“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.”
The equipment manager rolled out a cart piled high with brownish-orange spheres, each textured like a low-resolution satellite photo of a diseased planet. The players gathered around, confused. The offensive linemen, who would eat anything, were the first to try.
And from that day on, the Retro Bowl awarded the MVP a golden onion ring, and no one ever spoke of the raw ones again.
Touchdown. Championship.
“A whole, raw, unpeeled onion,” she confirmed. “Each player must consume it. No dipping. No crying. It’s the ‘Retro Bowl Onion Mandate.’ For ‘intestinal grit.’”
“Don’t you cry!” screamed the league official, pointing a stiff, pixelated finger.