For Baltimore

Making Friends

After her first day, when she'd gone home to defrost under that fabulous rainfall style showerhead, she was sure to bundle up a bit more, specifically purchasing a new set of gloves, a scarf, and a knit hat, and pulling the collar of her wool coat to cover any exposed area of throat or face. She took a fair bit of teasing for that but the added warmth was more than worth it. She could hardly believe it was this cold so early in the autumn, but since the stadium sat square in the harbor and the wind was nearly always blowing, she figured that might have made a difference. It was strange, though, to walk into that stadium day in and day out. In Detroit, she made it to the rink a few times a week and traveled for away games. However, there, it had been a newspaper that covered much more than the local NHL team that employed her. Baltimore was entirely different.

The owners had offered her a position that tied her only to the team and it's website. The actual written work she was doing wasn't much different, it just meant more time observing actual gameplay and less time spent in a crowded cubicle, surrounded by middle aged men prone to impolite noises and unpleasant bodily functions. Although, to be fair, there was times when the Ravens locker room smelled pretty ripe, too.

Nevertheless, the actual mechanics of the game became clearer to her in those first few weeks. And perhaps she had judged too harshly when she'd appraised the skill level needed as something akin to a bottle of anabolic steroids and a temper. While size and an unshakeable fearlessness seemed to reign as a key component of the defensive strategy, the offensive side was clearly much more precise and planned.

She noted each players strengths and weaknesses, how it all related to their respective role, and how well that allowed them to play not only as a single unit, but as part of a greater whole. Running backs, for example, were the polar opposite of how she'd always described football players. They actually considered a smaller stature an advantage; they needed to be quick, and able to maneuver and change direction while maintaining that speed as they weaved through the opposing team in order to gain yardage. Receivers, and Tight Ends, on the other hand, needed a keen eye and an almost mathematical understanding of the game: envisioning the QB as point A and part estimating, part predicting point B as the eventual end location of the ball and thus calculate how to get themselves there in enough time to make the catch, while avoiding the other team's defense. It was quite detailed and intricate, actually, and she felt bad for having underestimated it.

But, she had to admit that Flacco was a curious creature to watch, whether in scrimmage or actual gameplay. It seemed as though that once in possession of the ball, he had but three options. Option one was to hand the ball off to the RB. Option two; he throws the ball – hence initiating a sequence that would eventually, if done correctly, end in a catch by the receiver. Then there was option three: run the ball himself. While he did attempt this at times, it seemed as though he reserved that for an absolutely-no-other-way-out-unless-he-takes-the-sack kind of moment. And she could understand why; the man was almost comically large, and not quite enough to mow down any players obstructing his path, but enough that he was an easy target for a tackle.

Tessa had seen plenty of hard hits and collisions on the ice, and hockey players, by and large, would just shake it off and keep going. But when bodies hit other bodies in this situation, it just looked... different. She was intelligent enough to deduce that in hockey, the slick surface on which the game took place and each player's skate blade was enough to keep both bodies in motion, if for just a moment and it seemed to happen a touch more smoothly. While here, on turf, all of that inertia came to an immediate and crashing halt, and she found herself wincing every single time.

She thought, though, that maybe that'd had to do with Pitta. He was one of the kindest members of the team and spoke to her often. It was easy conversation: he talked of his wife, Mataya, and their kids, and how he enjoyed doing mission work in places like the Dominican Republic during the offseason. But as part of her preparation in those first few weeks, she requested access to old game tapes, watching them late at night as she revised her blog entries. She knew that he'd suffered a broken hip in not just one, but two of the previous seasons. And while she knew how thrilled he must have been to get back out there after the first, he had been vulnerable and that made him a target. She witnessed those opposing players closing in on him, their intentions abundantly clear, and she'd wished she'd had the ability to firstly, go back in time, and secondly to freeze it. It was a horrific reminder of her original impressions on the sport.