Son of Flubber. Ladies and gentlemen, a deathly silence has fallen on the stadium now. Only eight seconds left in the last period, and dear old Medfield, trailing 37-35, has the ball on its own two-yard line, first down and 98 to go. The team comes out of the huddle, up to the line ofWHAT! They're trying a field goal! Are they nuts! Ha-Ha-Ha! Who ever heard of a 98-yard field goal! Ha! ha! huh? The ball is sailing over the line of scrimmage, over the fifty-yard line, over the goal posts, over the state line, over the Atlantic Ocean ....
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