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FBA - Still Got Work To Do
by Timber
Musician
12 years ago
A story from Clifford's past, growing up in a rough neighborhood out in East Portland.Tears were streaming down his face. His clothing was freshly caked in mud. He could taste blood in his mouth. And then came the blunt trauma of a fist to his left eye.
It knocked him down, left him winded and dizzy, unable to return to his feet so he could stand up to his tormentors.
"Now he gonna have a dark spot around both eyes!" Came a sneering, prideful voice that could only belong to Tabby Joe. It was shortly followed by riotous laughter from the other boys gathered around him in a semi-circle.
Tabby and his gang had cornered Clifford on his way home. The older kid who usually walked Clifford home from school was sick today, and Tabby and co. had caught wind of it. And thus, the group of rambunctious sixth grade children had leaped at the opportunity to rough up the younger canine.
"Yo, Petie, go through his backpack. Let's find those dumb doodles he always be drawin'," came Tabby's voice again.
"Th-they're not dumb!" Clifford protested weakly, prompting Tabby to shove him back down into the mud.
"Shut up, mutt," the feline ordered, before grinning over his shoulder at his flunkies. One of the other children, Pete the bear, had dug through Clifford's backpack and pulled out a small folder of childish drawings; some of Clifford's favorite cartoon characters, doodled crudely by the mutt himself. The children then proceeded to point and laugh at the drawings, while Pete put them on display one by one, all for the sake of humiliating Clifford.
"You and your stupid little kid shows," Tabby said with a smirk, swaying his tail behind himself.
"Th-they're not s-stupid! C-cartoons are for b-big kids too! Th-they're for everyone!" Clifford exclaimed as he fought back more tears, on his hands and knees in the mud, too weak to stand back up.
"Yeah? Here's what I think of your dumb cartoons," Tabby said, snatching the drawings away from Pete, before crumpling them up and throwing them down in the mud before Clifford's eyes, stomping on them and smearing mud all over them.
"Stop it!" Clifford cried out. He reached out in a desperate attempt to snatch the drawings away from Tabby, only to have the feline kick him directly in the nose, knocking him backwards, and nearly knocking him unconscious. His vision blurred, his hearing was overpowered by a loud ringing, and his head became foggy.
His senses returned to him sometime later. Tabby and his gang had left, leaving the mutt to stew in the mud. His clothing and fur were saturated with the mud now, and the blood running from his nose and lips had solidified as well, leaving a trail of crimson among the poor mutt's muddied golden fur. Sniffling, sobbing, and trying not to cry anymore, Clifford slowly sat up, to be greeted by the sight of his ruined drawings; crumpled up and soaked with mud, thanks to Tabby's cruel actions.
Taking a deep breath, Clifford gathered his belongings, including the destroyed drawings, even though they were indecipherable and held no value anymore. He lifted himself up out of the mud puddle, and dragged himself home.
On his way home, the tears ran dry, and the pain subsided; though the damage to his confidence remained strong, and would certainly last. Clifford hated those kids; why did they always have to be so mean? These were the same children who ran the pickup basketball games during recess, but they'd never allow Clifford to play with them, saying that he wasn't good enough, and that they didn't need losers in their games. And now their cruelty off the court had pushed the pup to his limit.
Finally, he reached the driveway of his parent's house. Both his parents were at their crummy jobs, so neither of them would be home for at least three more hours, meaning the pup had no one to comfort him. His clothing was still caked with mud, and mom never liked it when he tracked mud into the house. The pup sighed, dropping his backpack on the lawn; he'd just wait for them to get home.
Drying his nose one final time, his eyes drifted over to the basketball hoop that dad had built him as an early birthday present. Clifford had left his basketball out on the lawn this morning by mistake; luckily nobody had stolen it. With trembling hands, the pup slowly picked up the ball, gently rubbing over its rubbery texture. Taking a deep breath, he walked in front of the hoop, and pulled up to take a shot.
It wasn't even close. The ball hit nothing but air, ricocheting off the metal garage door beneath the hoop. Frustrated, Clifford retrieved the loose ball, and promptly took another shot.
Clang! Off the rim, which wobbled and jarred the ball loose, once more forcing Clifford to retrieve his poor shot.
"I...I'm gonna get good at basketball," the pup proclaimed, taking another shot.
Clang, clang! The shot bounced off the back off the rim, and then off the front, once more becoming a loose ball the pup would have to chase. His frustration grew.
"I'm gonna get so good, nobody can pick on me anymore!" he exclaimed, before he took another shot.
It spiraled around the interior of the rim once, before rolling out to once more confirm a missed shot. Clifford ran at the ball as it landed, his frustration mounting and becoming blind anger. He was angry at Tabby Joe and the big kids for picking on him, angry that his parents weren't home to comfort him, and angry at himself for being so weak.
"Nobody will ever be able to tell me I'm not good enough ever again!" the pup yelled at the top of his lungs, taking the ball into his hands, squeezing it tight and throwing it over his head with reckless abandon, not even caring if it hit the rim at all.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
The ball landed beneath the basket, bouncing a few times before losing its velocity. It rolled slightly to the side, as Clifford relived past memories.
That day was 11 years ago, but it still felt like yesterday.
Clifford absently stared at the old basketball hoop above his garage, still lost in thought. He was standing exactly where his younger self had made that grand proclamation. Time hadn't been kind to the structure; the wood on the garage had corroded, the color of the paint had faded and peeled. The net was in tatters. He'd reminded his parents to try and replace it before he arrived home for the summer, but apparently they hadn't gotten around to it.
Clifford calmly walked over to where the ball had landed, picked it up, and dribbled out to where the three point line would be, before turning around and pulling up for the long shot.
Swish. Once more, nothing but net; though given the worn out state of the net, the sound of the swish was more of an unsatisfying whiff.
Clifford chuckled, his thoughts returning to that day. Back then, he was a frustrated young child who wanted to earn the respect of his schoolmates. Today, he was a young adult who had wrapped up a successful college basketball career earlier in the year. Then he was invited to the official FBA combine, where he was named one of the top 24 FBA draft candidates of 2014. Only a day later, and all he could think of was that angry young child who wanted to prove everyone wrong. Though his anger had left him years ago, Clifford still had that same fire inside of him. Already some folks in the media were saying that Clifford didn't deserve his spot in the top 24, that there were far more worthy point guards in the draft class. One draftnik went so far as to say, "Even with the top 24 nod, I wouldn't be surprised to see Clifford go undrafted." And so long as that memory of his childhood self remained fresh in his mind, the memory of that pup announcing that he'd never let anyone tell him he wasn't good enough ever again: Clifford would never lose his motivation to silence the doubt.
"We still got work to do, kiddo. But we're gettin' there," the mutt whispered under his breath, before pulling up another shot.
Swish.
It knocked him down, left him winded and dizzy, unable to return to his feet so he could stand up to his tormentors.
"Now he gonna have a dark spot around both eyes!" Came a sneering, prideful voice that could only belong to Tabby Joe. It was shortly followed by riotous laughter from the other boys gathered around him in a semi-circle.
Tabby and his gang had cornered Clifford on his way home. The older kid who usually walked Clifford home from school was sick today, and Tabby and co. had caught wind of it. And thus, the group of rambunctious sixth grade children had leaped at the opportunity to rough up the younger canine.
"Yo, Petie, go through his backpack. Let's find those dumb doodles he always be drawin'," came Tabby's voice again.
"Th-they're not dumb!" Clifford protested weakly, prompting Tabby to shove him back down into the mud.
"Shut up, mutt," the feline ordered, before grinning over his shoulder at his flunkies. One of the other children, Pete the bear, had dug through Clifford's backpack and pulled out a small folder of childish drawings; some of Clifford's favorite cartoon characters, doodled crudely by the mutt himself. The children then proceeded to point and laugh at the drawings, while Pete put them on display one by one, all for the sake of humiliating Clifford.
"You and your stupid little kid shows," Tabby said with a smirk, swaying his tail behind himself.
"Th-they're not s-stupid! C-cartoons are for b-big kids too! Th-they're for everyone!" Clifford exclaimed as he fought back more tears, on his hands and knees in the mud, too weak to stand back up.
"Yeah? Here's what I think of your dumb cartoons," Tabby said, snatching the drawings away from Pete, before crumpling them up and throwing them down in the mud before Clifford's eyes, stomping on them and smearing mud all over them.
"Stop it!" Clifford cried out. He reached out in a desperate attempt to snatch the drawings away from Tabby, only to have the feline kick him directly in the nose, knocking him backwards, and nearly knocking him unconscious. His vision blurred, his hearing was overpowered by a loud ringing, and his head became foggy.
His senses returned to him sometime later. Tabby and his gang had left, leaving the mutt to stew in the mud. His clothing and fur were saturated with the mud now, and the blood running from his nose and lips had solidified as well, leaving a trail of crimson among the poor mutt's muddied golden fur. Sniffling, sobbing, and trying not to cry anymore, Clifford slowly sat up, to be greeted by the sight of his ruined drawings; crumpled up and soaked with mud, thanks to Tabby's cruel actions.
Taking a deep breath, Clifford gathered his belongings, including the destroyed drawings, even though they were indecipherable and held no value anymore. He lifted himself up out of the mud puddle, and dragged himself home.
On his way home, the tears ran dry, and the pain subsided; though the damage to his confidence remained strong, and would certainly last. Clifford hated those kids; why did they always have to be so mean? These were the same children who ran the pickup basketball games during recess, but they'd never allow Clifford to play with them, saying that he wasn't good enough, and that they didn't need losers in their games. And now their cruelty off the court had pushed the pup to his limit.
Finally, he reached the driveway of his parent's house. Both his parents were at their crummy jobs, so neither of them would be home for at least three more hours, meaning the pup had no one to comfort him. His clothing was still caked with mud, and mom never liked it when he tracked mud into the house. The pup sighed, dropping his backpack on the lawn; he'd just wait for them to get home.
Drying his nose one final time, his eyes drifted over to the basketball hoop that dad had built him as an early birthday present. Clifford had left his basketball out on the lawn this morning by mistake; luckily nobody had stolen it. With trembling hands, the pup slowly picked up the ball, gently rubbing over its rubbery texture. Taking a deep breath, he walked in front of the hoop, and pulled up to take a shot.
It wasn't even close. The ball hit nothing but air, ricocheting off the metal garage door beneath the hoop. Frustrated, Clifford retrieved the loose ball, and promptly took another shot.
Clang! Off the rim, which wobbled and jarred the ball loose, once more forcing Clifford to retrieve his poor shot.
"I...I'm gonna get good at basketball," the pup proclaimed, taking another shot.
Clang, clang! The shot bounced off the back off the rim, and then off the front, once more becoming a loose ball the pup would have to chase. His frustration grew.
"I'm gonna get so good, nobody can pick on me anymore!" he exclaimed, before he took another shot.
It spiraled around the interior of the rim once, before rolling out to once more confirm a missed shot. Clifford ran at the ball as it landed, his frustration mounting and becoming blind anger. He was angry at Tabby Joe and the big kids for picking on him, angry that his parents weren't home to comfort him, and angry at himself for being so weak.
"Nobody will ever be able to tell me I'm not good enough ever again!" the pup yelled at the top of his lungs, taking the ball into his hands, squeezing it tight and throwing it over his head with reckless abandon, not even caring if it hit the rim at all.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
The ball landed beneath the basket, bouncing a few times before losing its velocity. It rolled slightly to the side, as Clifford relived past memories.
That day was 11 years ago, but it still felt like yesterday.
Clifford absently stared at the old basketball hoop above his garage, still lost in thought. He was standing exactly where his younger self had made that grand proclamation. Time hadn't been kind to the structure; the wood on the garage had corroded, the color of the paint had faded and peeled. The net was in tatters. He'd reminded his parents to try and replace it before he arrived home for the summer, but apparently they hadn't gotten around to it.
Clifford calmly walked over to where the ball had landed, picked it up, and dribbled out to where the three point line would be, before turning around and pulling up for the long shot.
Swish. Once more, nothing but net; though given the worn out state of the net, the sound of the swish was more of an unsatisfying whiff.
Clifford chuckled, his thoughts returning to that day. Back then, he was a frustrated young child who wanted to earn the respect of his schoolmates. Today, he was a young adult who had wrapped up a successful college basketball career earlier in the year. Then he was invited to the official FBA combine, where he was named one of the top 24 FBA draft candidates of 2014. Only a day later, and all he could think of was that angry young child who wanted to prove everyone wrong. Though his anger had left him years ago, Clifford still had that same fire inside of him. Already some folks in the media were saying that Clifford didn't deserve his spot in the top 24, that there were far more worthy point guards in the draft class. One draftnik went so far as to say, "Even with the top 24 nod, I wouldn't be surprised to see Clifford go undrafted." And so long as that memory of his childhood self remained fresh in his mind, the memory of that pup announcing that he'd never let anyone tell him he wasn't good enough ever again: Clifford would never lose his motivation to silence the doubt.
"We still got work to do, kiddo. But we're gettin' there," the mutt whispered under his breath, before pulling up another shot.
Swish.
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~arterian21
Lovely story Timber. I love'd this look into Cliff's past.
