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Charlene watches her first FBA game live from the court bleachers.
Art is by
pac
FBA is by
BuckHopper
----
It was a ball being tossed back and forth. It would occasionally hit the waxed court floor with a very distinctive squeak, barely audible above the far more frequent and irritating squeak of custom shoeware that danced and pivoted around. The orange ball was in one set of paws or claws or wings, then another, and another. The passes were almost indecipherable from the steals, to her eyes. The only way she could tell was when the ball went from one jersey colour to another, it must have been a steal. Except no, wait! Sometimes the player would hand the ball over willingly after a brief and sharp whistle from the ref. The rat just shook her head, one foot up on the chair in front of her, elbow on knee, and chin in hand. Her grey eyes followed the ball, but her brain was failing to find the pattern.
While the enthusiasm from the crowd around her was temptingly infectious, she fended it off with several days worth of accumulated spite and disappointment and self-pity. It would not penetrate, and she just sat in her near court-side seat with all the joy of a kid being forced to attend church, and concealing her boredom just as well. There was unending noise. Between plays, horns would blare out that same tune, or a short clip from some pop song. Some she recognized due to their age, most she did not. Between every break, a noise, a song, a chant, a bang, as if they were afraid to let quiet descend for even a moment. It made her wish she had brought her earplugs.
After the first quarter, the smell become apparent. What started as the mix of thousands of fans mingling about, the fresh coat of wax on the floor, the cleaning product used on the bleachers and seats began to get tainted by the rising aroma of sweaty, panting athletes. Male and female, and at least a dozen species across both teams. The crowd must be used to it, but to Charlene it was quite distasteful, and she found herself breathing through her mouth more than her nose. It only got worse as the game progressed. Other scents mingled. Beer. Nachos. Sports drinks. Her sensitive snout was bombarded, and she couldn't get away from it. Eventually she put a hand over her muzzle and sighed into her palm.
By halftime, her ass was getting numb, and she stood up during the brief interim to take another look around the giant stadium while people hit the bathrooms and refilled their drinks. For once, the din was low enough for her to hear her own thoughts. The teams were discussing strategy, the cheerleaders were flaunting their bodies, and a lone skunk was sweeping up the court, erasing scuff marks and mopping sweat and oil stains from the floor. The crowd seemed displeased, and she caught two main strings of talk - "We'll get them in the second half" and "Well, it was a good run". Those were the main sentiments that she could gather from simply listening to people talk back and forth. There were other, far more opinionated and angry shouts and calls, mainly calling the away team - the Dakota Biker's - a bunch of losers. How a team could be so clearly winning and yet be called losers made her realize once more that this particular slice of society was one she'd been avoiding for a reason.
She sat back down, making notes about what she could understand. What could the teams possibly be discussing? she wondered. "Put the ball in the net more. Don't let the other team score as much." Surely there must be some underlying stratagems and plays and patterns, some complicated dance that she just could not grasp for the life of her. Of course, it was also perfectly possibly there was no such thing at all, and it was all made up and people just went along with it, like professional wrestling. And then there was the third option, that this particular game was a bad one for her to start her new subject on. Edmonton was clearly outclassed. It was like watching adults play against children. That much, at least, she grasped.
The game started up again. The ball was tossed in the air, and the Biker's took it with ease. There was one particular rabbit with a black splotch around his eye that kept scoring, over and over. So much that she wondered if there was a position she missed in her little booklet "The Rules of the FBA, '13 edition" for a person who only scored points. Like a Seeker in Quidditch, she thought with an inward cringe of self-amusement for even having the idea. Buck Hopper, she quickly learned from listening to those around her. And that kangaroo that kept passing him the ball, Ryan Maroon? No, Malone.
The second half passed much the same way the first did. Dakota outscored Edmonton, and the crowd was displeased. Many were even starting to stand up and simply leave. Must have had bets placed, she figured. Or maybe they just didn't want to see their home team actually play to the end with such a bad score. Maybe they were just as damned bored as she was. She wished she could get up and leave. Still, despite clearly losing, the Totems didn't seem like they had lost any will to play. They kept trying and trying, which the rat had to admit to herself was an interesting thing to observe. She made a note of it.
When the final siren sounded and the game was over, the audience broke into a mix of applause. A few were clearly Biker fans, standing up and whistling, hollering, hooting, throwing towels and hats and pumping fists in the air. The Totems stood as a whole team and waved to their fans who cheered for them even in loss. Another note was made on her pad of paper.
As the people began to file out and the teams disappeared under the stadium seating, she stood, cracked her back, and coiled her tail until it released a small series of snaps, too. Making her way to the press room on the other side of the stadium, she heard many more snippets of conversation.
"Guess it's going to be Bikers and Typhoons this year."
"Don't count the Pride out yet, man."
"They have been counted out. It's just not happening. Trust me, it's the Typhoons."
"I know he didn't do a ton this game, but it's still bullshit that Redfield is playing..."
Eventually she made it to the press room. Every chair was already taken, so she lingered near the back and took out her mini recorder to hold in the same hand she was twirling her pencil in. There were cameras, microphones, people already mumbling into their own recording devices and making notes. This was a scene she was familiar with, one she'd be quite comfortable in if the subject wasn't so far out of her line of interest. The fact that all these people were here to talk about a game they just saw, it twisted her mind in two directions. One was curiosity; what could they possibly want to know? Why did you lose so bad? What did you do wrong? Who's getting fired for this?
And the other direction was a strange kind of revulsion, that so many people should be so intensely motivated and enthused about a stupid game.
A short white mouse nearby must have seen the look on her face, because he turned his nose up towards her with a cheerful smile.
"You new? Don't think I've seen you at a game before," he said chipperly.
Charlene was surprised to be spoken to at first, but she recovered and responded as pleasantly as she could muster.
"Yeah, I suppose I am new to this particular circuit. First game I've ever actually been to," she told him. "Didn't go too well for Edmonton, did it? I could hardly follow the action, though. A bit too chaotic for me."
"Well, I suppose a lot were hoping for the series to be closer, but frankly the Totems were lucky to make it this far. They're a first-year team so I'd say they can be proud of themselves, despite the sweep." The mouse didn't seem displeased, though, so he probably wasn't local.
"It did seem rather one-sided," she admited. "Hardly fair at all, really. That hare looked like he was playing against a bunch of kids." It made her want to know more about how a team that just played so horribly could have gotten to what was, according to her brief research, at least the number four spot in the whole league. But at the same time, she really, honestly, didn't
care.
"So you write for the FBA?" she asked the mouse as he consulted his notes, circled a few numbers and jotted some questions down. With the way he was dressed, a mix of casual and professional, much like herself, he could have passed for almost any profession at all. But the way he handled himself in the press room, and especially that very tell-tale pad of paper she was quite familiar with, he was clearly a reporter, or at least a journalist of some sort.
"I do indeed," he replied with an amused look up at her. "We all do, here, I would imagine, or most of us."
"Why, though?" she asked with a twist of rudeness in her voice. "You seem pretty sharp, it seems like such a waste."
"Why?" The mouse gave a dry chuckle. "A waste? This has been the best job I could ask for. I've met players and prospects of all walks of life and helped them share their stories with the world. I admit I don't have a head for numbers like many of my colleagues, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
His answer was reasonable and straight forward, and it annoyed her. Her own sour mood wasn't accepting sunny dispositions today. What walks of life could he be talking about? It was basketball. He got to see the sports walk of life. Jockies and jockettes ball-chasing while somehow an industy sprang up around them. It was as pedantic and wasteful as anything she could think of. The look on her face must have been pretty easy to read.
"If you don't mind my asking, why are YOU here? You don't sound like you came by choice."
That was pretty spot-on. For a few seconds the taller rat considered just glossing over her presence, but she liked this white-furred mouse. He seemed like the kind of guy you want out in the field with you, tossing ideas back and forth to grill the poor sucker behind the podium with. She'd be doing the drilling, though, she always was the one to speak her mind without much of a filter and ask questions in a way other reporters would try and find a way to weasel around and sneak a 'gotcha!' out of someone. So, she decided to be honest.
"I'm not. Well, I am. It was this or looking for a new job," she told him with a shrug. "So not much of a choice, really. But I find the whole scene just so wasteful. I guess people are having a good time, and that's fine and all, but it's so over the top, so overblown for just a game. I can't think of anything I've seen with so much pomp that amounted to so little." She knew there was more to it than that, but she was still stinging from her perceived downgrade in life and didn't feel like being completely rational. At the same time, she realized with a shameful clench of her teeth that she was directly insulting this nice rodent's chosen career rather bluntly.
"Sorry, I didn't mean... oh, hell, I did mean it. But I can't help it. This is not what I want to do." It came out far more childishly petulant than she would have preferred.
The mouse just laughed, though, in a way that was thankfully sympathetic.
"I'd be careful with what you say around here, with opinions like that, especially around other reporters. You'll be blackballed before you know it. It's pretty obvious you aren't a sports fan, but if you're being thrown to the wolves, I'd suggest at least taking a step back and seeing the bigger picture before you squint at the details. Trust me, there's a lot more going on than a ball going back and forth. You'll see."
Normally being confident and curious, it was a blow to her ego to be given such parental advice at this point in her career. Especially such good advice. Advice she should be giving herself, really. So she gave the mouse a chagrined smile.
"Charlene McIvory," she said, offering her hand out. He shook it amiably.
"Richter Rozich," he replied. "Good luck, Miss McIvory. You seem pretty sharp yourself, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it."
Just then the PR group for the teams started to pour in from behind the sponsor-emblazoned curtains and the noise in the room jumped up, too loud for further conversation.
"Thanks for coming out, everyone," the owner began. For the rest of the evening, Charlene just listened.
Art is by
pacFBA is by
BuckHopper----
It was a ball being tossed back and forth. It would occasionally hit the waxed court floor with a very distinctive squeak, barely audible above the far more frequent and irritating squeak of custom shoeware that danced and pivoted around. The orange ball was in one set of paws or claws or wings, then another, and another. The passes were almost indecipherable from the steals, to her eyes. The only way she could tell was when the ball went from one jersey colour to another, it must have been a steal. Except no, wait! Sometimes the player would hand the ball over willingly after a brief and sharp whistle from the ref. The rat just shook her head, one foot up on the chair in front of her, elbow on knee, and chin in hand. Her grey eyes followed the ball, but her brain was failing to find the pattern.
While the enthusiasm from the crowd around her was temptingly infectious, she fended it off with several days worth of accumulated spite and disappointment and self-pity. It would not penetrate, and she just sat in her near court-side seat with all the joy of a kid being forced to attend church, and concealing her boredom just as well. There was unending noise. Between plays, horns would blare out that same tune, or a short clip from some pop song. Some she recognized due to their age, most she did not. Between every break, a noise, a song, a chant, a bang, as if they were afraid to let quiet descend for even a moment. It made her wish she had brought her earplugs.
After the first quarter, the smell become apparent. What started as the mix of thousands of fans mingling about, the fresh coat of wax on the floor, the cleaning product used on the bleachers and seats began to get tainted by the rising aroma of sweaty, panting athletes. Male and female, and at least a dozen species across both teams. The crowd must be used to it, but to Charlene it was quite distasteful, and she found herself breathing through her mouth more than her nose. It only got worse as the game progressed. Other scents mingled. Beer. Nachos. Sports drinks. Her sensitive snout was bombarded, and she couldn't get away from it. Eventually she put a hand over her muzzle and sighed into her palm.
By halftime, her ass was getting numb, and she stood up during the brief interim to take another look around the giant stadium while people hit the bathrooms and refilled their drinks. For once, the din was low enough for her to hear her own thoughts. The teams were discussing strategy, the cheerleaders were flaunting their bodies, and a lone skunk was sweeping up the court, erasing scuff marks and mopping sweat and oil stains from the floor. The crowd seemed displeased, and she caught two main strings of talk - "We'll get them in the second half" and "Well, it was a good run". Those were the main sentiments that she could gather from simply listening to people talk back and forth. There were other, far more opinionated and angry shouts and calls, mainly calling the away team - the Dakota Biker's - a bunch of losers. How a team could be so clearly winning and yet be called losers made her realize once more that this particular slice of society was one she'd been avoiding for a reason.
She sat back down, making notes about what she could understand. What could the teams possibly be discussing? she wondered. "Put the ball in the net more. Don't let the other team score as much." Surely there must be some underlying stratagems and plays and patterns, some complicated dance that she just could not grasp for the life of her. Of course, it was also perfectly possibly there was no such thing at all, and it was all made up and people just went along with it, like professional wrestling. And then there was the third option, that this particular game was a bad one for her to start her new subject on. Edmonton was clearly outclassed. It was like watching adults play against children. That much, at least, she grasped.
The game started up again. The ball was tossed in the air, and the Biker's took it with ease. There was one particular rabbit with a black splotch around his eye that kept scoring, over and over. So much that she wondered if there was a position she missed in her little booklet "The Rules of the FBA, '13 edition" for a person who only scored points. Like a Seeker in Quidditch, she thought with an inward cringe of self-amusement for even having the idea. Buck Hopper, she quickly learned from listening to those around her. And that kangaroo that kept passing him the ball, Ryan Maroon? No, Malone.
The second half passed much the same way the first did. Dakota outscored Edmonton, and the crowd was displeased. Many were even starting to stand up and simply leave. Must have had bets placed, she figured. Or maybe they just didn't want to see their home team actually play to the end with such a bad score. Maybe they were just as damned bored as she was. She wished she could get up and leave. Still, despite clearly losing, the Totems didn't seem like they had lost any will to play. They kept trying and trying, which the rat had to admit to herself was an interesting thing to observe. She made a note of it.
When the final siren sounded and the game was over, the audience broke into a mix of applause. A few were clearly Biker fans, standing up and whistling, hollering, hooting, throwing towels and hats and pumping fists in the air. The Totems stood as a whole team and waved to their fans who cheered for them even in loss. Another note was made on her pad of paper.
As the people began to file out and the teams disappeared under the stadium seating, she stood, cracked her back, and coiled her tail until it released a small series of snaps, too. Making her way to the press room on the other side of the stadium, she heard many more snippets of conversation.
"Guess it's going to be Bikers and Typhoons this year."
"Don't count the Pride out yet, man."
"They have been counted out. It's just not happening. Trust me, it's the Typhoons."
"I know he didn't do a ton this game, but it's still bullshit that Redfield is playing..."
Eventually she made it to the press room. Every chair was already taken, so she lingered near the back and took out her mini recorder to hold in the same hand she was twirling her pencil in. There were cameras, microphones, people already mumbling into their own recording devices and making notes. This was a scene she was familiar with, one she'd be quite comfortable in if the subject wasn't so far out of her line of interest. The fact that all these people were here to talk about a game they just saw, it twisted her mind in two directions. One was curiosity; what could they possibly want to know? Why did you lose so bad? What did you do wrong? Who's getting fired for this?
And the other direction was a strange kind of revulsion, that so many people should be so intensely motivated and enthused about a stupid game.
A short white mouse nearby must have seen the look on her face, because he turned his nose up towards her with a cheerful smile.
"You new? Don't think I've seen you at a game before," he said chipperly.
Charlene was surprised to be spoken to at first, but she recovered and responded as pleasantly as she could muster.
"Yeah, I suppose I am new to this particular circuit. First game I've ever actually been to," she told him. "Didn't go too well for Edmonton, did it? I could hardly follow the action, though. A bit too chaotic for me."
"Well, I suppose a lot were hoping for the series to be closer, but frankly the Totems were lucky to make it this far. They're a first-year team so I'd say they can be proud of themselves, despite the sweep." The mouse didn't seem displeased, though, so he probably wasn't local.
"It did seem rather one-sided," she admited. "Hardly fair at all, really. That hare looked like he was playing against a bunch of kids." It made her want to know more about how a team that just played so horribly could have gotten to what was, according to her brief research, at least the number four spot in the whole league. But at the same time, she really, honestly, didn't
care.
"So you write for the FBA?" she asked the mouse as he consulted his notes, circled a few numbers and jotted some questions down. With the way he was dressed, a mix of casual and professional, much like herself, he could have passed for almost any profession at all. But the way he handled himself in the press room, and especially that very tell-tale pad of paper she was quite familiar with, he was clearly a reporter, or at least a journalist of some sort.
"I do indeed," he replied with an amused look up at her. "We all do, here, I would imagine, or most of us."
"Why, though?" she asked with a twist of rudeness in her voice. "You seem pretty sharp, it seems like such a waste."
"Why?" The mouse gave a dry chuckle. "A waste? This has been the best job I could ask for. I've met players and prospects of all walks of life and helped them share their stories with the world. I admit I don't have a head for numbers like many of my colleagues, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
His answer was reasonable and straight forward, and it annoyed her. Her own sour mood wasn't accepting sunny dispositions today. What walks of life could he be talking about? It was basketball. He got to see the sports walk of life. Jockies and jockettes ball-chasing while somehow an industy sprang up around them. It was as pedantic and wasteful as anything she could think of. The look on her face must have been pretty easy to read.
"If you don't mind my asking, why are YOU here? You don't sound like you came by choice."
That was pretty spot-on. For a few seconds the taller rat considered just glossing over her presence, but she liked this white-furred mouse. He seemed like the kind of guy you want out in the field with you, tossing ideas back and forth to grill the poor sucker behind the podium with. She'd be doing the drilling, though, she always was the one to speak her mind without much of a filter and ask questions in a way other reporters would try and find a way to weasel around and sneak a 'gotcha!' out of someone. So, she decided to be honest.
"I'm not. Well, I am. It was this or looking for a new job," she told him with a shrug. "So not much of a choice, really. But I find the whole scene just so wasteful. I guess people are having a good time, and that's fine and all, but it's so over the top, so overblown for just a game. I can't think of anything I've seen with so much pomp that amounted to so little." She knew there was more to it than that, but she was still stinging from her perceived downgrade in life and didn't feel like being completely rational. At the same time, she realized with a shameful clench of her teeth that she was directly insulting this nice rodent's chosen career rather bluntly.
"Sorry, I didn't mean... oh, hell, I did mean it. But I can't help it. This is not what I want to do." It came out far more childishly petulant than she would have preferred.
The mouse just laughed, though, in a way that was thankfully sympathetic.
"I'd be careful with what you say around here, with opinions like that, especially around other reporters. You'll be blackballed before you know it. It's pretty obvious you aren't a sports fan, but if you're being thrown to the wolves, I'd suggest at least taking a step back and seeing the bigger picture before you squint at the details. Trust me, there's a lot more going on than a ball going back and forth. You'll see."
Normally being confident and curious, it was a blow to her ego to be given such parental advice at this point in her career. Especially such good advice. Advice she should be giving herself, really. So she gave the mouse a chagrined smile.
"Charlene McIvory," she said, offering her hand out. He shook it amiably.
"Richter Rozich," he replied. "Good luck, Miss McIvory. You seem pretty sharp yourself, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it."
Just then the PR group for the teams started to pour in from behind the sponsor-emblazoned curtains and the noise in the room jumped up, too loud for further conversation.
"Thanks for coming out, everyone," the owner began. For the rest of the evening, Charlene just listened.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Rat
Size 405 x 402px
File Size 114.8 kB
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