Team Games and Candles - Appetizer
Treats of Picking for Teams
You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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“Oh marvelous. Good teeth, meaty neck. And look at those slick calves. Yes, I’ll take this one.”
The tourist chosen stepped to one side of the mildewy coliseum cellar. He joined three other tourists previously picked for the team. The flabby man inspecting and choosing them folded his arms with a golden-bracelet jangle, and glanced carelessly at his rival captain. In his prune-syrup voice, he went on, “Your turn. Shame you missed that catch. But, the market’s still ripe with good flesh.”
The rival captain - a muscled man with thick grey hair, shoulders lousy with moles, and a single-strap, laminated-parchment robe - glanced at his glamorous contemporary with contempt. He sized up the unpicked tourists. After a moment he jabbed a muscled finger at a boney tourist in sackcloth at the back. “You there, are you a warrior?” asked the old captain. The sackcloth tourist nodded. “Then join my team. Win your glory,” The sackcloth tourist stepped beside his new team.
Mr. Grey stood among the still-unchosen tourists. He looked past the captains, at the stone stairs leading from the sunken crypt. Woolen balls soaked in stagnant puddles near the base of the steps. A murky lime light filtered faintly from some upper opening of sky, and it gleamed off the rugged rectangular slabs. Along with it came a low, wet growl; like a gargling smoker. It reminded Mr. Grey of the dragon engines churning the cafeteria pool water, with greater enormity. He wondered for the dozenth time what cruel sport awaited them in the arena.
Mr. Grey returned to the picking. Oddly enough, though Mr. Grey had no stake in the tournament’s outcome, and though clueless to the contest’s nature, he found himself - when either team captain took their turn selecting - wanting to be chosen next. At the least, he wished not to be chosen last.
The corpulent captain shook his head at the other’s choice; the golden chain he wore slid across his glistening sternum. “I’ll tell you,” he began in an aside to his rival, “you won’t have a real team if you keep to such selecting. A good choice is like a fine cowsowhorse: thick about the trunk, big in the head, pliant.”
The older captain reached up, took a handful of the wide net draped overhead, tangled his fingers in its scratchy cords, and let his arm dangle. The net stretched; the torch behind it threw patchwork shadows over the unchosen. The older captain lifted a leg, hooked the bottom rung of a wooden stool on his toe, dragged the stool over the rough stone with a rattle and scrape, set his foot atop, and leaned creakily. He looked the part of grizzled captain; not of a tourist-prison tournament team, but of storied war galley, leaning with a hand on the rigging and a foot on the gunnels. He scanned the room with a cool eye: the prisoners, the rusted basins of egg-smelling washing water, the wool balls vainly trying to mop the pooling water.
With gravel, the older captain said, “It’s your pick.”
The plump captain laughed at his senior’s display; his golden earrings jangled. “So it is! Hmm, let me see. No, too small in the hands. And not this one. Just look at that forehead; skull thin as parchment. Ahhh, but see this fellow here. Skin like sandal leather! I’ll have him.”
The man’s fingers had stopped their roving over Tom. Tom looked sideways at Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey said softly, “He did choose you, Tom.”
Tom smiled as if it were no matter. He went to stand with the other burly members of his new group.
The gold-toting captain again jingled with mirth. “Another quality piece to my collection! You’ll be finished in tocks, if you keep to this lopsided farce.”
The other tightened his grip on the net, and narrowed his eyes. Spit flew from his lips as he pointed and said, “You’re a warrior. Get over here!”
The old captain’s finger had landed on Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey stepped from the group. He thought the old captain’s wiry team would probably prove less able in anything physical than the group of muscular, heavy men the gilded captain chose. But then, Mr. Grey knew nothing of the contest. He was just glad to have his picking done. He nearly stumbled over one of the wet wool balls as he joined his team.
At length, the paunchy captain chose another tourist of muscle. It came back to Mr. Grey’s captain. The old man had been looking over his team. His eyes had found those of Mr. Grey, and followed the gaze to the unchosen faces. Moving on that track, the old man’s eyes settled on the arms-crossed, sunflower-eye-robed shape of Honeydew. She tapped her foot in rapid splashing on the wet stone. The old captain wasted no time. “I’ll give that’un a chance at laurels,” he said, pointing to Honeydew.
Honeydew looked dubiously at the grizzled captain’s skinny team. Mr. Grey performed a not-quite-reassuring nod. She shrugged and joined them.
While the bulky captain made his next choice, Honeydew leaned in close to Mr. Grey. She said, “This works. You and I focus on hurting Tom. He’ll get to the infirmary first, and have time to grab his mallet.”
Mr. Grey said nothing. He glanced at Tom, and reached for the familiar casing of his ticker. Honeydew took his silence as agreement.
Pointed finger by pointed finger, the captains split the remaining tourists into two teams. All the while the close, monstrous gargle of the dragon engine built and built in Mr. Grey’s ears. He tried picturing the event. Perhaps they’d be riding a giant steam-fish, or swimming through artificial rapids?
When the patchwork shadows of the net fell on the last two tourists - a wrinkled octogenarian knitting a scarf, and a grimy Starharbor orphan - Mr. Grey’s captain turned to the other. He said, “You take ‘em. Both,” . He said it in a growl, while looking over his own team approvingly. It was an obvious attempt to spare someone’s being last-chosen.
“Trying to pass the low stock on me, eh?” asked the jingly captain. “Weaken my picked whole?”
“Every player’s a boon. Just take them.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Putting you at such a disadvantage. But… if you’re insisting.”
The octogenarian and orphan joined Tom on the beefy side. The teams were set. Immediately, Mr. Grey’s captain spun his forefinger through the air. Mr. Grey’s team filtered toward the lime lit stair and the gurgling dragon engine.
Tom suddenly spoke from the back. “No, I’m on Mr. Grey’s team,” Every face turned as one; turned to stare at Tom. He stepped boldly between the two groups.
Tom’s captain jiggled with cheer. “That won’t do my good fellow. Come, step back in line.” He reached a hand to Tom’s shoulder; Tom’s scowl stopped him short. The captain crossed his arms and pouted falsely. “This isn’t fair. I won’t have my team disadvantaged.”
Mr. Grey opened his mouth to say that ‘everything would be alright’, and to tell Tom that he should ‘rejoin his own team’, when the old captain’s mole-coated palm settled on Mr. Grey’s shoulder. “It’s alright lad,” he said. “The fishes picked the winner and the loser eons ago. Join your friend.” He gave Mr. Grey a light shove towards Tom.
Mr. Grey’s eyes searched for Honeydew’s. He tried - tried - filling them with a look of resigned apology. He caught the old captain’s eyes instead. He felt it indecorous to decline the well-intended gesture. He said, “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Grey joined Tom on the other team. His new captain laughed again, and said, “The more the merrier. Now can we pass all this pre-game drama?”
But as the old captain stomped once more to the stairs and the ominous gurgle, Honeydew stayed. Her impatience reached its limit. In a growl she asked, “Will someone please say what we’ve been picked for?”
The older captain dropped back down the first step, lifted one of the dripping woolen spheres from a murky puddle, tucked it in a grey-haired armpit, and answered, “Whirlpool Coliseum Dodgeball.”
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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