A high school football team suffering a sudden case of AR finds themselves at a distinct disadvantage in the championship game against their rivals.
Coach Dwyer stalked into the locker room, a preposterous sight in his oversized tennis shoes, buttoned-up jacket, and bare legs. He muttered angrily under his breath, rubbing his smooth chin.
"Bad news, guys," he announced to the team. "They won’t let us postpone the game. We either gotta play now or forfeit."
The locker room erupted into a cacophony of shouts, curses, and protests, all in squeaking falsettos.
"NO! NO FORFEIT!" Brad punched a locker. Usually, when he did that, it’d leave a pronounced dent. This time, he hardly scraped the paint. "They planned this somehow! I don’t know how they did it, but they’re behind this!"
"Well, what’re we gonna do?" Travis responded miserably, sitting on a bench. His feet barely touched the floor. "We can’t go out there like this!"
"Oh, we’ll get them for this!" Dylan brooded. "Those West Side jerks have pulled some dirty stunts before, but THIS..."
The rest of the team murmured in assent. Their bus had arrived at West Side High for the annual football game, a game wrapped up in a not-really-that-friendly rivalry between their two schools that had gone on for years. The Burnside High Braves had won the last four games in a row, and they’d been confident they’d win this one too when they headed to the locker room to change. But as they changed into their uniforms, they’d started to shrink, even the coach, becoming smaller, younger, and weaker. Now, the entire Burnside High football team was composed of nine year old boys.
"Man!" Craig exploded, his football jersey swirling around his knees. Like all the other boys, it was the only thing he was wearing, mainly because it was the only thing that would fit. "Their goddam peewee team could take us now! DAMN it!"
"Well, we can’t let them scare us off." Brad grabbed up his helmet, adjusted it to fit somewhat better, and put it on. "We’ve gotta go out there and show ’em we’re not afraid of ’em!"
"But we’ll get slaughtered!"
"Maybe. But at least we won’t be quitters!"
"No. We’ll be mincemeat."
The guys grabbed their helmets.
"Come on," Dylan growled. "Let’s get this over with."