A lone player, Number 87, would remain a key player on the team, although the team was fading quickly. He is one of the few lucky players that remain uninjured by the terrible curse.

It was the night of the lemoore verse Hanford game. Like last year, the two rivals were almost as a stalemate. The score was tied seven-a-piece. Lemoore had the ball and was making a definate threat to the Bullpups. They scored and made the extra point.

The game was fast and furious. The Bullpups were behind by one point. The clock was winding down; Number 87 was nervously pacing up and down the sideline. With less than half-a-minute to go, the referies finally decided to let the clock run out. The Tigers were victorious for a second straight year. All of a sudden, the curse struck...

The lights went out, the croud began to panic as they fled to thier vehicals before the curse got them. Unfortunently, most of them were killed by being trampled when they fell. Some of the lucky ones got away, only hearing bloodcurtling screams.

The players tried to run to the other side of the field. They couldn't escape their fate. The troublesome players were the first to be devowered; the headcoach followed.

The spine chilling roar of an unseem beast split the chaos like a hot knife against the screams of sirens approaching closer to their destiny. In an instant, the sounds echoing though Lemoore High were of the policemen trying without promise to quiet the chaotic spectators and players. Several officers climbed over the fences, armed and ready to kill the beast.

The lights kicked back on. The field was littered with the remains of half-eaten players and spectators. The surviving players and coaches were treated for deep scraches and broken bones.

The stadium sits quietly in the vastness of itself. hoping that the curse never returns. Only time can tell that horrifing story.