"Grab a seat, and gaze upon my balls," the Orc gestures with a broad sweep of his muscular arm, directing attention to a ramshackle shelf supported by two nails crudely hammered into the mudbrick walls of his improvised hut - built on the edge of NOLA's practice field. Along the shelf are a series of footballs, each wrapped in tape, in turn scribbled in marker. Too dim is the flickering firelight to read the handwriting from here.
Wandering to the shelf, he grabs a ball seemingly at random and claps it firmly between his oversized palms.
"Last season, week two. Big game. First interception. Against the Royals, hah," he spits into the fire, "I don't know the coward's name, but their quartered back kept trying to throw the ball, rather than be a man and run it himself. I kept swatting it down. Twice. On that third swat, I said 'to hells with it!' and grabbed it right out of the air, and ran it myself to show that weakling how it was done."
Stuffing the roughly handled pigskin back into its niche on the shelf, he selects another, giving it the same treatment. One wonders if he has it in him to crush the ball hard enough to deflate it.
"Week three, next game. Against some flock of fools calling themselves the bird dogs. I mean, what is that anyway? Some sort of... weak griffin? Me had a dozen tackles that game, but more importantly, I made a sack twice. One of my sacks was in their goal zone, and we got two victory points for it. Still not sure how that works, but it makes Ugarth think about carrying these little men all the way back before slamming them on the ground. Coach said not to, though."
He puts that one away before grabbing another, which this time he twirls up into the air a few times before ultimately setting it back onto the shelf.
"This week six ball, comes from a loss. Ugarth.... not want to think about losing. ONLY WIN."
Quickly, onto the next one, which he doesn't even bother taking off the shelf. He pushed a finger against it and shrugs,
"Game nine, me lose this one too. Still make a bunch of tackles, one of them before their little man even ran past the line. Oh! I got a sack, too. Love those things. Nothing like feeling those soft, flubby bodies crunch beneath you. So satisfying."
Two more to go, and Ugarth reaches to the penultimate ball. He treasures this one, clearly, holding it to his chest and smiling sweetly. As much as a tusked man can smile.
"This my favorite. Against the purple catdogs, this game close. Barely won. Ugarth did it all this game. You know, you remember it. A dozen tackles, a big time sack, I punched the ball out of some weakling's hands and one of my men recovered it. Oh boy, first time I learned how to do that, and now I can't stop. I also slapped two balls down, and after I did it one time everybody came jumping and celebrating with me, then the other guys came out and kicked the ball. Wasn't really sure why, Ugarth just do job. Good to see purple men cry, though."
Finally, onto the last ball. The reason I was here in the first place. In Ugarth's first game up in the NSFL he earned a defensive game ball from the Second Line. A great way to start his career, and the team asked me to write a little piece on it. His short, pig-like nose scrunched and his lips curled around his tusks. Finally, he grabbed the last ball. Different branding, different tape job, different handwriting.
"This one from new friends. They give it me after first game. Ugarth all over the field in this game, and I like it that way. Bigger teams are better, kinda big surprise. Ugarth finally get worthy competition? Maybe... But... I'm not gonna hold my lungs. This game, Ugarth sack. Ugarth tackle. I jump and swat down balls. I even stole one again, right out of the air! You shoulda seen the look on that quartered back's face. Didn't know what to do!" he cackled. Downright cackled. "Team say, 'Ugarth run!' so I do. I ran it almost all the way, probably woulda made it if I knew what to do at the start. People say I almost took it to the house, but... No, I was on other field. Not by my house."
His story concluded, I venture to ask a question.
"What was it like celebrating with your new teammates?"
The big orc lets out a hefty sigh as he considers the question, smiling once again. He plops down on the roughly cut bench beside me and looks into the fire.
"There's nothing better."
Wandering to the shelf, he grabs a ball seemingly at random and claps it firmly between his oversized palms.
"Last season, week two. Big game. First interception. Against the Royals, hah," he spits into the fire, "I don't know the coward's name, but their quartered back kept trying to throw the ball, rather than be a man and run it himself. I kept swatting it down. Twice. On that third swat, I said 'to hells with it!' and grabbed it right out of the air, and ran it myself to show that weakling how it was done."
Stuffing the roughly handled pigskin back into its niche on the shelf, he selects another, giving it the same treatment. One wonders if he has it in him to crush the ball hard enough to deflate it.
"Week three, next game. Against some flock of fools calling themselves the bird dogs. I mean, what is that anyway? Some sort of... weak griffin? Me had a dozen tackles that game, but more importantly, I made a sack twice. One of my sacks was in their goal zone, and we got two victory points for it. Still not sure how that works, but it makes Ugarth think about carrying these little men all the way back before slamming them on the ground. Coach said not to, though."
He puts that one away before grabbing another, which this time he twirls up into the air a few times before ultimately setting it back onto the shelf.
"This week six ball, comes from a loss. Ugarth.... not want to think about losing. ONLY WIN."
Quickly, onto the next one, which he doesn't even bother taking off the shelf. He pushed a finger against it and shrugs,
"Game nine, me lose this one too. Still make a bunch of tackles, one of them before their little man even ran past the line. Oh! I got a sack, too. Love those things. Nothing like feeling those soft, flubby bodies crunch beneath you. So satisfying."
Two more to go, and Ugarth reaches to the penultimate ball. He treasures this one, clearly, holding it to his chest and smiling sweetly. As much as a tusked man can smile.
"This my favorite. Against the purple catdogs, this game close. Barely won. Ugarth did it all this game. You know, you remember it. A dozen tackles, a big time sack, I punched the ball out of some weakling's hands and one of my men recovered it. Oh boy, first time I learned how to do that, and now I can't stop. I also slapped two balls down, and after I did it one time everybody came jumping and celebrating with me, then the other guys came out and kicked the ball. Wasn't really sure why, Ugarth just do job. Good to see purple men cry, though."
Finally, onto the last ball. The reason I was here in the first place. In Ugarth's first game up in the NSFL he earned a defensive game ball from the Second Line. A great way to start his career, and the team asked me to write a little piece on it. His short, pig-like nose scrunched and his lips curled around his tusks. Finally, he grabbed the last ball. Different branding, different tape job, different handwriting.
"This one from new friends. They give it me after first game. Ugarth all over the field in this game, and I like it that way. Bigger teams are better, kinda big surprise. Ugarth finally get worthy competition? Maybe... But... I'm not gonna hold my lungs. This game, Ugarth sack. Ugarth tackle. I jump and swat down balls. I even stole one again, right out of the air! You shoulda seen the look on that quartered back's face. Didn't know what to do!" he cackled. Downright cackled. "Team say, 'Ugarth run!' so I do. I ran it almost all the way, probably woulda made it if I knew what to do at the start. People say I almost took it to the house, but... No, I was on other field. Not by my house."
His story concluded, I venture to ask a question.
"What was it like celebrating with your new teammates?"
The big orc lets out a hefty sigh as he considers the question, smiling once again. He plops down on the roughly cut bench beside me and looks into the fire.
"There's nothing better."