Eight rods. Twenty-two men who never leave their posts.
Eight rods cross a green pitch, interleaved the way a real table has them: your keeper, your defence, their attack, your midfield, their midfield, your attack, their defence, their keeper. One man on the keeper rod, two in defence, five in midfield, three up front, and each rod slides only as far as its travel allows.
Stand a man up and he blocks everything; swing him back and the ball rolls under. A sliding rod passes, a swinging one hammers it.
