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December 19th, 2007
“Mr. Carlin.”
“...Sir?”
“Mr. Carlin...your name is Kevin, I believe. You and I need to have a little chat about the way you've chosen to present yourself today,” the feline purred, his voice dripping with smugness.
The feline was dressed as one would expect of a person of stature. His torso was hugged by a black, finely tailored, double breasted suit that was so clean it practically shimmered. A crimson red necktie was secured with the most professional of knots around his neck, and his immaculate ensemble was completed by black leather shoes that looked freshly shined. His whiskers were trimmed, his hair combed neatly to one side, and his face was adorned by what seemed like a perpetual sneer. Clifford found it nauseating.
All three of them were standing in Kevin's cubicle. Kevin had taken Clifford to work that day, so that the curious young mutt could get a glimpse into his father's typical workday. But an unexpected visit from one of Kevin's supervisors had interrupted their quality time together. Clifford looked up at the looming, smug feline, the young mutt developing a foul taste in his mouth just from the ugly arrogance this man carried himself with. He was one of those snobby businessmen that Clifford always saw whenever the Carlins ventured downtown for an evening outing. Kevin would often mock them from afar, joking about how they'd go their fancy-pants suit-and-tie wine bars and choke down their overpriced sirloin steak dinners. But with this man staring him right in the face, Kevin could offer no mockery, no humor; only begrudging obedience.
“I assume you're aware of our company's policy on employee appearance, Mr. Carlin?” the feline continued, folding his arms over his chest while his golden eyes remained fixed on the humble canine standing before him.
Kevin Carlin was a modest man in his 40's, wearing a simple pair of khaki pants, a long sleeved button down navy blue shirt that he kept open to show off a novelty t-shirt underneath, and a pair of white sneakers. He never put much thought into the way he dressed, as fashion was completely immaterial to the free-spirited canine. But his casual dress style belied an unwavering sense of pride, a deep dedication to his work, and an even deeper dedication to his family.
“That's correct, sir,” Kevin began, his tone as relaxed as always. “I believe that, uh, since the company merger-”
“Since the company merger, Mr. Carlin, our employees are required to dress in a specific manner,” the feline interrupted, his voice formal and sharp. He narrowed his eyes and continued. “This is something that is expected of you. I ask you again, are you aware of this?”
“I am aware of it, Sir, and-” Kevin began, before being interrupted again.
“So why do you continue to dress in such a common manner, Mr. Carlin?” the feline asked rhetorically, shaking his head. “We do not employ common people here. This is a company of upstanding citizens. We are not the riffraff, we are not hippies, and we are not bums,” the feline hissed, the volume of his voice rising.
Kevin could only nod his head in understanding, fighting to contain his growing resentment as his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“Now, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you. As part of a holiday event, we are opening our offices to the media this Monday,” the feline spoke with a smirk, before striding forwards confidently towards Kevin, and leaned in until they were face to face. “And if you insist on continuing to present yourself like a loser, I'll happily see to it that you are immediately removed from this office and booted out to the curb. Then you can happily enjoy your holidays begging for change on a street corner like the loser you present yourself as. Are we understood, Mister Carlin?”
Kevin drew in a sharp breath; there was a momentary flame of rebellion in his eyes, but it quickly extinguished as the mutt exhaled slowly and nodded his head.
“...Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I hope we don't have this conversation again, Mr. Carlin. In the meantime, do yourself, and all of us a favor, and find yourself a tailor for god's sake.” the feline said with a purr, before promptly turning his back on Kevin, his tail swaying behind him.
“...Happy Holidays, Mr. Carlin.”
The feline, his business concluded, walked towards the exit of Kevin's cubicle. He took one sidelong glance at Clifford, offered a sneer at the young mutt, and left.
Kevin's hands slowly but surely relaxed at his sides, his ears and shoulders drooping. After the feline's footsteps faded into the hallway outside, an uncomfortable silence hung in the air for what felt like an eternity as Clifford looked up at Kevin. He was expecting to see a glimmer of the man he knew, the man whose pride never wavered even in the face of the humble means by which the Carlins lived. The man who Clifford looked up to more than anyone else in the world. But that man was not standing before Clifford now. Kevin was defeated. He was gazing listlessly at the wall of his office, no pride anywhere to be found in his absent gaze. He was so ashamed that he couldn't even stand to make eye contact with his only son.
“...Let's go home, son,” Kevin muttered.
January 13th, 2015
This memory was so clear in Clifford's mind that he remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the first time he'd ever seen his father defeated, and it was by a wealthy, smug, suit-and-tie businessman, the very type of person Kevin had resented more than any other. This memory kept repeating itself in Clifford's mind as his phone continued to vibrate, new tweets pouring in by the second. They were in response to a rant that Clifford had foolishly posted only moments ago.
“Let's get one thing straight, a'ight. I became a pro baller to play ball, not to become some snotty businessman. I seen too many suit and tie snobs treat my father like dirt in my time, even though he worked harder than they ever did. Business business business, I don't care! I'm a baller, that's what I'm here to do. Take your business and can it.”
Those were the words Clifford had so foolishly posted during an outburst of frustration, and judging by how often his phone was vibrating with responses, it was too late to delete his tweets. Everybody had seen those tweets now; to remove them would seem cowardly.
“Damnit, I messed up...damnit, I messed up bad,” the mutt mumbled to himself as he frantically paced back and forth in his living room.
Clifford's cool exterior had finally cracked. And it had cracked only because Lorcan Donegan and Hal Dufrain, his coach and teammate respectively, had told him that he had to wear a suit and fit in with the business of the FBA.
Clifford had been under a lot of pressure, and not just the pressure that he constantly put on himself to be a better player and to fill Barton Rouge's shoes on the Bangor roster. The pressure that ate away at him day in and day out was the pressure to fit into the straight and narrow realm of professionalism that was expected of FBA athletes. Looking professional, talking to the media, making the public appearances, having his every word scrutinized; it had worn him out.
He had bottled up those feelings so as not to appear weak; but in one instant, those feelings came pouring out of him on social media, and now he not only appeared weak, but stupid.
In college, he'd only had a couple hundred twitter followers; friendly fans who he could joke around with publicly. Since being drafted into the pros, he'd amassed hundreds upon thousands of twitter followers, and not just fans. Publicists, agents, fellow athletes, members of the press, head coaches, general managers, even his very idols growing up. He couldn't casually joke with these people like he could before; these were people who he had to try and fit in with, people would constantly judge his every word. And he would be judged for this misstep, that much was clear. Clifford didn't want to be yet another FBA headcase who made headlines for running their mouths; and yet that's exactly what he'd made himself out to be.
His phone vibrated once again; a text this time. A knot formed in Clifford's throat when he saw that it was from his coach, Lorcan Donegan. “My office, 7 AM sharp,” was all it said. He was definitely in deep trouble.
Clifford glanced at the clock that hung crookedly on his living room wall. It read just past midnight. Clifford took a deep sigh and ran his hands through his unkempt hair, attempting to gather his thoughts. There was no way he'd be sleeping easily tonight. His phone was still vibrating as the new tweets poured in, but Clifford couldn't stomach them any longer. He needed sleep; he'd already seen Hildegard Tetrault and Trent St. Croix mocking him via twitter. Travis Buckner, somebody Clifford respected, had torn his rant to pieces. Clifford didn't need more unpleasantness weighing on his conscience.
Clifford powered down his phone and glanced out an open window, the starry night skies of Bangor, Maine greeting his weary eyes.
“...Barton would never go on some stupid twitter rant,” Clifford mumbled as he gazed skyward. “How you gonna ever fill his shoes when you actin' like a fool, Clifford? What're the fans gonna think of you now?” the mutt asked himself, smacking himself on the forehead and slumping back into his couch. Even with all this on his mind, he'd have to find some way to get some sleep.
January 14th
Lorcan Donegan sat in his office in the basement of Shawshank Stadium, rifling through papers and shivering - the high temperature was only expected to reach 19 degrees, so at 6:45 A.M., the subterranean office could be compared to a walk-in freezer. The building's heating system never seemed to do that good of a job, so he relied on space heaters to try and warm the space.
He pulled out the papers he was going to need for this meeting - the first serious meeting he would have to do in his 3-month tenure as the coach of the Tides; the office had two areas to sit - he had two armchairs in a corner for more casual talks, or letting players air their grievances. This morning, however, he would be sitting behind his desk, with a simple no-frills chair in front of it - a seat for this morning's "guest of honor."
He heard a knock on the door and glanced at his watch. It was 6:59 A.M., and the irish draught horse was at least glad that Clifford Carlin took his coach's stresses on punctuality seriously. When the mutt peered in, the horse nodded to the chair in front of his desk, "Have a seat, Carlin."
Clifford shuffled into the office, his disheveled appearance and sluggish body language making it obvious that he'd slept poorly the night before. Hearing Lorcan's stern tone of voice confirmed that the mutt was definitely in trouble. He slumped into the chair, peering up at his ever formidable coach. The mutt's blue eyes, usually reflecting a cheerful disposition, looked dull today.
Lorcan took a moment to look at the mutt. "I'm going to give you the opportunity to explain yourself," he said calmly.
Clifford fidgeted in the chair, trying to find the words to explain himself. "I..." he began, before taking a deep breath. "I dunno, Coach. I lost it. And I lost it over absolutely nothin'. I just..." he trailed off, staring into space for a moment. "I'm just...worn out by all of this," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The FBA, this pro league. My game hasn't suffered, I'm ready to PLAY in this league, I've proven that on the court. But...the lifestyle of this league...it's crazy, man. It's just crazy. I dunno what to say, Coach, but it's getting to me," he said with a resigned sigh.
"The public appearances, the media, twitter...I can't just be myself and ball like I could when I was in college. I have to be somebody who fits in with this vaunted, professional, business-ey life, but it's so weird and different. I have all this money layin' around that I ain't ever gonna need, I have to smile for the camera and make chit-chat with the reporters, I have to present myself to the fans a certain way off the court, and...I have to act like somebody I'm not used to being. I'm not some high life, high class pro basketball player,” Clifford rambled, before shrugging and shaking his head.
“I'm just a shy, nerdy kid from a poor family who likes ballin',” Clifford said quietly.
“It's stressin' me out, man, I dunno what to do, I just-" the mutt paused, his voice getting caught in his throat, before another sigh left his lips. "I dunno."
A silence fell over Lorcan's office, before the horse nodded. "At least you understand the severity of what happened last night." Lorcan reached over and retrieved three sheets of paper from his printer, leaving them face down on his desk, "I don't underestimate the strain you must be under, but understand that strain is not shouldered by you alone. And I beg to differ with you on one thing - you may have been a kid from a poor family, but you aren't any longer."
Clifford's brow furrowed and the corner of his lip twitched. The mutt bolted upright, slamming his hands down on the wooden desk. "Hey, man, I gotta be true to myself and where I come from-" the mutt was abruptly cut off.
Lorcan sat forward, "I think it's a pretty sorry state of our schools if they aren't telling you how to prepare for the real world once you walk through their doors. It doesn't matter if you're an FBA player or working at a coffee shop, Carlin. They are going to expect certain things out of you, one of which is the way you dress." He opened a drawer on the older wooden desk, which creaked loudly as it moved, withdrawing a file folder and dropping it on the desk. Clifford sat up and looked, and could see his name on it. The horse flipped it open - it was his contract, "Let me ask you something, Carlin... did you bother to read any of this document you signed?"
Clifford had a feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was going. His burst of energy subsided, and he slumped back into his chair.
"....Yeah, Coach. We went over it when I first signed it. I was so excited that some details mighta gone over my head, but yeah, I got the gist," the mutt mumbled.
Lorcan flipped the folder open - he had already moved the page he wanted to emphasize to the front, and had highlighted sections on a page entitled "FBA Appearance and Public Behavior Guidelines."
"I think it would do you well to read it now, Carlin. Let's make sure we are both on the same page," the horse said, brow furrowed.
Another resigned sigh left the mutt's lips when he gingerly reached forward to pluck the pages of the contract off Lorcan's desk, as if afraid that it'd confirm exactly what he feared. He quickly scanned the pages, his lips curled into a frown. Sure enough, everything they'd been discussing on twitter last night before Clifford's cool exterior cracked wide open, was right there on the page. For certain public appearances, proper attire was required. Grumbling under his breath, Clifford slid the folder back onto Lorcan's desk wordlessly. His discontent was written all over his brow, but not a word of complaint escaped his lips. He understood.
Lorcan saw the look on the mutt's face, and nodded. "So, are there any questions about what will happen once we reach San Jose?" He paused, then added, "Outside of the realm of the FBA, you can be yourself... well, as long as you don't touch off another shitstorm like you did last night."
Clifford shrugged. "Nah, Coach, none whatsoever. If proper attire is required, I'll wear it - but only as long as I have to. The second those cameras are off me, I'm gettin' outta that formal wear. Wearin' that stuff gives me the creeps," the mutt grumbled, still simmering, but knowing better than to protest and dig himself a deeper hole at this point. "And trust me, I'm keepin' my mouth shut on twitter from now on about that stuff. Makes me look bad, and it makes the team look bad; I ain't about to do that again, 'specially not with how everybody jumped on it. I don't wanna show my jugular to a pack of bloodthirsty animals again, know what I'm sayin'? That St. Croix dude...let's just say I can't wait to see him on the court again," the mutt growled.
Lorcan took a deep breath, "And now the unpleasant news. Due to said shitstorm, you'll be sitting out tonight's game. Unfortunately, our actions and words have consequences. Are we understood, Carlin?"
Clifford grumbled and nodded at the unfortunate news. He knew it was coming. "I know, I know, that's what I deserve. Nelson can carry the starting PG spot just fine for one game. I'm countin' myself lucky to have gotten off with just one game instead of more."
Lorcan nodded, "I'll be making a couple calls once we hit Pittsburgh. I've located a couple tailors in San Jose that can help. And that's fine if you wear your usual things on your own time. Do you think I go around like this all the time?" he said, alluding to his own suit.
Clifford chuckled, "Nah Coach, I know you don't go around like that all the time, I saw that wild getup you were sportin' at the bar after the Alphas game."
Clifford paused for a moment, rubbing at his chin.
"...Coach, tell me somethin'. You played in the FBA. How'd you adapt? The money, the fame, the reporters...everybody scrutinizin' every single thing you do or say, every day of the week. Didn't it drive you a lil' bit wild at first, too?"
Lorcan chuckled, "I played in the late 70's and early 80's. I wasn't the first non-predator, but I had that over my head because that's when the species doors were starting to open. We didn't make the kind of money that we do today... I think during my last season I had just broken the one million dollar mark." He shrugged, "People also didn't really associate sports with celebrity back then, so I actually managed to be fairly anonymous."
Clifford could only shake his head, chuckling. "Man, you're lucky. What I would've given to play in an era like that..."
His expression hardened once more as he went back into thought, before looking Lorcan right in the eye. "I'm gonna get in front of the media and apologize for my comments, explain to everybody that I didn't mean what I said, that I understand that the FBA is a business and that I'm part of it. I ain't gonna go into the reasons why I lost my cool...that's somethin' I'm keepin' to myself, ain't gonna go spreadin' my dirty laundry around in the public. But I wanna make sure everybody knows I'm not just some headcase, that I'm not a bad dude, that I just...made a mistake, and wanna learn from it. I think that's really the only thing I can do now..." the mutt trailed off, before groaning. "And I'll do it while wearing a gaddamn suit."
The horse nodded, "Alright. We leave for the plane in 30 minutes. I'll be making calls to a couple tailors I looked up this morning. Dismissed, Carlin."
January 15th
((The Audio of Clifford's apology to the media can be heard here: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/15488459/))
“...Thank you for listening,” Clifford said, concluding his formal apology to the small, dimly lit room full of reporters and various members of the press, all of them aiming their expensive cameras and various recording devices right at his face. The room was stuffy, and Carlin's brand new suit felt stiff and restrictive. Their cameras were flashing in his eyes throughout the entire apology, and he was feeling dizzied. Several of the reporters present raised their hands, eager to barrage the canine with questions, but Clifford withdrew from the podium immediately, allowing Bangor's head of public relations to step up and field any questions. Clifford had to get out of there. He was about to lose it again.
He burst through the meeting hall door, walking as fast as he could to the men's restroom down the hallway. He got in, latched the door shut, and immediately slumped against the wall, panting heavily. As if he didn't hate talking to reporters enough, he'd just spoken to an entire room full of them, with all the attention squarely on him. They stared at him the entire time like he was some museum exhibit, jotting down notes, coming up with ways to spin Clifford's apology for their readers. The mutt grew up being bullied and harassed at school, seeing drug dealers patrolling the streets of his neighborhood, and hearing gunfire and police sirens down the street late at night; but that press conference made him more uncomfortable than he'd ever felt in his life.
Clifford glanced at himself in the mirror. His typically unkempt hair was orderly and combed to one side, his beard neatly trimmed. He wore a black, finely tailored suit that he'd paid thousands of dollars for, and the necktie that Lorcan helped him pick out was fashioned into a perfect knot. Right now, Clifford looked every bit as professional and immaculate as that snob who'd bullied his father all those years ago. Clifford scowled at his reflection; he found his own appearance every bit as nauseating as he had found that feline businessman's appearance. He didn't even recognize himself.
“Is this what I have to do to be a pro...?” the mutt asked himself hopelessly, gazing at that unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. “I always prove my doubters wrong on the court...guess this is what I have to do to prove my doubters wrong off the court. To those who say I can't be a pro...I guess this is how I have to answer 'em, even if it's a complete lie. This ain't me. This ain't me one bit,” the mutt muttered.
“...Just what I gotta do, I guess,” he finally said. “The FBA's bigger than me and sometimes I gotta be somebody I'm not to be part of it. The FBA gave me this opportunity, and I owe it to the league to play by their rules.”
Clifford went back into thought for a moment, searching for a solution. But it was all too obvious, and came to him right away. Clifford balled his hands into fists before looking up at his reflection, grinning at it. “But I love this game. I love every second I'm out there on the court. And you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna keep workin', day in and day out. I'm gonna take this league by storm. I'm gonna be the best point guard Bangor's ever had. I'm gonna help the Tides win a ring. I'll make my teammates proud, I'll make Lorcan proud, and I'll make my parents proud! I'll give the fans somethin' to cheer for, silence my doubters permanently, and leave my mark on this league forever," the mutt rambled to himself, before exhaling deeply.
"If I can do all that, then all this suit and tie stuff will be worth it."
He took one more look at his reflection in the mirror, before tugging at the stiff collar of the newly purchased suit.
“...But first, let's get back to the hotel so I can get outta this friggin' thing for awhile.”
Co-Authored with
ratiphex
“Mr. Carlin.”
“...Sir?”
“Mr. Carlin...your name is Kevin, I believe. You and I need to have a little chat about the way you've chosen to present yourself today,” the feline purred, his voice dripping with smugness.
The feline was dressed as one would expect of a person of stature. His torso was hugged by a black, finely tailored, double breasted suit that was so clean it practically shimmered. A crimson red necktie was secured with the most professional of knots around his neck, and his immaculate ensemble was completed by black leather shoes that looked freshly shined. His whiskers were trimmed, his hair combed neatly to one side, and his face was adorned by what seemed like a perpetual sneer. Clifford found it nauseating.
All three of them were standing in Kevin's cubicle. Kevin had taken Clifford to work that day, so that the curious young mutt could get a glimpse into his father's typical workday. But an unexpected visit from one of Kevin's supervisors had interrupted their quality time together. Clifford looked up at the looming, smug feline, the young mutt developing a foul taste in his mouth just from the ugly arrogance this man carried himself with. He was one of those snobby businessmen that Clifford always saw whenever the Carlins ventured downtown for an evening outing. Kevin would often mock them from afar, joking about how they'd go their fancy-pants suit-and-tie wine bars and choke down their overpriced sirloin steak dinners. But with this man staring him right in the face, Kevin could offer no mockery, no humor; only begrudging obedience.
“I assume you're aware of our company's policy on employee appearance, Mr. Carlin?” the feline continued, folding his arms over his chest while his golden eyes remained fixed on the humble canine standing before him.
Kevin Carlin was a modest man in his 40's, wearing a simple pair of khaki pants, a long sleeved button down navy blue shirt that he kept open to show off a novelty t-shirt underneath, and a pair of white sneakers. He never put much thought into the way he dressed, as fashion was completely immaterial to the free-spirited canine. But his casual dress style belied an unwavering sense of pride, a deep dedication to his work, and an even deeper dedication to his family.
“That's correct, sir,” Kevin began, his tone as relaxed as always. “I believe that, uh, since the company merger-”
“Since the company merger, Mr. Carlin, our employees are required to dress in a specific manner,” the feline interrupted, his voice formal and sharp. He narrowed his eyes and continued. “This is something that is expected of you. I ask you again, are you aware of this?”
“I am aware of it, Sir, and-” Kevin began, before being interrupted again.
“So why do you continue to dress in such a common manner, Mr. Carlin?” the feline asked rhetorically, shaking his head. “We do not employ common people here. This is a company of upstanding citizens. We are not the riffraff, we are not hippies, and we are not bums,” the feline hissed, the volume of his voice rising.
Kevin could only nod his head in understanding, fighting to contain his growing resentment as his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“Now, let me make one thing perfectly clear to you. As part of a holiday event, we are opening our offices to the media this Monday,” the feline spoke with a smirk, before striding forwards confidently towards Kevin, and leaned in until they were face to face. “And if you insist on continuing to present yourself like a loser, I'll happily see to it that you are immediately removed from this office and booted out to the curb. Then you can happily enjoy your holidays begging for change on a street corner like the loser you present yourself as. Are we understood, Mister Carlin?”
Kevin drew in a sharp breath; there was a momentary flame of rebellion in his eyes, but it quickly extinguished as the mutt exhaled slowly and nodded his head.
“...Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I hope we don't have this conversation again, Mr. Carlin. In the meantime, do yourself, and all of us a favor, and find yourself a tailor for god's sake.” the feline said with a purr, before promptly turning his back on Kevin, his tail swaying behind him.
“...Happy Holidays, Mr. Carlin.”
The feline, his business concluded, walked towards the exit of Kevin's cubicle. He took one sidelong glance at Clifford, offered a sneer at the young mutt, and left.
Kevin's hands slowly but surely relaxed at his sides, his ears and shoulders drooping. After the feline's footsteps faded into the hallway outside, an uncomfortable silence hung in the air for what felt like an eternity as Clifford looked up at Kevin. He was expecting to see a glimmer of the man he knew, the man whose pride never wavered even in the face of the humble means by which the Carlins lived. The man who Clifford looked up to more than anyone else in the world. But that man was not standing before Clifford now. Kevin was defeated. He was gazing listlessly at the wall of his office, no pride anywhere to be found in his absent gaze. He was so ashamed that he couldn't even stand to make eye contact with his only son.
“...Let's go home, son,” Kevin muttered.
January 13th, 2015
This memory was so clear in Clifford's mind that he remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the first time he'd ever seen his father defeated, and it was by a wealthy, smug, suit-and-tie businessman, the very type of person Kevin had resented more than any other. This memory kept repeating itself in Clifford's mind as his phone continued to vibrate, new tweets pouring in by the second. They were in response to a rant that Clifford had foolishly posted only moments ago.
“Let's get one thing straight, a'ight. I became a pro baller to play ball, not to become some snotty businessman. I seen too many suit and tie snobs treat my father like dirt in my time, even though he worked harder than they ever did. Business business business, I don't care! I'm a baller, that's what I'm here to do. Take your business and can it.”
Those were the words Clifford had so foolishly posted during an outburst of frustration, and judging by how often his phone was vibrating with responses, it was too late to delete his tweets. Everybody had seen those tweets now; to remove them would seem cowardly.
“Damnit, I messed up...damnit, I messed up bad,” the mutt mumbled to himself as he frantically paced back and forth in his living room.
Clifford's cool exterior had finally cracked. And it had cracked only because Lorcan Donegan and Hal Dufrain, his coach and teammate respectively, had told him that he had to wear a suit and fit in with the business of the FBA.
Clifford had been under a lot of pressure, and not just the pressure that he constantly put on himself to be a better player and to fill Barton Rouge's shoes on the Bangor roster. The pressure that ate away at him day in and day out was the pressure to fit into the straight and narrow realm of professionalism that was expected of FBA athletes. Looking professional, talking to the media, making the public appearances, having his every word scrutinized; it had worn him out.
He had bottled up those feelings so as not to appear weak; but in one instant, those feelings came pouring out of him on social media, and now he not only appeared weak, but stupid.
In college, he'd only had a couple hundred twitter followers; friendly fans who he could joke around with publicly. Since being drafted into the pros, he'd amassed hundreds upon thousands of twitter followers, and not just fans. Publicists, agents, fellow athletes, members of the press, head coaches, general managers, even his very idols growing up. He couldn't casually joke with these people like he could before; these were people who he had to try and fit in with, people would constantly judge his every word. And he would be judged for this misstep, that much was clear. Clifford didn't want to be yet another FBA headcase who made headlines for running their mouths; and yet that's exactly what he'd made himself out to be.
His phone vibrated once again; a text this time. A knot formed in Clifford's throat when he saw that it was from his coach, Lorcan Donegan. “My office, 7 AM sharp,” was all it said. He was definitely in deep trouble.
Clifford glanced at the clock that hung crookedly on his living room wall. It read just past midnight. Clifford took a deep sigh and ran his hands through his unkempt hair, attempting to gather his thoughts. There was no way he'd be sleeping easily tonight. His phone was still vibrating as the new tweets poured in, but Clifford couldn't stomach them any longer. He needed sleep; he'd already seen Hildegard Tetrault and Trent St. Croix mocking him via twitter. Travis Buckner, somebody Clifford respected, had torn his rant to pieces. Clifford didn't need more unpleasantness weighing on his conscience.
Clifford powered down his phone and glanced out an open window, the starry night skies of Bangor, Maine greeting his weary eyes.
“...Barton would never go on some stupid twitter rant,” Clifford mumbled as he gazed skyward. “How you gonna ever fill his shoes when you actin' like a fool, Clifford? What're the fans gonna think of you now?” the mutt asked himself, smacking himself on the forehead and slumping back into his couch. Even with all this on his mind, he'd have to find some way to get some sleep.
January 14th
Lorcan Donegan sat in his office in the basement of Shawshank Stadium, rifling through papers and shivering - the high temperature was only expected to reach 19 degrees, so at 6:45 A.M., the subterranean office could be compared to a walk-in freezer. The building's heating system never seemed to do that good of a job, so he relied on space heaters to try and warm the space.
He pulled out the papers he was going to need for this meeting - the first serious meeting he would have to do in his 3-month tenure as the coach of the Tides; the office had two areas to sit - he had two armchairs in a corner for more casual talks, or letting players air their grievances. This morning, however, he would be sitting behind his desk, with a simple no-frills chair in front of it - a seat for this morning's "guest of honor."
He heard a knock on the door and glanced at his watch. It was 6:59 A.M., and the irish draught horse was at least glad that Clifford Carlin took his coach's stresses on punctuality seriously. When the mutt peered in, the horse nodded to the chair in front of his desk, "Have a seat, Carlin."
Clifford shuffled into the office, his disheveled appearance and sluggish body language making it obvious that he'd slept poorly the night before. Hearing Lorcan's stern tone of voice confirmed that the mutt was definitely in trouble. He slumped into the chair, peering up at his ever formidable coach. The mutt's blue eyes, usually reflecting a cheerful disposition, looked dull today.
Lorcan took a moment to look at the mutt. "I'm going to give you the opportunity to explain yourself," he said calmly.
Clifford fidgeted in the chair, trying to find the words to explain himself. "I..." he began, before taking a deep breath. "I dunno, Coach. I lost it. And I lost it over absolutely nothin'. I just..." he trailed off, staring into space for a moment. "I'm just...worn out by all of this," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The FBA, this pro league. My game hasn't suffered, I'm ready to PLAY in this league, I've proven that on the court. But...the lifestyle of this league...it's crazy, man. It's just crazy. I dunno what to say, Coach, but it's getting to me," he said with a resigned sigh.
"The public appearances, the media, twitter...I can't just be myself and ball like I could when I was in college. I have to be somebody who fits in with this vaunted, professional, business-ey life, but it's so weird and different. I have all this money layin' around that I ain't ever gonna need, I have to smile for the camera and make chit-chat with the reporters, I have to present myself to the fans a certain way off the court, and...I have to act like somebody I'm not used to being. I'm not some high life, high class pro basketball player,” Clifford rambled, before shrugging and shaking his head.
“I'm just a shy, nerdy kid from a poor family who likes ballin',” Clifford said quietly.
“It's stressin' me out, man, I dunno what to do, I just-" the mutt paused, his voice getting caught in his throat, before another sigh left his lips. "I dunno."
A silence fell over Lorcan's office, before the horse nodded. "At least you understand the severity of what happened last night." Lorcan reached over and retrieved three sheets of paper from his printer, leaving them face down on his desk, "I don't underestimate the strain you must be under, but understand that strain is not shouldered by you alone. And I beg to differ with you on one thing - you may have been a kid from a poor family, but you aren't any longer."
Clifford's brow furrowed and the corner of his lip twitched. The mutt bolted upright, slamming his hands down on the wooden desk. "Hey, man, I gotta be true to myself and where I come from-" the mutt was abruptly cut off.
Lorcan sat forward, "I think it's a pretty sorry state of our schools if they aren't telling you how to prepare for the real world once you walk through their doors. It doesn't matter if you're an FBA player or working at a coffee shop, Carlin. They are going to expect certain things out of you, one of which is the way you dress." He opened a drawer on the older wooden desk, which creaked loudly as it moved, withdrawing a file folder and dropping it on the desk. Clifford sat up and looked, and could see his name on it. The horse flipped it open - it was his contract, "Let me ask you something, Carlin... did you bother to read any of this document you signed?"
Clifford had a feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was going. His burst of energy subsided, and he slumped back into his chair.
"....Yeah, Coach. We went over it when I first signed it. I was so excited that some details mighta gone over my head, but yeah, I got the gist," the mutt mumbled.
Lorcan flipped the folder open - he had already moved the page he wanted to emphasize to the front, and had highlighted sections on a page entitled "FBA Appearance and Public Behavior Guidelines."
"I think it would do you well to read it now, Carlin. Let's make sure we are both on the same page," the horse said, brow furrowed.
Another resigned sigh left the mutt's lips when he gingerly reached forward to pluck the pages of the contract off Lorcan's desk, as if afraid that it'd confirm exactly what he feared. He quickly scanned the pages, his lips curled into a frown. Sure enough, everything they'd been discussing on twitter last night before Clifford's cool exterior cracked wide open, was right there on the page. For certain public appearances, proper attire was required. Grumbling under his breath, Clifford slid the folder back onto Lorcan's desk wordlessly. His discontent was written all over his brow, but not a word of complaint escaped his lips. He understood.
Lorcan saw the look on the mutt's face, and nodded. "So, are there any questions about what will happen once we reach San Jose?" He paused, then added, "Outside of the realm of the FBA, you can be yourself... well, as long as you don't touch off another shitstorm like you did last night."
Clifford shrugged. "Nah, Coach, none whatsoever. If proper attire is required, I'll wear it - but only as long as I have to. The second those cameras are off me, I'm gettin' outta that formal wear. Wearin' that stuff gives me the creeps," the mutt grumbled, still simmering, but knowing better than to protest and dig himself a deeper hole at this point. "And trust me, I'm keepin' my mouth shut on twitter from now on about that stuff. Makes me look bad, and it makes the team look bad; I ain't about to do that again, 'specially not with how everybody jumped on it. I don't wanna show my jugular to a pack of bloodthirsty animals again, know what I'm sayin'? That St. Croix dude...let's just say I can't wait to see him on the court again," the mutt growled.
Lorcan took a deep breath, "And now the unpleasant news. Due to said shitstorm, you'll be sitting out tonight's game. Unfortunately, our actions and words have consequences. Are we understood, Carlin?"
Clifford grumbled and nodded at the unfortunate news. He knew it was coming. "I know, I know, that's what I deserve. Nelson can carry the starting PG spot just fine for one game. I'm countin' myself lucky to have gotten off with just one game instead of more."
Lorcan nodded, "I'll be making a couple calls once we hit Pittsburgh. I've located a couple tailors in San Jose that can help. And that's fine if you wear your usual things on your own time. Do you think I go around like this all the time?" he said, alluding to his own suit.
Clifford chuckled, "Nah Coach, I know you don't go around like that all the time, I saw that wild getup you were sportin' at the bar after the Alphas game."
Clifford paused for a moment, rubbing at his chin.
"...Coach, tell me somethin'. You played in the FBA. How'd you adapt? The money, the fame, the reporters...everybody scrutinizin' every single thing you do or say, every day of the week. Didn't it drive you a lil' bit wild at first, too?"
Lorcan chuckled, "I played in the late 70's and early 80's. I wasn't the first non-predator, but I had that over my head because that's when the species doors were starting to open. We didn't make the kind of money that we do today... I think during my last season I had just broken the one million dollar mark." He shrugged, "People also didn't really associate sports with celebrity back then, so I actually managed to be fairly anonymous."
Clifford could only shake his head, chuckling. "Man, you're lucky. What I would've given to play in an era like that..."
His expression hardened once more as he went back into thought, before looking Lorcan right in the eye. "I'm gonna get in front of the media and apologize for my comments, explain to everybody that I didn't mean what I said, that I understand that the FBA is a business and that I'm part of it. I ain't gonna go into the reasons why I lost my cool...that's somethin' I'm keepin' to myself, ain't gonna go spreadin' my dirty laundry around in the public. But I wanna make sure everybody knows I'm not just some headcase, that I'm not a bad dude, that I just...made a mistake, and wanna learn from it. I think that's really the only thing I can do now..." the mutt trailed off, before groaning. "And I'll do it while wearing a gaddamn suit."
The horse nodded, "Alright. We leave for the plane in 30 minutes. I'll be making calls to a couple tailors I looked up this morning. Dismissed, Carlin."
January 15th
((The Audio of Clifford's apology to the media can be heard here: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/15488459/))
“...Thank you for listening,” Clifford said, concluding his formal apology to the small, dimly lit room full of reporters and various members of the press, all of them aiming their expensive cameras and various recording devices right at his face. The room was stuffy, and Carlin's brand new suit felt stiff and restrictive. Their cameras were flashing in his eyes throughout the entire apology, and he was feeling dizzied. Several of the reporters present raised their hands, eager to barrage the canine with questions, but Clifford withdrew from the podium immediately, allowing Bangor's head of public relations to step up and field any questions. Clifford had to get out of there. He was about to lose it again.
He burst through the meeting hall door, walking as fast as he could to the men's restroom down the hallway. He got in, latched the door shut, and immediately slumped against the wall, panting heavily. As if he didn't hate talking to reporters enough, he'd just spoken to an entire room full of them, with all the attention squarely on him. They stared at him the entire time like he was some museum exhibit, jotting down notes, coming up with ways to spin Clifford's apology for their readers. The mutt grew up being bullied and harassed at school, seeing drug dealers patrolling the streets of his neighborhood, and hearing gunfire and police sirens down the street late at night; but that press conference made him more uncomfortable than he'd ever felt in his life.
Clifford glanced at himself in the mirror. His typically unkempt hair was orderly and combed to one side, his beard neatly trimmed. He wore a black, finely tailored suit that he'd paid thousands of dollars for, and the necktie that Lorcan helped him pick out was fashioned into a perfect knot. Right now, Clifford looked every bit as professional and immaculate as that snob who'd bullied his father all those years ago. Clifford scowled at his reflection; he found his own appearance every bit as nauseating as he had found that feline businessman's appearance. He didn't even recognize himself.
“Is this what I have to do to be a pro...?” the mutt asked himself hopelessly, gazing at that unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. “I always prove my doubters wrong on the court...guess this is what I have to do to prove my doubters wrong off the court. To those who say I can't be a pro...I guess this is how I have to answer 'em, even if it's a complete lie. This ain't me. This ain't me one bit,” the mutt muttered.
“...Just what I gotta do, I guess,” he finally said. “The FBA's bigger than me and sometimes I gotta be somebody I'm not to be part of it. The FBA gave me this opportunity, and I owe it to the league to play by their rules.”
Clifford went back into thought for a moment, searching for a solution. But it was all too obvious, and came to him right away. Clifford balled his hands into fists before looking up at his reflection, grinning at it. “But I love this game. I love every second I'm out there on the court. And you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna keep workin', day in and day out. I'm gonna take this league by storm. I'm gonna be the best point guard Bangor's ever had. I'm gonna help the Tides win a ring. I'll make my teammates proud, I'll make Lorcan proud, and I'll make my parents proud! I'll give the fans somethin' to cheer for, silence my doubters permanently, and leave my mark on this league forever," the mutt rambled to himself, before exhaling deeply.
"If I can do all that, then all this suit and tie stuff will be worth it."
He took one more look at his reflection in the mirror, before tugging at the stiff collar of the newly purchased suit.
“...But first, let's get back to the hotel so I can get outta this friggin' thing for awhile.”
Co-Authored with
ratiphex
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