The Old Green Mare

Granny Smith sat on the bleachers in the middle of a string of ponies.  Two colts, Rumble and Pipsqueak, sat to her left, with Cotton Cloudy in between them.  The filly had been white with a sky blue mane the previous day, but that was before the mishap behind the barn.  Poison joke had caused her coat to turn pink and fluffy.  On the far left sat a blue earth filly named Archer.

To her right sat the Cutie Mark Crusaders, Applebloom, Babs, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo.

“I don’t understand the rules of this game at all,” Granny Smith complained.

“That’s because they’re not playing it right,” Pipsqueak told her.  “You’re not supposed to use your hooves in that way when you play hoofball.”

“Maybe that’s the way they play in Trottingham,” Scootaloo said, “but here in Ponyville they’re allowed to do that.”

“I think it adds a new dimension to the game,” Babs said, taking a bite of her hay fries.

The players lined up at the goal line.

“Ooh, looks like they’re going to kick it.  We should start a chant to psych him out or something so he misses,” Archer suggested.

“That doesn’t sound very sporting,” Sweetie Belle commented.

“But we’re already down by six,” Rumble said.  “We need to get the crowd into this somehow.”

“Hay Kicker!” called Cotton Cloudy.  “I hear your sister’s going out with ‘Squeak!”

“Hay! Why would that make him miss?” Pipsqueak asked.

"You gotta shout something really messed up to psyche 'em out," Archer explained.

"Oh, I get it," Pipsqueak said, nodding.  "hay, wait a sec. Why is me dating his sister really messed up?"

“It doesn’t matter.  It didn’t work anyway,” Scootaloo said as they watched the ball sail through the twin posts for a point.

“Do they always do that?” Granny Smith asked.

“Nah,” said Applebloom.  “Usually they go for two.”

“Let’s go Colts!” chanted Lyra Heartstrings from two rows back, waving a weird foam appendage covering her hoof.

The team that had just scored kicked the ball to their opposition.  Three quick plays later, the ball was kicked back again, to the chagrin of many in the stands surrounding the young spectators.  Granny Smith’s attention was suddenly drawn to Cotton Cloudy shouting at somepony behind them.

“Hey, Featherweight, you made it!” called Cotton Cloudy to a rather scrawny colt descending the bleachers and making his way toward them.

“My dad managed to convince my mom that it would be a good idea for us to have some male bonding time,” Featherweight called out, indicating the massive white pegasus stallion with a military styled mane following him.  “Of course, she didn’t realize that he’d need to get his own ticket and we’d be separated because the seats are numbered,” the wiry pegasus added with a grin.  His father sat down a few rows back, causing the seat to groan from the strain.

“There’s a couple’a empty seats in the row behind us,” said Applebloom.  “Does he want to join us rather than sitting all the way back there?”

“Oh, that’s ok,” Featherweight assured her.  “He can get very… animated during hoofball games.  We’re better off if he stays where he is. You'll see."

“That doesn’t seem very appropriate,” Granny Smith said.  “He’s your dad.”

“Fumble!” cheered Rumble.

“Ponyville recovers, he… could… go… all… the … way!” Babs joined in.

“YEEEEAAAAAHHH!!” Featherweight’s dad shouted, prompting many pony heads to turn in his direction.

“He’s gonna do that every time we score,” Featherweight explained.  “It’s OK when we’re at home, but after the umpteenth time it can get old… especially if you’re sitting right in front of him.”

“Ouch!” yelped Cotton Cloudy suddenly, taking flight as if stung by a bee.  “Who did that?”

“Did what?” asked a puzzled Granny Smith.

“Someone pulled my tail,” the fluffy pink pegasus complained.  Sure enough, Cotton Cloudy’s tail appeared rather threadbare.  Archer, Pipsqueak, and Rumble each sported small pink mustaches.

“Have you three been eating my tail this whole time?” Cotton Cloudy demanded.

“Um…” said Rumble, blushing.

“I’m sorry, Cloudy,” Archer apologized.  “You taste like bubble gum.”

“Don’t worry,” Pipsqueak said cheerfully.  “It’ll grow back, won’t it?”

“Well, it could be a problem,” Granny Smith interjected.  “Once Cotton Cloudy gets treated for her poison joke, it’s going to turn all of her back to normal, including her tail.  You three may be in for a case of tummyaches like you’ve never had before.”

“We’re sorry!” the three youths apologized in unison.

“Well, let that serve as a lesson to you not to munch on someone without their permission,” Cotton Cloudy said, attempting to sound authoritative.  The absurdity of her situation caused everypony in the group to burst into fresh peals of laughter, however.

“Touchdown, Ponyville!” called the announcer, followed by another loud “YEAAAHHHH!” from Featherweight’s dad.

“Hay, I have an idea,” said Featherweight.  “This would make a great photo for the Foal Free Press.  Everypony get together.”  He produced a camera from his saddlebags and motioned for all of them to move in closer.

“Aren’t you worried that something like this is a bit Namby Pamby for the school paper?” asked Scootaloo as Featherweight snapped off at least a dozen shots of them.

“My brother was a great editor,” Featherweight retorted.  “Besides, what’s more Equestrian than a bunch of young ponies enjoying a hoofball game?”

“Whether they understand what’s going on or not,” Granny Smith mumbled under her breath.  Out loud, she suggested a different course of action. “Why don’t you let me take a couple pictures, hon. That way you can be in the paper with all of your friends, too.”

The time on the clock ticked down to zero, and the Ponyville crowd cheered loudly.  None were louder than Snowflake, of course.  A familiar announcer’s voice came across the speakers.

"This is DJ P0N3 rockin’ Ponyville Stadium for your half time entertainment!  Just a quick shout out to our local benefactors who made it possible for everypony out there to watch this hoofbiter of a match. Rich’s Barnyard Bargains wants me to remind you that if you need anything from Zap Apple Jam to socks, they’ve got it at Rich’s for a rock bottom price.  Rich’s Bargain Basement, where the owner may be Filthy, but the bargains are Rich!"

“Well, that was lovely,” Granny Smith said, standing up stretching.  “But that advertisement reminded me of something that I haven’t done in a while.”

“You’re leaving?” Applebloom and Babs asked at the same time.

“But it’s only half time!” Scootaloo added.

“Half time?” Granny Smith exclaimed.  “I thought Ponyville won.  Everypony was cheerin’ and getting’ up to leave.”

“It’s like an intermission,” Sweetie Belle cautiously suggested.

“Yeah, some ponies get up and go to the concession stands for food,” Cotton Cloudy explained, rubbing what remained of her tail.

“Or use the facilities,” Featherweight suggested, excusing himself.  Rumble and Pipsqueak followed.

“And the cheerleaders run out to the field and have a dance off,” said Archer.

“So your tellin’ me that that after all of this hoopla, there’s a whole ‘nother half?” Granny Smith asked, her left eye twitching.

“Yep,” was the response from six fillies.

“Oh… fingle fangle.”