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I take the seat, pull out my digital pad, and swipe through the notes I scrawled on the plane until I find the page with my questions. I have no idea how many I might get to ask, but hopefully, the other writers here will cover some of them, and the general announcement might answer a fair bit, too.
Hot angry guy sits up with an old-school pen and notepad in hand. My stomach grumbles.
“Ahh, any idea how long these things usually go for?” I ask him.
“Are you bored already?” he asks without looking at me. He’s scrawling what looks like a list of questions. Is he seriously only thinking up things to ask now?
“No, I just skipped lunch, and I’ve never been a fan of food on planes. Have you been to Savannah before?”
“Once or twice.”
“Cool… umm, sorry about the airport, I…”
“Forget about it.”
“If I had known.”
“Look, just let it go. I got here. It’s fine.”
The way his voice comes out all husky, like he’s still very much pissed at me, is far hotter than it should be. Why do I always crush on the douchebags?
“Well, umm, do you know anywhere good to eat near here?” My question comes out like a proposition, and my cheeks flush again. He either doesn’t hear me or is done with our conversation and chooses not to answer. Before I can repeat the question, the side door opens and the General Manager of the Banana Ball strides out. Rear cameras flash as he takes his seat at the center of the table.
“This is the beginning of an exciting season for this sport,” he begins, and as much as we all have questions, we wait until the allocated time to ask. “We listen to our fans, and what they have been telling us for some time now is that they want more. More games, more entertainment, and more players. So, we’re excited to announce the addition of two new teams.”
The doors on either side of the room open and two mascots appear, a giant monkey waving a banana peel around and, on the other, a cartoon-looking guy holding a long net like what you might try to catch a stray cat with.
“Please welcome to Banana Ball, The Funky Monkeys and Animal Control.”
The players from both sides walk in, taking places behind the long desk, most of them standing, all of them in uniform. The cameras continue to go off, as arms start to rise in the crowd.
Hot angry guy throws up his arm, but instead of waiting to be called, he yells out his question over the chatter of the media.
“What do you think of the comments by those in the Majors that what you do isn’t real sport?”
Shit, he’s coming out swinging. But the General Manager, Bart Ericson, laughs.
“I’d say they need to come to see these teams train. They spend just as much time as any team working on their game, and then instead of going home, they stick it out for hours learning choreography, creating content, and developing entertainment that has seen our crowds only grow.”
The hot angry guy nods with a half smile on his lips and fuck if he isn’t hotter when he does that. I’m in serious trouble. Come on, Ian, get your fucking head in the game. This is your shot.
Hand after hand is called upon. A few of my questions get asked by others, and I jot down quick notes to touch on the answers in my article later.
The GM’s finger points my way, and I freeze. Shit, what’s a question that hasn’t been asked yet? Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Umm.” My attention fixes on a player in the back. He looks familiar, and as his name makes its way to the front of my mind, I smile, and relief floods my chest. “Benny G, you played for Wingate Division 2. What brings you to Banana Ball?”
Benny works his way through the players in front of him and takes the mic. None of us were given names before the meeting today, and I can feel a bunch of eyes on me, including hot angry guy’s, but it was pure dumb luck spotting Benny. We were mates back in high school, and we’ve kept in touch, but he never said a thing about joining Animal Control.
“I’ve always been a baller, and in this league, I get to do what I love and have fun.”
“So we’ll see your dance moves out there on the pitch?” I ask, not caring. It’s supposed to be one question at a time.
“You’ll see that and so much more.” He winks at me, and the cameras all click feverishly, trying to capture the moment. A week ago, my boss would have been sending me a picture like that and asking me to write some trash about him secretly hooking up with a writer in the room. Fuck, I hate that gossipshit. This is what I want. To write real stories about real players playing real sports.
The teams are guided out a few more questions later, and the writers all clear out, too. I’m too engrossed in getting down everything before I forget that I don’t see the door open.
“Hey, Ian,” Benny calls, and I flinch, dropping the stylus. “Sorry, dude. I thought you heard us come in.”
