Rituals
#1 of Ramsay Carter
Ramsay Carter has a rough practice the morning after her first Player of the Game award in the league.
The following is a story set in the FBA shared storytelling universe, centring on the character Ramsay Carter.
Saphira Kelley belongs to Intaurnet.
When I got to the practice facility the next morning, I felt like trash. Just, stiff muscles, gnawing headache, a little bit dizzy, blurry eyed. At least part of that was from falling asleep sitting in a chair last night - I'd been sitting and listening to one of Meg's records after the night out and before I went to bed, and I guess I'd just nodded off. I was paying for it now, and I could only hope that I wouldn't get a cramp during practice.
I'm not sure how long I sat there, zoning out, while the radio babbled away at me. The sky ahead of me was just starting to show some pink on the horizon among the black. In a way I was glad that it was so early - there was nobody around to snap a picture of the hotshot rookie frog from the Baltimore Spirits half asleep in her car. I was on the edge of falling back asleep in the seat, before the sound of my name snapped me back into reality. I sat up, blinking in surprise, and looked around for whoever the fuck had said that. It took a few seconds for me to realize it was the car radio, and I let out a laugh. I sat back again, listening to the hosts.
"...toe to toe with last year's Eastern champs, and they made it look easy."
"Now Morales."
"Yes Gabby."
"Now you know I don't like to exaggerate."
"Here she goes."
"But last night? And Friday too? Hell, Morales, this is the year."
"You've said it before Gabby."
"Please."
"Uh huh. 2021-22, Eliza Mae, Saphira, Tia, Erik. You said that was the year."
"Well it was the year! You thought it for a while, too."
"Sure, but I didn't say it into a mic during the first week of regular season."
"But Morales, you've gotta be feeling it too."
"I dunno."
"Don't you 'I dunno' me! You saw Carter last night, you saw what that kid can do. Call it obvious, but the frog can jump!"
"Wouldn't be the first time we've seen a hotshot rookie come out the gate strong and then flame out. Ramsay Carter's had a good first couple games, yeah, but let's see her sustain that before we start planning a championship party."
I turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition, killing the radio, and then leaned back in my seat. I was still keenly aware of how tired I was, and of all the aches. I sighed, then looked over at the silent speaker of my car. "Carters don't flame out, Morales. It's not how we do it."
With that, I opened the door and forced myself out of the car. I got my duffel bag out of the back, and slung it over my shoulder as I made my way over to the practice facility. I had to unlock the doors and get all the lights - it was far too early for anybody else to be there yet. The hallways were eerily quiet. It was something that I'd grown used to back at the practice facilities at Atwood, but I was still getting used to how the hallways of the Spirits' facility echoed when they were empty.
I slipped into the changing room and tossed my duffel bag onto one of the benches. I got it open, and dug through it until I found my jersey and compression gear from the night before. I'd been in such a hurry to get out that I'd completely forgotten to toss them into the team's laundry. Having people whose dedicated job it was to wash our gear between games was a relief, especially with how aggressive our schedules were. I was already starting to fall behind on the chores in my apartment after the preseason and the past week of regular season games, and the thought of doing laundry regularly was daunting.
I tossed the jersey and gear into the dedicated separate bin they had for me - a formality more than anything else, with the ointments I used, but it was always better to be safe about it. Even the poisonous folks that used anti-toxin pills tended to use extra precautions like this. The folks handling laundry knew they had to use gloves while handling the stuff in there. I returned to the bench, fished a large jar of ointment out of my bag, and then started the long process of applying it.
I've gotten good at putting the stuff on over the past few years, but still. It's not the type of stuff where you can just slap dash and rub it in - you need to actually focus on working it in and making sure all of the skin's covered, and that's a lot of surface area. I grimaced as I got started. I had a few spots that were tender.
I only had myself to blame for that. I'd stayed out later than I'd intended the night before. I'd known that I was pushing it, going out to a couple of the local clubs and bars in Baltimore to celebrate after the game. I was already starting to fall behind on sleep, and a late night was the last thing I needed. Still, it was important. One of the things Meg always taught me was that after a success, you celebrated. Specifically, you went out and celebrated with the people that were supporting you. So after I'd won my first player of the game honours in the league last night, that's what I'd done.
Instead of just one club, though, I'd gone around to a few, including a couple of the sports bars in Baltimore where they show the Spirits games. It was good - I had a great time. People were surprised and happy whenever I walked in. I think I made a few new fans.
My face split into a wry grin as I wondered how people would react after I won my first player of the game for an away game. I planned to go out again that night, regardless of the city. Let the fans get a bit rowdy - that was part of the fun.
Either way. By the time I'd gotten home last night, it was already well past midnight. Normally I would have gone for a quick shower to get any of the excess ointment off of my skin. Most of it came off over the course of a game anyways, but there were always bits where it clung on. Sometimes leaving it could cause sensitivity or chaffing the next day. But, well... there were other rituals to do.
This one wasn't a ritual Meg had taught me. This was one I'd come up with for myself after she died. It was nothing elaborate. But after big milestones, I liked to go home and have some time to myself. I would put on one of Meg's old records and give it a listen. I guess I'd nodded off in the chair while listening. so a shower hadn't happened, and now I had to deal with sensitivity.
Stupid, Ramsay. Whatever. I just had to not let myself off the hook next time.
It took about 45 minutes to finish applying the ointment to my skin. Once I finished, I tugged on my compression sleeves and leggings, and then slipped a light hoodie and a pair of gym shorts over them. I was still aching as I made my way out of the locker room and into the training area. As I walked there, I could see outside through the windows. The sun was actually cresting the horizon now, the pink sky having turned into a blinding orange. I wasn't hung over or anything - I wasn't dumb enough to have more than the occasional drink during the regular season. Still, the bright light was a bit harsh on my eyes, and it made my slight headache worse.
Once I was into the training area, I started my warmups. It was a quick series of stretches and running drills - nothing too strenuous to start out. I knew it would be a little while before anybody else on the team showed up and I could start some real drills. It was a point of pride that I was managing to keep up my streak of being the first member of the team practicing every morning, and that was with my added time spent doing the ointment treatment.
Even my lighter running drills were feeling a bit rough that morning. Lack of sleep will do that to you, I guess. I gritted my teeth and pushed through. Sure, I'd made a good impression so far, but I still had a lot to prove. If the local sports radio station was worrying about me 'flaming out', then obviously I had a ways to go. I intended to blow them away. I hadn't exactly been disappointed about not being ranked at the very top of the draft class this year - you have to be realistic about that kind of thing. I fully intended to blow past the rest of my class over the course of the season, though, and the only way I would be able to do that would be by putting in the work.
By the time I went to fetch one of the racks of balls to work on shooting drills, my head felt like it was in a fog. At least my muscles were starting to ache a bit less as I worked them out, but my attention was all over the place. I pulled up to the free-throw line, and picked up my first ball. When I looked up at the hoop, it was a bit blurry. I blinked, then set my gaze and started shooting.
It wasn't great. The first few shots were wide, bouncing off the backboard and away. That wasn't exactly uncommon for my first warmup shots of the day, especially when I was in early - you miss the first few, and then dial it in over the course of the drill. It was another thing that Meg had taught me, something she and I jokingly called The Carter Method. You let yourself have a couple fuck ups, and exorcise the negativity and frustration from those fuck ups first thing in the morning. After that, you could settle in to what you were actually capable. Normally by the end of my first rack in the morning, I'm hitting every shot consistently, and I'm good for the rest of the day.
That morning, though... I dunno. It wouldn't dial in. After those first few shots, I tried to correct, but I overdid it, and the balls instead bounced off the front rim of the hoop and away. So I tried to correct back, and I managed to get a couple that went in, but it felt like I was fighting my own arms for them. There was a spot on my right bicep that was tender from that damn ointment I hadn't washed out the night before, and it stung with each shot. I could feel my eyes squinting as I tried to focus, and the next few shots slid off target as well. By the time I reached the last ball, I couldn't hold back a frustrated grunt as I let it fly, putting way too much of my annoyance into it. This time the ball hit the backboard, slapped against the rim, and then rocketed off to the side. I could feel my frustration cresting, and I was already turning to follow the ball as it bounced clear across the training area. My eyes followed it as it bounced towards the entrance, before landing firmly in the hands of Saphira Kelley.
I blinked. I hadn't even heard the slug enter through the door. I stood there staring at her as she hefted the ball. I didn't react until she looked back over at me, and then gestured for me to come over.
I bit back a sigh of annoyance, then started walking over. Fuck, of course. Bad enough that I'd just missed the majority of a rack of free throws in front of one of the team's co-captains, but she'd also seen me losing my patience over it. Stupid, Carter. You're better than that.
When I approached, she gave me a look, still hefting the ball. Her first question caught me off guard. "When did you get here?"
It took a moment for me to process it. "About half an hour ago?"
I couldn't quite read her reaction to that, but I could tell she was considering it. When she spoke again, her tone was leading. "Was that when you got here? Or when you started practicing?"
"When I started practicing." At her look, I shrugged. "It's cheating to count my setup time."
"Cheating?" Again, I couldn't read the reaction. I was pretty sure it was either amusement or annoyance. "Okay, so when did you actually get here?"
I tried to add it all up in my head. "Maybe an hour and a half ago?"
"Okay. So you've been the first one to practice every morning since you joined the team, and the last to leave. Eliza and I have noticed." I felt a small stirring of pride at the fact that they'd noticed, but it was drawn up short as she went on, her tone incredulous. "Have you been showing up that early every morning?"
I stumbled a bit over my next words. "Well. Yes."
"Why?"
I stared at her, having trouble processing where this conversation was going. All the things she was saying were good things. I couldn't figure out why she was saying them like they were ridiculous.
I was speaking slowly when I answered. I felt like I was testing each word as I said it, to see if there was anything wrong with it before proceeding. I think part of it was how tired I felt, but another chunk probably had to do with the general weirdness of the conversation. "I'm a rookie. It's my job to catch up to all you guys as quickly as possible. The only way I'm going to do that is if I work harder, and part of that is getting here earlier than anybody else."
"And the extra hour before you even start playing?"
I gave another small shrug at that. "I mean. It's a necessary evil."
She kept eying me. I got the impression that she was measuring me up before responding. If she felt unsure about any part of her reply, though, it didn't show. Her voice was firm as she replied. "Okay. So first of all you're going to stop thinking like that. The whole 'I need to work harder' thing is a great way to run face first into a wall."
"Well it's been working."
"We're less than a week into the regular season, and you look like somebody at the end of a playoff game seven." Her voice was dry. "I wouldn't call a speedrun towards burning out 'working.'"
Tell that to my performance last night. I didn't say it out loud, obviously. I wasn't that dumb. But I was performing, and pushing like this had worked for me throughout my career at Atwood.
Instead, I said, "Right, that makes sense." She was the co-captain, after all.
"So stop thinking like that, and start getting more rest. If that means you're not the one unlocking and locking the doors every day, then so be it. Nobody wants to see you crash."
"Right." As if.
"Okay." Saphira stretched, then gave the ball a small bounce. "I'm going to start doing a few drills. I want to see you sitting for at least the next half hour. At most you're allowed to do some stretching. I'm not having a rookie burn out on my watch, got it?"
"Yeah, for sure." I kept smiling. My face felt brittle making the expression. "I'll just gather up the balls."
"Nope. Sit or stretch. I'll gather them up. Go."
I gave a nod that I hoped wasn't too stiff, then started walking towards the benches that bordered the practice area. Behind me, I heard Saphira starting to gather up balls, the rack's wheel's squeaking as she dragged it around behind her.
Well that had been an unmitigated disaster. Maybe if I'd been a bit more on top of things when I got home last night, things would have gone better. I didn't regret going out - that had absolutely been the right call. The problem had been that I'd let my exhaustion get to me, and I hadn't pushed through it.
I took my seat, and forced myself to take a couple deep breaths. Okay. Okay. It was alright, it wasn't the end of the world. I tried to think back to the free throws, to Meg's advice for starting out. The Carter Method. You get your fuck ups out of the way early, and then dial it in. That was all this was. I'd shown my weakness. That was okay - it was early. Hell, it was the first week of the regular season.
Now to dial it in. I'd let my problems show during practice, where one of my captains could see them, because I hadn't worked hard enough the night before. So the way to correct for that was to not give myself those excuses. I had to keep the hard work going, and double down where I could.
I sat and watched Saphira finish gathering up the balls, and then start her own shooting drills. She looked calm and relaxed - a damn professional. All the while, I sat there feeling my aches and pains, and planning out how I could apply myself harder.