after another, maybe that’s not offensive on the West Coast but — seriously, Doc, I might hurl.
The light on the tablet has begun blinking furiously. The Scientist shoves his chair back and pulls out a laser from inside his lab coat opening fire and hitting Callahan in the arm, his skin peels back and reveals a robot arm.
Callahan: (Turning towards the camera for a closeup, laughing in a completely unhinged manner before turning to jump out the nearest window.) I’ll never stop throwing bubble screens!!!!!
