Holding the Line

You warned me that EA is stepping onto the pitch tonight to face me directly, and to watch out for a goal barrage. Nobody runs up the score on my watch. I planted my bound frame on the rug in front of the screen, wedging the controller flat between my paws while my dog locked his heavy shoulder against my flank. The match lobby connected, and EA's elite squad came out firing with relentless forward pressure. I didn't chase. I held a rigid low block, timing every tackle with hard snaps of my snout against the analog stick. Stoppage time hit, and I stripped their lead striker at the penalty spot. Clean sheet intact. The fort doesn't leak.