BORROWING THE GAME
By T. Matt Latrans

Late regulation is a magical time for me. With the playoffs approaching and the standings starting to set, I get to focus less on the big picture and more on the small, worrying only about final seeding. But the magic is what fills that empty space. With the draft twinkling in the distance, new names start to appear around the globe, new athletes looking at a chance to join the most elite furry basketball players in the world. And sometimes I get to travel to meet them.

Of course, travel is always a gamble. It’s a thrill when I get to visit France to meet Nickie Robespierre (Fox, G, SFW) or spend time in Buenos Aires interviewing Arutro de la Rosa (Duck, F, DAK). But sometimes I’m meeting up with Travis Pinfeather (Penguin, C) on a trip to Antarctica where I learned sometimes there’s never enough clothing layers. Still, the chance to see a little more of our globe is a special treat for a sports announcer who spends most of the year locked on the same continent.

On a late night in the office, poring over early draft notes, I spotted a name I remembered. Otis Najac. It’s hard to forget a name like that, which I had last seen about three years ago. The bat-eared fox was in his rookie year playing for Demi Basket Carribean (DBC), a furry basketball league centered on Hispaniola. And he was a machine, easily the best player on his club, potentially the best in the league. FBA scouts were watching him closely, but before the off-season he had vanished, and I never saw his name again. Until now.

That sounded like a good story to me, so I made arrangements to go meet Otis. That’s when I learned of the town of Carrefour, a bedroom community just outside the Haitian capital of Port-au-Prince. And when I figured out why he vanished. The first report had been written in December 2009. The earthquake hit in January of 2010.

Three years should be enough to rebuild a city, which is why I was heartbroken when the driver took me to a shantytown on the outskirts. Billions of dollars from around the world poured into Haiti when the earthquake destroyed over half of the capital, but it’s clear how the money was spent. As the taxi drove me from the airport and through Port-au-Prince, I could see the rebuilt structures and streets, the repainted facades, the fountains and artwork. The city had been saved by an outpouring of generosity to the poorest nation in the New World. But as I headed further West into Carrefour, I saw the rubble still piled by the roads, the buildings standing as empty shells, the thousands of homes destroyed. The money was generous, but even the altruistic want to see results. And with the world’s media focused on the capital—not to mention the politicians—little Carrefour remains a broken town.

The driver told me to watch out for rocks and glass as I stepped out of the car. Going bare-pawed is common among Haiti’s furries, so I suspect the warning was not over my lack of shoes but being a soft-pawed American. As I walked out among the burrows dug into the soil under flapping tarps and blankets, I felt thankful most could not see me. The sickening shame of living well twisted my stomach, making me even more conscious of how fat I am and how fortunate it is that I can be. When I saw the lone tall fox shooting baskets on a dirt lot over a ridge well across the tarps, I headed over quickly, desperate for something to distract me from my guilt.

Otis had been expecting me, and he stopped his practice to come shake paws. It was a shame he stopped. His shooting was gorgeous, his arc high and accurate, his stepback quick, his dribble move tight and controlled. The sheen on his game was professional, clearly honed by a coach drilling the style of play you get from playing athletes better than you. At six foot six, he’s got the height a coach would want, with long, slender limbs on a light 200 pound frame. He’s built for the game, but there was nothing about his body I hadn’t seen elsewhere.

What did surprise me was his clothing. I’m used to seeing pups decked out in their college gear, or accompanied by agents who have them dressed to the nines, in jerseys made from the most advanced fabrics. I’ve seen players come to me in simple white shirts before, but none with the stains and dirt on Otis’ garments, something a fur would only wear to an interview because he has to. His shorts were in better condition, but their sickly avocado color was impossible to envy. I did envy the bandages he had wrapped around his feet, leaving only his toes and heels bared. I had stepped on a dozen rocks on the walk over, two of them on the hardened dirt lot he was using for a practice court. The wrappings looked like a good idea in the absence of a pair of shoes.

We started an informal interview on that court. Otis had been a rookie for the Carrefour Conquérants, where in just a few months he became the team’s leading scorer. It was a huge start for the talented young fox, who had overcome poverty and social turmoil in the ugly politics of Haiti through the past two decades. When the earthquake hit, destroying the team’s facilities, the club’s managers joined the thousands of victims killed by the disaster. In a single day, the team vanished, unable to complete the season, leaving Otis without work at a time when so much of his world was rubble.

It was a tragic result for a player who has shown so much drive. He spoke of growing up practicing every day before and after school, of doing drills even when soldiers marched through town, of shooting hoops as he could hear the guns firing from the capital. Stories of determination are common among the athletes of the FBA, but the challenges Otis overcame were beyond those I usually heard. And while he told me how much passion for the game he held, questions rose in my head about why he hadn’t been able to find another team in the last three years, and just what drove him so hard.

“The sun going away,” Otis said, looking at the ridge behind him as the light faded. His English is quite good, but his accent very thick. He admitted having learned the language just over the last two years. I had a taxi waiting, but Otis invited me to stay a little longer at his burrow. And given the questions in my head, there was no way I could say no.

When I turned around, I was surprised to find four dozen bat-sized ears poking up over the ridge to the shantytown, dozens of fox pups watching, staring at the fat American visitor speaking with the village athlete. That wasn’t the only thing I had missed, though. When Otis put his ball away in his bag, he went to a bench by the court, where a bundle of fabric was lying. When he put his hand on the bundle and shook it gently, it rose, revealing a small, scrawny bat-eared vixen, waking up. Otis took her hand and helped her to her feet, taking her across the court. When we got to the ridge, he picked her up and put her little body on his strong back, carrying her as he climbed up the hill to the curious rows of ears above.

“Oh! Otis, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling ashamed that I hadn’t noticed his girlfriend sleeping on the bench there.

Otis shook his head. “No, no. Don’t be. Puri is very tired today. She needs sleep.”

“Do you need to take her home? I’ve got a cab waiting, I could have them drive her.”

“She live with me, Matt.”

And as we walked among the burrows toward his home, he explained to me she wasn’t his girlfriend. She was his twin sister.

Furries should never live like this. In the States, burrows are against the law, especially in earthquake-prone areas like California. They’re dangerous, they’re hard to maintain, and honestly, American furries find them insulting, their lack of sophistication giving weight to the human prejudice that we’re no better than animals. True, I’ve been in Buck Hopper’s (Rabbit, G, DAK) home which has an extensive underground layout, but Otis’ squalid, single room did not have a pool table, a 65” HDTV, or a built-in sauna.

“All I have is bugs,” Otis offered me, showing me a bowl of dried termites. My stomach turned both with disgust and sympathy. I’ve eaten insects before, and I know bugs are a major part of bat-ear cuisine. But even among the bat-ear friends I have in the states, they only eat bugs for cultural purposes. To see a healthy young man like Otis having to eat bugs is a guilty reminder of how easily we take privilege for granted.

Still, I ate a few, trying to pretend they were Doritos. Suddenly, cool ranch didn’t seem so bad.

Soon after, nothing in the world seemed so bad.

Puri and Otis were born together into a family that was poor, but loving. But where Otis was a tall, athletic, fit young man, Puri was born weak, sickly, crippled by dystrophy. Otis struggled with the details, but Puri found the strength to talk with me, despite her fatigue. She was born a runt, having barely survived her first year. Unlike most foxes, bat-ears live in extended families, and it was clear that her family gave Otis’ unlucky sister a chance to live.

“I made her weak,” Otis muttered, squirming in his seat, uncomfortable with the line of conversation. His sister was very patient, though, and sharp. She could tell what she was saying was upsetting her brother, and she was ginger with her words. I was confused by Otis’ claim, though, and asked what he meant. “I stole her strength,” he added. “I took it from her.”

Haiti is a mostly Catholic nation, but no church can erase the underlying culture of a land. Streaks of voodoo are twisted into Haiti’s prayers, coloring its sermons. Otis told me when he was a pup, a local priest said he had sinned in the womb, stealing his sister’s strength, leaving her weak. The priest said his only chance for salvation was to devote himself to his sister’s care and make sure she benefitted from the strength that was rightfully hers. It was a wretched thing to tell a boy, and I was horrified at hearing it. But I was more horrified that Otis believed it.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” I told him, my emotions running faster than my thoughts. “You had no way of changing anything—“

“Do you know every sin you make?” Otis snapped back at me. It was the first time his words had been sharp, and I could tell when he looked away he regretted saying them. But he had a point. I was quiet, letting him finish. “I don’t know what happen. All I know is my sister is weak. And I am strong. And it is not right.”

Otis looked at his feet, peeling the bandages to quell his thoughts. I tried to change the subject. “Where is your family now?” I asked Puri. Her eyes were very expressive, which is why I knew right away I shouldn’t have asked.

“They die in the quake,” Otis answered, looking up. “All of them.” He had a game in Jamaica that day and his sister had never been and so he invited her along. When the earthquake hit, they had no way of getting in touch with their family. When they returned they found the apartment building had collapsed and everyone crushed in the rubble.

Puri wiped at her eyes. Otis held her. He started to say something to me, but stopped himself. I excused myself as politely as I could and stood up, leaving for the impatient taxi driver outside.

It was hard to eat my breakfast the next morning, looking at the delicious meal the hotel had prepared, paid for by Furballer Magazine, more than I needed while so many nearby didn’t have enough. I spent most of the day writing, finding the courage to face Otis and Puri by late afternoon. When I came back to the shantytown, I brought snacks picked up from the hotel store. I should have known it wouldn’t be enough. As soon as I got out of the taxi, I was surrounded by pups yipping questions about the States, asking where I was from, why I was there, how many treats I had. Eventually I was convinced to give up all but one bag.

Then I saw Otis, his silhouette coming up over the ridge, his sister on his back. When I came closer, I could see how tired Otis was. He had been practicing all day, inspired by having an FBA reporter showing him attention. His foot wraps were dirty—bloody, even—and he panted hard, worn and exhausted. But he hid it, his face a scowl, masking the fatigue in his bones as he carried his sister on his back. Behind him, his sister frowned, looking ashamed at having to be carried up the ridge, of not having the strength to do it herself, yet knowing if she said anything it would only hurt her brother more. So they were silent, locked in a détente of concern, unable to scratch the thin scabs barely hiding the deep wounds below.

When we were in their home, Puri wanted to talk with me. Without Otis. Otis wouldn’t have it. He yelled and snapped, telling his sister there was nothing she could say he couldn’t hear. The louder he shouted the more we knew it wasn’t true. I tried to be diplomatic and tell him it was for the article, that it would sound better if I could say the conversation was one-on-one. He finally accepted and stormed out.

Puri soon cried. “He does everything for me,” she sobbed. “Everything. It was better when family was here, but now it’s all on him. And I know I’m holding him back.” She looked away, a moment of silence in the burrow. “He tells me I’ve never held him back. But I know I do.”

She explained how after the earthquake, Otis had received an offer to join a league in Europe. It was a great offer with decent money, but when the hospital was also destroyed in the earthquake, Puri’s condition worsened to the point of not being able to travel. And Otis refused to leave without her. The hospital eventually was rebuilt, and Puri had improved, but never to how she was before the quake. And by then, the European league was uncertain if they wanted the liability.

And that’s why the FBA was so important. Even a minimum contract with the FBA was enough to get Puri all the care she needed. They could even hire services with the money if she couldn’t travel. The FBA was the only league with the resources to give Otis what he wanted—what he needed—and that’s why he devoted these three years to getting noticed.

“If I was not sick, he could play,” Puri lamented. “He do so much for me. And I do so little for him.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s true at all, Puri.”

I still don’t think that.

When I stepped outside, Otis was pacing in the darkness, a circle of dirt around his feet. He looked up at me quickly. “Whatever she say, it not true!” he barked. That should have been funny to hear. He was too serious to be funny.

“Why did she say it then?” I asked him. He knew why. Brothers and sisters always do.

He looked at me, then up at the stars. He shook his head and turned away, unable to respond. Finally, he spoke. “This is all hers. This game. It hers. Not mine.”

“You developed it,” I reminded him. A sharp look told me I had to say more. “For her.”

Otis nodded. He looked down at his feet, then wiped at his eyes, struggling not to cry. “She get it back one day. When we done with this world. I give it back.”

That’s when I had to take off my glasses, no longer able to hold it back. As I wiped at my eyes and reached into my pocket, I remembered the snacks I had. I made a point of forgetting them.

“I know you will, Otis. I know you will,” I croaked, trying to sound a strong as my words. “And before that happens, you’re going to the FBA. And you’ll make life better for both of you.”

Otis looked up at me and struggled to smile. “You think?”

“I do. You’re driven. You’re inspired. You’ve got everything you need.”

Otis shook his head. “Not everything. I need her.”

I nodded back. “She’ll come. I’ve seen rookies bring girlfriends, parents, cousins, whole families with them. They’ll help you bring your sister. They’ll want you, Otis. They’ll want your skills.”

Otis looked down. “They her skills,” he said, a little smile on his muzzle. That was important to see. It told me that maybe he hadn’t quite beaten himself up entirely, that he knew deep down he had worked hard to get where he was. And he looked forward to what tomorrow would bring. Despite all the hardships he had faced, he had faith. And hope. And a sister who gave him more drive than I’d seen in another athlete’s eyes.

“They all her skills, Matt,” he told me as my taxi returned for the redeye back to California.

“I’m just borrowing them for a little while.”

--T.Matt.L

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My submission to the 2013 FBA Draft brought to life by the incredible  rosenthal, the joint efforts of  asterionblazing and  d.chestnut