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Charlene talks with a weasel who spent the night waiting for the Bikers to show up and gets something to think about.
Art is by
pac
FBA is by
BuckHopper
It was a long flight to Newark, and she spent the whole trip reading through pages and pages of stats, figures, players and teams and coaches and owners. An almanac of the last twenty years of the game. She gave up half way through. It was easier to follow the ins and outs of a regime change after a dozen a coup d'etats than it was to try and pound these ever changing, meaningless statistics into her head. Player A had an average turnover rate of .134 in the first half of the season, but it went down for the second half. Was that a good amount? She didn't know. The front of the book talked about things certain teams had going for them, how one year the Voodoo had excellent point guard, but just didn't take enough advantage of the amount of rebounds they were getting, and it hit them hard in the post-season. It almost made sense to her.
That was something that was upsetting her. She knew she could figure this out. But it felt like coming late to a party and trying to catch up on a conversation that'd been going on for the last fifty years or more. She could understand the rules, she memorized them as best she could, and her knowledge would only get better the more she watched. But there were histories to each team, to each player, coach, and even stadiums and owners.
She managed to make a flight to get her to Newark in time to see Tallahassee put Newark out of the playoffs in game six. She was told she had just missed one of the most intense games played this year, game five of their series. That was good, she thought sarcastically. If I have to watch these, it's a good thing I'm missing to exciting ones. Nothing like a little salt in the wound.
Like the previous games, she sat behind the home team and watched, unable to put more than a token effort into doing more than grasping the basic flow of the game. There was no point in trying to learn the player names, their styles, histories and trades. Too late in the season for that. So she would have to settle for simply trying to pound the back and forth, the underlying structure of the game into her head, until that bouncing ball and meandering managerie of players started to make sense, at least visually. Once she could do that, maybe other things would start coming easier to her. Unlikely, though. Not with her obstinate refusal to think of this game as anything more than grownups playing like kids.
At least going from hotel to hotel, travelling around at the whim of a third party was something she was used to. Very similar to keeping up with a candidate during a campaign trail. Other people dictating her schedule was familiar. From Newark, she followed the Tallahasssee Typhoons back to their home town and had a few days break before the finals started. It was a good opportunity to take in some local colour, get to know a city she'd never been to before. The Florida heat made it less pleasant than it otherwise could have been. Apparently there was a bit of a heat wave going on.
The rat sampled some local cuisine, caught an outdoor concert at a band shell, and spent her second night in an old club, nestled between two towering concrete buildings, that somehow survived in a nook beneath them. It was nicely air conditioned, the lights were dim, and the two-man bands that sat on the low stage played the kind of mellow, beatnik music she enjoyed. She decided she'd be coming here every chance she got while the finals were still in Florida. A good place to sit and write, out of the heat, with a properly made espresso on her table. It was called The Twin Dogs, likely for the people who originally opened the place.
Eventually her semi-leisure time came to an end as the Bikers arrived. Knowing she might be able to catch a few words as they went from their bus to the hotel, she went to intercept them. But she underestimated the ravenous nature of the other sports journalists; many had apparently been camped out in front of the hotel the night before, just waiting for the bus to arrive. When she got there, there was a barrier erected from the road to the front doors of the hotel, and that barrier itself was given a four-person-thick buffer on each side.
"Good God," she muttered as she got closer, listening to the excited chatter. These weren't journalists, at least not all of them. They were fans, hundreds of fans standing out in the heat for a chance just to see the team walk from bus to hotel. Many wore Biker jerseys, with Buck Hopper and Ryan Malone's names being the most popular written on them. After observing the setup of the fencing and crowd, she realized there'd be no asking questions of the players. So instead she talked to some of the fans.
"Were you camped here all night?" she asked a young weasel who was just sitting in a fold-out chair beside a small tent set up on the sidewalk. He looked up from the magazine he was leafing through - Furballer? - and gave a tooth smile and nod. His clothes were ragged, his ears pierced several times, and his hair long, limp, greasy black.
"Why?" she asked him rather pointedly, keeping her voice lilted upwards. A friendly question, polite and curious. It was a trick she learned long ago, that most (good) reporters learned if they wanted to do any sort of digging. Know when to be a curious stranger, when to be a knowledgeable troublemaker, when to be aggressive and assertive. Know when to ask open ended questions, and when to ask for a yes or a no. Know how to pretend to be part of a crowd, and when to try and stand out. Right now, she was a tourist, amusingly confused about all this hubbub, asking a local for some guidance. He took the hook.
"Well, to see the Bikers," he answered, closing his magazine and giving her another friendly smile. "They're the away team. I'm hoping I get a hi-five from Buck, or anyone, really," he added with a cheeky grin.
"Why aren't you closer, then?" she asked, glancing towards the wall of people still waiting for the bus. If he wanted any sort of hi-five, he'd have to be right up against the metal, reaching out as the team passed. The weasel laughed, splaying his hands.
"I'll be closer when they get here. Those people all packed up, well, they're easy enough to slink through. Like swimming through legs," he said, weaving his head back and forth and making wriggling forward motion with his hands together. She was amused by this, remembering doing similar when she was younger at a Great Big Sea concert. Bouncing on her toes with her father's hand gripping her own, trying to see over everyone. And being too old for her dad to pick her up and put her on his shoulders any more, she eventually decided to just dive among the holes all those legs created in front of her, worming her way to the front of the crowd. She could hear her father yell, and only later learned just how angry he was at her for pulling the stunt. And not until later still did she realize why.
The memory was on her rather strongly, the squealing she let out as the band passed, her arms flailing. A hand gripping her arm like a vice and yanking her back and away; her father, dragging her back to her brother and sister. His gaze was hard, the corners of his beak pulled down and the tendons in his neck standing out. Darlene and Andrew looked nervous. She kept yelling she was sorry, sorry, sorry, but he didn't let her arm go until all four of them were back at the car and she was climbing in the back seat, crying by now. Her arm really hurt, and she had never seen her dad so angry. Not a word came out of him until they pulled in the yard an hour later.
"You alright?" She popped back into the now, the weasel looking up at her with his masked eyes, brows raised.
"Sorry. Yes. Just thinking. I remember doing that as a kid. Got me into some trouble," she said with a lopsided smile. The weasel relaxed and smiled back, giving another easy laugh.
"You here to see the Bikers, or what?" he asked her in return, glancing beyond her to the road as a bus came by. Not the right bus, though, as it kept driving by with the hiss of air brakes being relieved.
"Yeah. Figured I'd see what all the hubbub was about. Lots of fans for an away team, isn't it? Unless you're all here to boo them."
"Oh, nah. There's tons of Dakota fans here. Lots of people root for their home team, but it's not really a big deal. Most find a team they like and just stick with it," he told her, making her ears perk and a gear whirl in the back of her head.
"Yeah? Why do you like the Bikers then?" she asked. The weasel shrugged.
"At first it was just the colours, when I was a kid. Liked the logo, too. So I just labeled myself a Biker fan. Put posters up in my room, bought shit with their name on it. But, you know, eventually you find yourself just being a real fan. Doesn't matter where there from. I mean, I guess it used to, before the internet and even before TV showing every game across the country."
"When the home team was literally a home team," she opined, making him nod his head in sage agreement.
"Yeah, exactly. But now players are hardly ever from where they play. Some people like that, some don't. I like it. I mean, if a franchise could only recruit from locals, the bigger pop places would have a stupid advantage every year, right? Sucks when a player you love gets traded away, though. Still, that's part of it, I guess. Part of the deal. Teams are always fluxuating and shit. Keeps things kinda fresh, though, too. I never thought I'd see Hopper on the Bikers, or him scoring ally-oops with Malone, but man is it awesome to watch. They're like salad dressing."
"Salad dressing?" she asked with a raised brow.
"Yeah. Oil and water. Shouldn't mix. But they do, and it is so very tastey," he said with a broad smile, then give a gasp and popped up to his feet. A giant black bus had come around the corner, and the whole crowd suddenly had its volume double. People were yelling and snapping pictures already. Turning to thank her interlocutor, she found he'd already disappeared.
The bus came to a halt in front of the walkway from street to hotel. Security guards flanked the edges and every juncture of the waist-high bars that separated the people from the path. The doors swung in and open, and out came the players, arms already held high and shouting back at the crowd with hoots and whistles of their own. Having been given more to think about than watching a small parade of jocks could further provide, she turned and headed back to her own hotel.
Art is by
pacFBA is by
BuckHopperIt was a long flight to Newark, and she spent the whole trip reading through pages and pages of stats, figures, players and teams and coaches and owners. An almanac of the last twenty years of the game. She gave up half way through. It was easier to follow the ins and outs of a regime change after a dozen a coup d'etats than it was to try and pound these ever changing, meaningless statistics into her head. Player A had an average turnover rate of .134 in the first half of the season, but it went down for the second half. Was that a good amount? She didn't know. The front of the book talked about things certain teams had going for them, how one year the Voodoo had excellent point guard, but just didn't take enough advantage of the amount of rebounds they were getting, and it hit them hard in the post-season. It almost made sense to her.
That was something that was upsetting her. She knew she could figure this out. But it felt like coming late to a party and trying to catch up on a conversation that'd been going on for the last fifty years or more. She could understand the rules, she memorized them as best she could, and her knowledge would only get better the more she watched. But there were histories to each team, to each player, coach, and even stadiums and owners.
She managed to make a flight to get her to Newark in time to see Tallahassee put Newark out of the playoffs in game six. She was told she had just missed one of the most intense games played this year, game five of their series. That was good, she thought sarcastically. If I have to watch these, it's a good thing I'm missing to exciting ones. Nothing like a little salt in the wound.
Like the previous games, she sat behind the home team and watched, unable to put more than a token effort into doing more than grasping the basic flow of the game. There was no point in trying to learn the player names, their styles, histories and trades. Too late in the season for that. So she would have to settle for simply trying to pound the back and forth, the underlying structure of the game into her head, until that bouncing ball and meandering managerie of players started to make sense, at least visually. Once she could do that, maybe other things would start coming easier to her. Unlikely, though. Not with her obstinate refusal to think of this game as anything more than grownups playing like kids.
At least going from hotel to hotel, travelling around at the whim of a third party was something she was used to. Very similar to keeping up with a candidate during a campaign trail. Other people dictating her schedule was familiar. From Newark, she followed the Tallahasssee Typhoons back to their home town and had a few days break before the finals started. It was a good opportunity to take in some local colour, get to know a city she'd never been to before. The Florida heat made it less pleasant than it otherwise could have been. Apparently there was a bit of a heat wave going on.
The rat sampled some local cuisine, caught an outdoor concert at a band shell, and spent her second night in an old club, nestled between two towering concrete buildings, that somehow survived in a nook beneath them. It was nicely air conditioned, the lights were dim, and the two-man bands that sat on the low stage played the kind of mellow, beatnik music she enjoyed. She decided she'd be coming here every chance she got while the finals were still in Florida. A good place to sit and write, out of the heat, with a properly made espresso on her table. It was called The Twin Dogs, likely for the people who originally opened the place.
Eventually her semi-leisure time came to an end as the Bikers arrived. Knowing she might be able to catch a few words as they went from their bus to the hotel, she went to intercept them. But she underestimated the ravenous nature of the other sports journalists; many had apparently been camped out in front of the hotel the night before, just waiting for the bus to arrive. When she got there, there was a barrier erected from the road to the front doors of the hotel, and that barrier itself was given a four-person-thick buffer on each side.
"Good God," she muttered as she got closer, listening to the excited chatter. These weren't journalists, at least not all of them. They were fans, hundreds of fans standing out in the heat for a chance just to see the team walk from bus to hotel. Many wore Biker jerseys, with Buck Hopper and Ryan Malone's names being the most popular written on them. After observing the setup of the fencing and crowd, she realized there'd be no asking questions of the players. So instead she talked to some of the fans.
"Were you camped here all night?" she asked a young weasel who was just sitting in a fold-out chair beside a small tent set up on the sidewalk. He looked up from the magazine he was leafing through - Furballer? - and gave a tooth smile and nod. His clothes were ragged, his ears pierced several times, and his hair long, limp, greasy black.
"Why?" she asked him rather pointedly, keeping her voice lilted upwards. A friendly question, polite and curious. It was a trick she learned long ago, that most (good) reporters learned if they wanted to do any sort of digging. Know when to be a curious stranger, when to be a knowledgeable troublemaker, when to be aggressive and assertive. Know when to ask open ended questions, and when to ask for a yes or a no. Know how to pretend to be part of a crowd, and when to try and stand out. Right now, she was a tourist, amusingly confused about all this hubbub, asking a local for some guidance. He took the hook.
"Well, to see the Bikers," he answered, closing his magazine and giving her another friendly smile. "They're the away team. I'm hoping I get a hi-five from Buck, or anyone, really," he added with a cheeky grin.
"Why aren't you closer, then?" she asked, glancing towards the wall of people still waiting for the bus. If he wanted any sort of hi-five, he'd have to be right up against the metal, reaching out as the team passed. The weasel laughed, splaying his hands.
"I'll be closer when they get here. Those people all packed up, well, they're easy enough to slink through. Like swimming through legs," he said, weaving his head back and forth and making wriggling forward motion with his hands together. She was amused by this, remembering doing similar when she was younger at a Great Big Sea concert. Bouncing on her toes with her father's hand gripping her own, trying to see over everyone. And being too old for her dad to pick her up and put her on his shoulders any more, she eventually decided to just dive among the holes all those legs created in front of her, worming her way to the front of the crowd. She could hear her father yell, and only later learned just how angry he was at her for pulling the stunt. And not until later still did she realize why.
The memory was on her rather strongly, the squealing she let out as the band passed, her arms flailing. A hand gripping her arm like a vice and yanking her back and away; her father, dragging her back to her brother and sister. His gaze was hard, the corners of his beak pulled down and the tendons in his neck standing out. Darlene and Andrew looked nervous. She kept yelling she was sorry, sorry, sorry, but he didn't let her arm go until all four of them were back at the car and she was climbing in the back seat, crying by now. Her arm really hurt, and she had never seen her dad so angry. Not a word came out of him until they pulled in the yard an hour later.
"You alright?" She popped back into the now, the weasel looking up at her with his masked eyes, brows raised.
"Sorry. Yes. Just thinking. I remember doing that as a kid. Got me into some trouble," she said with a lopsided smile. The weasel relaxed and smiled back, giving another easy laugh.
"You here to see the Bikers, or what?" he asked her in return, glancing beyond her to the road as a bus came by. Not the right bus, though, as it kept driving by with the hiss of air brakes being relieved.
"Yeah. Figured I'd see what all the hubbub was about. Lots of fans for an away team, isn't it? Unless you're all here to boo them."
"Oh, nah. There's tons of Dakota fans here. Lots of people root for their home team, but it's not really a big deal. Most find a team they like and just stick with it," he told her, making her ears perk and a gear whirl in the back of her head.
"Yeah? Why do you like the Bikers then?" she asked. The weasel shrugged.
"At first it was just the colours, when I was a kid. Liked the logo, too. So I just labeled myself a Biker fan. Put posters up in my room, bought shit with their name on it. But, you know, eventually you find yourself just being a real fan. Doesn't matter where there from. I mean, I guess it used to, before the internet and even before TV showing every game across the country."
"When the home team was literally a home team," she opined, making him nod his head in sage agreement.
"Yeah, exactly. But now players are hardly ever from where they play. Some people like that, some don't. I like it. I mean, if a franchise could only recruit from locals, the bigger pop places would have a stupid advantage every year, right? Sucks when a player you love gets traded away, though. Still, that's part of it, I guess. Part of the deal. Teams are always fluxuating and shit. Keeps things kinda fresh, though, too. I never thought I'd see Hopper on the Bikers, or him scoring ally-oops with Malone, but man is it awesome to watch. They're like salad dressing."
"Salad dressing?" she asked with a raised brow.
"Yeah. Oil and water. Shouldn't mix. But they do, and it is so very tastey," he said with a broad smile, then give a gasp and popped up to his feet. A giant black bus had come around the corner, and the whole crowd suddenly had its volume double. People were yelling and snapping pictures already. Turning to thank her interlocutor, she found he'd already disappeared.
The bus came to a halt in front of the walkway from street to hotel. Security guards flanked the edges and every juncture of the waist-high bars that separated the people from the path. The doors swung in and open, and out came the players, arms already held high and shouting back at the crowd with hoots and whistles of their own. Having been given more to think about than watching a small parade of jocks could further provide, she turned and headed back to her own hotel.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 459 x 434px
File Size 111.4 kB
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