“Coach,” said a rookie sideline reporter, her polygonal hair clipping through her microphone, “the league has issued a new mandatory snack for halftime. It’s… an onion.”

“Don’t you cry!” screamed the league official, pointing a stiff, pixelated finger.

With two minutes left, down by four, Coach Spud called his final timeout. He looked at his players: faces smeared with onion juice, burps smelling of sulfur and regret. He walked to the sideline cooler, reached past the Gatorade, and pulled out his secret weapon.

Spud blinked. His chunky, pixelated face remained stoic. “An onion?”

He held up the wilted, half-eaten shallot. “Sometimes,” he said, tears finally falling (for which he was fined $5,000), “you just need a smaller layer to win the big game.”

On the final play, as time expired, the QB dropped back. The onion fumes had cleared his sinuses so violently that he could see into the future. He threw a 99-yard bomb that deflected off an onion peel, bounced off a ref’s head, and landed perfectly in the end zone.

Touchdown. Championship.

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