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talking heads and the village idiot
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skyrrhawkRegistered Posting Freak
“I know there’s a pretty big contingent that’s betting hard on Desjardins, not least of all fans of theirs from their Junior years. But that’s just not manifesting at the full professional level. I think this is a case of big flashy numbers that just don’t translate to the bigger game.”
“To be completely honest with you, Desjardins looks like a total shitshow. They’re not producing at nearly the rate they did with Quebec City. Makes you wonder if they ever will. And then there’s the whole matter of all those other rumors surrounding them and-” Click. Is there really a way to avoid all the judgements? The cacophony of the talking heads who haven’t set foot on the ice in a decade or maybe never did at all who think they know better than the players out there right now? Click. “-that rookie Syndicate defender, what’s his name, Leo Roze? I mean, come on, you have to think there’s some level of truth to those rumors, and if you think there’s truth to those rumors you have to think there’s some concerns about competitive integrity.” “I doubt that. Desjardins is ridiculously competitive, that much is clear, so I don’t think something like that would get in the way of them playing that game like they play any other. Clean and reasonable.” Click. A sigh and the sound of a body flopping heavily back onto a bed. A young hockey player staring at the ceiling of their apartment in Manhattan, the monthly rent more expensive than the monthly mortgage payment on the house they grew up in. A radio playing under the sounds of the city and the podcast they keep going back to, a muffled loop of some playlist of Noah Kahan and the Dropkick Murphys and Weezer, a towel discarded messily over top of the speaker. Click. “And besides, if Roze was a concern, wouldn’t you be worried about other players? What about Song? He’s bouncing between Quebec City and Montreal this season, and everybody knows how Desjardins is about goaltenders. If anything, Song’s a great example for why nobody should even be worrying about these rumors about Roze!” Click. Quiet. The radio has gone silent, the podcast turned off. The sounds of the city outside the window. In the entryway, there’s a spare pair of skates; on the kitchen counter, half-used rolls of tape. A team jacket embroidered in red tossed on the back of the couch, and one in blue hung up in the bedroom closet. Click. A different podcast. “It’s taken Desjardins way too long to adjust to the pace of the game at the SHL level. You have to wonder if it’s a failure on their part, or if it’s some kind of lack in the coaching or veteran leadership on that Rage squad. They’ve got an incredibly dedicated fanbase, and that fanbase deserves better than this from a team that they continue to show up for. Whether that’s the rookies or the vets is really up to them, but something has to change.” Click. “Is it me?” the player asks the ceiling, plaintive. “Am I not trying hard enough?” The ceiling, of course, does not answer. It cannot. Neither does the city speak up to offer any comfort. New York is a hard place to live. There’s a certain desperation that comes with failing to live up to expectations, whether your own or those of others. A drink, revenge insomnia, whatever else your vice might be, every single option becomes appealing when it feels like your life is out of your own control, and even what is in your control isn’t really. For all that you can be a professional in your field, an athlete at the top of your game, there’s just one sticking point: you’re young. Too young, maybe, to be experiencing this kind of pressure. Obsession, online. It’s interesting, how people hundreds of miles away do more picking apart of tape and statistics than the player themself. In another life, Celeste Desjardins is not a hockey player. Instead of being in New York City, clothed in red, they’re on a soccer pitch in the Midwest in a jersey of black and blue. Or they’re an artist, living in a shittier apartment further north, in Washington Heights or the Bronx, with three roommates and two auditions and a portfolio presentation scheduled every day. A college track star in maroon and gold, morning runs along the Mississippi instead of through Central Park. A coxswain in garnet, living at home to save money during school. A shortstop in blue, gold, and grey. In another life, they’ve never met Leo Roze, or Ryland Murphy, or Aksel Fiske, or John Peanut. In another life, they’ve never left the United States. There’s so many other ways this could have gone. But in this life they stare at the ceiling with a podcast playing, trying to figure out what they’re doing wrong. The problem is that every village idiot these days thinks he’s the town crier once he buys himself a cheap microphone and picks a subject. Sports are easy, the athletes low-hanging fruit. It’s easy to criticize from a couch when you’re seeing the whole of the game as it develops. An ice sheet’s shockingly large once you’re actually out on it. Click. “It’s already pretty clear that it’s not going to be Desjardins who wins it. I could be wrong, and it would be a pleasant surprise, because we are still so early in the season that it’s not impossible for them to get hot and make a case that can’t be ignored. But at this point it seems like a foregone conclusion that that won’t be the case. It’s unfortunate for Desjardins, and for a Manhattan Rage organization that used the second overall pick on a player that a lot of folks saw as being a potential franchise savior, but not every player manages to hit immediately in the SHL. It’s a big world out there, with a lot of competition, and when you play a game as incomplete as what Desjardins does, it’s a hell of a lot steeper of a mountain to climb. That’s not a bad thing. You want to be able to see development.” Click. Outside, the streetlamps are alight, the garbage piled on the curb for the early morning rounds. It’ll be gone by the time Celeste gets up for their run and breakfast. They’ll swing by the Italian bakery on 10th and 55th for a chai latte or a macchiato and some breakfast, a danish or a yogurt parfait or a croissant. They’ll get home and shoot off a text to someone an hour behind and probably still asleep before getting in the shower. A thirty minute cat nap after the shower, because it is so hard to function like this when you’re not naturally a morning person. Click. “-it’s just really nice to see, you know? Whether they’re living up to expectations or not doesn’t really matter to me. It’s somebody that I can look at and know that there’s opportunities in the future for more kids.” Click. Maybe it isn’t all bad. Dealing with the pressure from the fanbase and the media isn’t great, but it could be so much worse. The door creaks behind them as they leave, Sea Dogs cap pulled low over their eyes as armor against the battlefield that is New York City. At Madison Square Garden, life is kicking into gear for the day, right alongside the rest of the city. The ice is being resurfaced, skates sharpened, sticks rearranged on the rack. A futsal ball waits in a locker stall, perched on a top shelf, for its owner to arrive. A jump rope dangles out of a backpack pocket on the back of a hockey player on their way down Eighth Avenue. A phone rings. A podcast plays over wireless headphones. A journalist publishes an Athletic article about failure and success in the SHL. A fan posts complaints to Chirper. The world doesn’t stop. Celeste keeps moving forward. [1348 words] ![[Image: skyrrhawk.gif]](https://sig.grumpybumpers.com/host/skyrrhawk.gif) 
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