And, sure, doctors never gave the up-to-the-minute reports you wanted on injuries.
But I still thought it was worthwhile—the immediacy, the personalities, the lack of glass cutting out the game.
The sidelines were packed—players had to arrive two hours before the game, and even at fifty-three, they seemed vastly outnumbered by the officials, coordinators and staff. A whole crew of people existed only to regulate the players’ uniforms. One poor sap spent the entire day solely in charge of the first football of the game—the kicker’s ball.
Sometimes I thought that was why I loved football so much. The crazy political machinations. It was like I lived in Medici, Italy, except with less poison.
I searched for Abe through the streams of players and officials, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could already be back in the locker room, which was for the best. I didn’t need to see him. I shouldn’t see him. I was supposed to be working.
As kick-off neared, all the players and coaches cleared from the field. I found the guys near a cluster of newscasters—famous anchors like Aurelius Stevenson and Eddie Bruges. The women nearby wore white suits and bright smiles. “They’re all so beautiful.”
“They’re TV. They’re paid to be beautiful.” Carlos nodded discreetly as we walked past the row. “Former cheerleader for the Bears, former Miss Vermont, former model.”
“Hardly seems fair.” At slightly below-average height and with utterly girl-next-door features, I definitely didn’t qualify for their beauty standards. But I’d probably come into this job with a hell of a better sports reporting background than they had.
Well, being bitter never helped anyone.
The Leopards played the Chiefs today. The game opened strong, but it was clearly destined to be a low-scoring one; no one seemed to keep the ball very long. By the fourth quarter, it was 11-7 and the crowd was restless.
And when the sideline started buzzing, it wasn’t about the game.
I couldn’t tell where it started, but within seconds the energy had reached a fever pitch. Someone let out a whistle behind us. Everyone started pulling out phones and whispering to each other.
“Shit, look at this.”
Mduduzi and I both leaned closer to Jin, who’d pulled up an article published two minutes ago by the Coalition of American Doctors.
Statistical Rankings of Professional Helmets.
We huddled against each other to scan the article. Football helmets didn’t receive real ratings, just a pass/fail in accordance to whether they met the national safety standard. Virginia Tech created a five-star rating system some years ago, but even that wasn’t fail-proof.
The article used the statistical data gleaned from the past dozen years to rank helmets worn by amateur, college and pro football players. Including some of the helmets that were currently knocking around the field in front of us. Including some popular helmets that didn’t hold up too well.
“Ouch.” Jin sounded positively gleeful. “That’s gonna hurt.”
I barely paid attention. I was too busy Googling “Abe Krasner helmet” on my phone, but unfortunately all I could find out was where to buy signed mini-helmets. Which wasn’t very useful. I already had one of Abe’s signed mini-helmets. His mom had given it to me three Hanukkahs ago and said it was from Abe.
I found the info. Thank God. He had one of the safer ones.
Carlos’s phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear. Tanya’s voice could faintly be heard on the other side of the line, especially if I concentrated very hard. “Are you reading this?”
“Yup.”
“It doesn’t list any of Loft’s helmets.”
At first that surprised me, since Loft was one of the nation’s top athletic gear companies. They’d swooped up a lot of the endorsements and partnerships in the past few years, and I was used to seeing their patches on the Leopard practice jerseys. Right before I moved out here, the big news in the sports world
But I still thought it was worthwhile—the immediacy, the personalities, the lack of glass cutting out the game.
The sidelines were packed—players had to arrive two hours before the game, and even at fifty-three, they seemed vastly outnumbered by the officials, coordinators and staff. A whole crew of people existed only to regulate the players’ uniforms. One poor sap spent the entire day solely in charge of the first football of the game—the kicker’s ball.
Sometimes I thought that was why I loved football so much. The crazy political machinations. It was like I lived in Medici, Italy, except with less poison.
I searched for Abe through the streams of players and officials, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could already be back in the locker room, which was for the best. I didn’t need to see him. I shouldn’t see him. I was supposed to be working.
As kick-off neared, all the players and coaches cleared from the field. I found the guys near a cluster of newscasters—famous anchors like Aurelius Stevenson and Eddie Bruges. The women nearby wore white suits and bright smiles. “They’re all so beautiful.”
“They’re TV. They’re paid to be beautiful.” Carlos nodded discreetly as we walked past the row. “Former cheerleader for the Bears, former Miss Vermont, former model.”
“Hardly seems fair.” At slightly below-average height and with utterly girl-next-door features, I definitely didn’t qualify for their beauty standards. But I’d probably come into this job with a hell of a better sports reporting background than they had.
Well, being bitter never helped anyone.
The Leopards played the Chiefs today. The game opened strong, but it was clearly destined to be a low-scoring one; no one seemed to keep the ball very long. By the fourth quarter, it was 11-7 and the crowd was restless.
And when the sideline started buzzing, it wasn’t about the game.
I couldn’t tell where it started, but within seconds the energy had reached a fever pitch. Someone let out a whistle behind us. Everyone started pulling out phones and whispering to each other.
“Shit, look at this.”
Mduduzi and I both leaned closer to Jin, who’d pulled up an article published two minutes ago by the Coalition of American Doctors.
Statistical Rankings of Professional Helmets.
We huddled against each other to scan the article. Football helmets didn’t receive real ratings, just a pass/fail in accordance to whether they met the national safety standard. Virginia Tech created a five-star rating system some years ago, but even that wasn’t fail-proof.
The article used the statistical data gleaned from the past dozen years to rank helmets worn by amateur, college and pro football players. Including some of the helmets that were currently knocking around the field in front of us. Including some popular helmets that didn’t hold up too well.
“Ouch.” Jin sounded positively gleeful. “That’s gonna hurt.”
I barely paid attention. I was too busy Googling “Abe Krasner helmet” on my phone, but unfortunately all I could find out was where to buy signed mini-helmets. Which wasn’t very useful. I already had one of Abe’s signed mini-helmets. His mom had given it to me three Hanukkahs ago and said it was from Abe.
I found the info. Thank God. He had one of the safer ones.
Carlos’s phone rang, and he lifted it to his ear. Tanya’s voice could faintly be heard on the other side of the line, especially if I concentrated very hard. “Are you reading this?”
“Yup.”
“It doesn’t list any of Loft’s helmets.”
At first that surprised me, since Loft was one of the nation’s top athletic gear companies. They’d swooped up a lot of the endorsements and partnerships in the past few years, and I was used to seeing their patches on the Leopard practice jerseys. Right before I moved out here, the big news in the sports world
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