10-31-2018, 08:39 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-31-2018, 08:54 PM by StamkosFan.)
"Hello?" Tommy Helanen yelled to the grand stand.
Stars twinkled overhead as the 28-year-old practiced his strides on his local high school football field. He felt fortunate that the school allowed him and some other locals to scrimmage even though they had long since graduated. He had hoped to make the NFL, but perhaps going to Cleveland State University wasn't the best place to get his name out there. He had done well there, even captained the team in his senior year, but a professional career? It just hadn't worked out, in spite of all his hopes and dreams. But he still loved the game, nothing would ever change that.
He would just tuck a football under his arm, close his eyes, and run until his lungs gave out every evening. The chipped paint on the bleachers, the patchy turf, and the faint reek of the nearby dumpsters would all vanish. A cacophony of cheering and the crescendo of the marching band would fill his ears, just like university days. He could almost see the cheerleaders, clad in smooth red outfits, waving him on from the sidelines, pearly white smiles directed at him.
But tonight, he sensed a real person watching him. He could hear the metallic clang of footsteps trodding up the bleachers. He slowed to a halt and peered into the stands. The figure was perched on the top row, chin in their hands. They looked as if they had leapt out of a spy movie. Despite it being well-past 2 AM and an overcast night at that, they wore a pair of black sunglasses and a fancy suit. Their lips were upturned in a slight smile as they watched him.
"You know, there's a place for people like you," said the mysterious spectator. "The overlooked guys who have real talent. It's not too late for you to have a real career. The NSFL would give you a shot, but you need an agent to get you in. I can take you there."
Tommy tossed the football back and forth between his hands, processing what the onlooker had said. "Who are you, and how did you find me? What is this NSFL?"
The figure rose to their feet and straightened their tie. "You can call me Agent L. I scour the globe for future stars. I don't really care which sport, and so far, my guys have been pretty successful. Ola Wagstrom is a stud in the SHL, Barry Keller, I think, is the highest TPE available pitcher in PBE, and Nolan Petersen...well, he just signed up for GOMHL but he's already a GM. NSFL is a place where football players rise through the rankings, and you earn playing time by how much work and training you do. No pedigree, no elite background needed."
"I don't know who those people are or what those acronyms are, but you sound like you know what you're doing. I have no money though, I can't afford an agent. What could you possibly expect for me to give you?" said Tommy.
"Effort," replied Agent L. "I could ask you for a cut of your contract when you get one. But Ola Wagstrom has $37.32 million in his bank and I'm milking that for all it's worth. I don't need your money. I'm doing this because I want to help you out."
Without even waiting for Tommy to formally agree, Agent L pulled out some crisp papers and fished through their jacket pocket for a pen. Tommy took the items, finally realizing that his chance to achieve his dream was right in front of him. Was he sleeping? He wanted to pinch himself just to be sure. This all sounded too good to be true, but how could he say no? He skimmed over the pages and felt satisfied, but what he didn't realize was the fine print on the bottom of the second page said, "League and agent are not legally or medically responsible for complications resulting from match play, including CTE and other degenerative brain diseases relating to head trauma." He scribbled his signature on the dotted line and returned the contract.
Agent L shook his hand with a firm, confident grip, and nodded. "We have a lot of work to do to get you into game shape. We need to give DFSL teams--"
"DSFL?" Tommy interrupted.
"It's the minor leagues, you start there until you do a certain amount of training, prove yourself, and get drafted. Anyhow, we need to give DFSL teams incentive to put in a waiver claim on you. You really need a social media presence, that's part of why nobody picked up on you until me. Here, I'll make you a Twitter account." Agent L fiddled with an iPhone screen and showed Tommy the login information. “Show some interest in the league too, fill out the trivia contest, join the chat. I’ll make you a wiki page later, like I said, you need to get some internet game on. And after you do your PTs, I’m shuttling you off to Training Camp. You’re fast now, but there’s improvement to be made. Don’t worry, there’s great coaches there. Go home and pack up. We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
Butterflies fluttered through Tommy's stomach at the thought of leaving the only town he'd ever known. The state of Ohio was so simple, and that simplicity was appealing. But at the same time, this would be a fresh start, a chance to see things that were new and exciting. He would get to play his favorite game in a brand new city; he just didn't know which one yet.
"What football gear do I need to bring?" he asked Agent L.
Agent L snorted scornfully and waved a dismissive hand. "Leave the bedraggled helmet and pads sitting and gathering dust in your closet behind. I'll take care of getting you some real equipment. First on the list will be some professional cleats. I want to see you fly, boy. The NSFL needs a man like you. They don't know it yet, but they'll see your potential soon. You have great hands too, you'll get those tough passes. Gotta catch 'em all."
So, Agent L does have some personality and a sense of humor. Not a robot after all. "Pokemon?" Tommy questioned with a soft chuckle.
"What can I say, I'm old school. But enough chitter chatter, you should do what I asked and get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. We need you to make a good first impression on the GMs, and you can't do that without coffee and rest," Agent L quipped. "Good night, Tommy."
Tommy headed toward the parking lot, looking back over his shoulder to make brief eye contact. "Agreed on the coffee. How can anyone live without the power of caffeine? Good night, my friend. I'll see you tomorrow."
Word Count: 1134 Words
Stars twinkled overhead as the 28-year-old practiced his strides on his local high school football field. He felt fortunate that the school allowed him and some other locals to scrimmage even though they had long since graduated. He had hoped to make the NFL, but perhaps going to Cleveland State University wasn't the best place to get his name out there. He had done well there, even captained the team in his senior year, but a professional career? It just hadn't worked out, in spite of all his hopes and dreams. But he still loved the game, nothing would ever change that.
He would just tuck a football under his arm, close his eyes, and run until his lungs gave out every evening. The chipped paint on the bleachers, the patchy turf, and the faint reek of the nearby dumpsters would all vanish. A cacophony of cheering and the crescendo of the marching band would fill his ears, just like university days. He could almost see the cheerleaders, clad in smooth red outfits, waving him on from the sidelines, pearly white smiles directed at him.
But tonight, he sensed a real person watching him. He could hear the metallic clang of footsteps trodding up the bleachers. He slowed to a halt and peered into the stands. The figure was perched on the top row, chin in their hands. They looked as if they had leapt out of a spy movie. Despite it being well-past 2 AM and an overcast night at that, they wore a pair of black sunglasses and a fancy suit. Their lips were upturned in a slight smile as they watched him.
"You know, there's a place for people like you," said the mysterious spectator. "The overlooked guys who have real talent. It's not too late for you to have a real career. The NSFL would give you a shot, but you need an agent to get you in. I can take you there."
Tommy tossed the football back and forth between his hands, processing what the onlooker had said. "Who are you, and how did you find me? What is this NSFL?"
The figure rose to their feet and straightened their tie. "You can call me Agent L. I scour the globe for future stars. I don't really care which sport, and so far, my guys have been pretty successful. Ola Wagstrom is a stud in the SHL, Barry Keller, I think, is the highest TPE available pitcher in PBE, and Nolan Petersen...well, he just signed up for GOMHL but he's already a GM. NSFL is a place where football players rise through the rankings, and you earn playing time by how much work and training you do. No pedigree, no elite background needed."
"I don't know who those people are or what those acronyms are, but you sound like you know what you're doing. I have no money though, I can't afford an agent. What could you possibly expect for me to give you?" said Tommy.
"Effort," replied Agent L. "I could ask you for a cut of your contract when you get one. But Ola Wagstrom has $37.32 million in his bank and I'm milking that for all it's worth. I don't need your money. I'm doing this because I want to help you out."
Without even waiting for Tommy to formally agree, Agent L pulled out some crisp papers and fished through their jacket pocket for a pen. Tommy took the items, finally realizing that his chance to achieve his dream was right in front of him. Was he sleeping? He wanted to pinch himself just to be sure. This all sounded too good to be true, but how could he say no? He skimmed over the pages and felt satisfied, but what he didn't realize was the fine print on the bottom of the second page said, "League and agent are not legally or medically responsible for complications resulting from match play, including CTE and other degenerative brain diseases relating to head trauma." He scribbled his signature on the dotted line and returned the contract.
Agent L shook his hand with a firm, confident grip, and nodded. "We have a lot of work to do to get you into game shape. We need to give DFSL teams--"
"DSFL?" Tommy interrupted.
"It's the minor leagues, you start there until you do a certain amount of training, prove yourself, and get drafted. Anyhow, we need to give DFSL teams incentive to put in a waiver claim on you. You really need a social media presence, that's part of why nobody picked up on you until me. Here, I'll make you a Twitter account." Agent L fiddled with an iPhone screen and showed Tommy the login information. “Show some interest in the league too, fill out the trivia contest, join the chat. I’ll make you a wiki page later, like I said, you need to get some internet game on. And after you do your PTs, I’m shuttling you off to Training Camp. You’re fast now, but there’s improvement to be made. Don’t worry, there’s great coaches there. Go home and pack up. We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
Butterflies fluttered through Tommy's stomach at the thought of leaving the only town he'd ever known. The state of Ohio was so simple, and that simplicity was appealing. But at the same time, this would be a fresh start, a chance to see things that were new and exciting. He would get to play his favorite game in a brand new city; he just didn't know which one yet.
"What football gear do I need to bring?" he asked Agent L.
Agent L snorted scornfully and waved a dismissive hand. "Leave the bedraggled helmet and pads sitting and gathering dust in your closet behind. I'll take care of getting you some real equipment. First on the list will be some professional cleats. I want to see you fly, boy. The NSFL needs a man like you. They don't know it yet, but they'll see your potential soon. You have great hands too, you'll get those tough passes. Gotta catch 'em all."
So, Agent L does have some personality and a sense of humor. Not a robot after all. "Pokemon?" Tommy questioned with a soft chuckle.
"What can I say, I'm old school. But enough chitter chatter, you should do what I asked and get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. We need you to make a good first impression on the GMs, and you can't do that without coffee and rest," Agent L quipped. "Good night, Tommy."
Tommy headed toward the parking lot, looking back over his shoulder to make brief eye contact. "Agreed on the coffee. How can anyone live without the power of caffeine? Good night, my friend. I'll see you tomorrow."
Word Count: 1134 Words