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This is my very first FBA story!
Whether you know it or not, I am the head coach for the FBA's Dakota Bikers this season - which is pretty damn cool. But we haven't done a whole lot to "promote", per se. So I wrote a story!
This is supposed to explain the reasoning behind letting go of a veteran player (William Keen) and signing a rookie (Keitaro Kurosaki). It's also supposed to introduce some personality to the otherwise unknown head coach, Bud Boorman.
This team has some pretty cool historic significance to it, in terms of the FBA universe. If you get a chance, search FA for "Dakota Bikers" and dive into the comic series that went down a couple years ago. It's pretty cool!
Players are owned by their respective characters.
The FBA is a collaborative project created by
buckhopper and currently headed by 
steviemaxwell
Welcome to Sturgis, South Dakota. It’s about seven o’clock at night on a Tuesday evening. Lights are off in the hallway, with everyone having left hours ago, save for the custodial crew stopping by each office to empty out the bins. The smell of the coffee that had long since cooled off was the sole aroma left in the room. In all, it was a typical evening spent late at the office for Dakota Bikers head coach Bud Boorman - the newest head coach in the FBA. The “noobie”. The “local” guy, as he was known. Everyone who worked and played in Dakota had come from hundreds or thousands of miles away to work or play there. It was Bud, this local buffalo of medium size and a less-than-affectionate smile, who had found himself suddenly dropped into a major franchise coaching role. The middle-aged bison, divorced without children, who virtually nobody had heard of before he got that weird phone call on some idle Tuesday to “meet me at the Bikers head office tomorrow at noon”; the leader of the black and silver. It was he who had to make the insufferable decision to let William Keen walk away.
Well, not “let” – more like “force”. Sports organizations, after all, are never so clear-cut. The media didn’t know any better, and assumed it was Keen’s choice.
The news had not come as a surprise to the old pup. William had spent a good amount of time warming the bench through the first half of the season. It was a neglecting feeling. Every time Bud looked over to the bench, he saw a wolf watching the game with vacant eyes. Sure, he wanted to be out there playing – every basketball player in the game wants time on the court – maybe he was actually watching the plays. And the coach knew William well enough to know what was going on in his mind. But it was a detached kind of spirit that the coach saw each time. He had seen that look before. He had seen other players, players from Bud’s team’s past, who had that same kind of desolation painted on their faces. He was a player who was losing the game before he had even set footpaw on the court… and so he needed to let him go.
But that didn’t mean he took the news easy. A disappointed and defeated personality, Mr. Keen – the same Keen who had only years earlier been a proud member of the Dawg Pack of Tallahassee Typhoons fame - walked out of that office willingly, but with his tail between his legs. It was bad news for the Bikers, who were now down to fourteen players, and they were losing games.
Mulling over the events from the day, it was then he remembered. It was February. God damn it. It was Bud’s least favorite month of the year.
It was a curse. The “February Slump”, he called it. Every time February rolled around, the losses would start rolling in right after. His best player would get injured, or an off-the-court conflict would arise – somebody would sneak in after-hours and record footage of their practices. He remembered 2002, when one of his best point guards fell ill for the entire month, and the team didn’t win a single game as a result. A tumultuous college and high school coaching career were painful notches in Bud’s coaching belt up to this point, and somehow… it wasn’t something that anybody else knew about him, or had figured out about him. It wasn’t a thing that the media had dug up from his past. No, it was a personal thing. The bison simply knew that February was bad luck, and so he never brought it up to anyone in fear of stirring up trouble.
In short, it was not a good sign to be looking to sign a new player to the team in February.
For Bud, still being at work at seven o’clock usually meant a lot of paper work had been dumped on his desk by the secretary. In the year 2015, when most staff and players were texting with their phones or taking in emails, Bud preferred paper and print. It was a physical mark that showed him how much work needed to be done. And there was much to be done - that was exactly the case for Bud on this frigid evening. He did admit that prospecting for new talent was enjoyable. So many young faces with plenty of accolades and credits to their names – he and the general manager had spent most of the day pouring over the long list of candidates, but ‘sir Bracy’ had long since trekked home to take care of his kids.
“Coach” didn’t have anything to go home to. There was very little going on in Sturgis at this time of the year, so he wouldn’t be heading to any bars on Thursday. Oh, and – you know – he was kind of a local celebrity… and everyone had their own opinion on “how the Bikers should be coached!” So he figured it was just as well to stay late and work on this alone.
The bison yawned. Stuck brewing over a few of the candidates, he picked up the phone and attempted to call Bracy, but it went directly to voicemail. The donkey’s goofy voice bounced off the office walls:
“You’ve reached Ben! You know who I am, I guess – okay? But you know… this is a voicemail, not the real me . So that means you… yes, you! ‘Ya gotta leave a message and stuff. I’ll try calling you within approximately fourty-five to fifty minutes of this call reaching my phone. Yeah! Those are my favorite numbers. Deal with it. Post script – I’m the general manager of the Bikers. So, I guess… I guess that’s it. Do your thing. Arrivederci or – wait, no that’s the wrong one. Okay whatever. Now where’s the -”
“It’s Bud. Still looking through the candidates. Got a few favorites. Call me.”
Tired and exhausted, he strolled by the gym to see if there were any stragglers practicing for tomorrow’s game. But nope. Bud knew many of the players had their own personal gyms. Redfield had installed a half-court in his home shortly after deciding to stay in Sturgis, so he almost never stayed at Sofawolf during afterhours anymore. The rookies were likely exhausted from today’s practice, too, and were sleeping it off.
“That’s what I should do,” the bison said to himself aloud, and so he took the keys off the door and headed back to his private escape just outside the city.
*Thursday*
Dakota vs. Seattle
3rd Quarter
“Sickstra up now… covered by Naranjo, the cat looking to the left – throws it over to Brylee, now. Brylee, back to Sickstra, who’s taking it up the key and …”
Bud was intent on winning this one, but it was at the Seattle Summit’s brand-spanking-new stadium – bigger and better than Sofawolf, even. Across the court, he could see “The Foxes”. In many circles, that’s how they were known now, unbeknownst to them. Almost like tunnel vision, the elder Turner – arms crossed – sitting behind the player’s bench, watching Coach Sherman motion to his left. She didn’t really have any business being courtside…
“Stolen by Turner! The firefox, turning back up-court, gets by Thal and…”
Incoming migraine. He shouted for a change in their defensive formation but it was too late, the young fox taking it most of the way back and dropping the easy layup. Great, ten points behind.
And his team can’t even block a rookie.
TIME OUT!
It was Mongoste, Malone, Sickstra, Brylee and Thal who came running over from the court. The big aurochs was short on breath. “Time to give the big guy a break,” the coach thought.
“Okay. Whitelatch in for Thal. And Sickstra, keep in the three spot but you are gonna trade in for Sekforde at the four at the next time. Look for Dylan to get back in at the beginning of Q-4. And then I need you to come through, Malone! No more distractions! Stop checking out the goods and get your head screwed back on. Now GO.”
The kangaroo was livid for getting the blame, but he kept his composure. Ryan slowly turned away back to the court, as the coach looked on. He smiled. It was another mind game. Sometimes he would bench him and not tell him how long he’d be there – other times he’d design plays to get the ball out of his hands. He had to play games with Ryan - he didn’t have the time to refute. But this time, he knew he could get through to Malone if he pissed him off like this. Being new to coaching in the FBA, Bud had to get creative to motivate the untrusting veteran.
“Malone for two!”
“Redfield with the layup…”
“Malone again, for two.”
A glare, and a wink. The kangaroo was back. Perfect – just as the 3rd quarter came to a close, Dakota was on the move to take this over.
In the fourth quarter of games, Bud rarely ever played his bench guys and pushed the starters to their extremes. He was used to playing from behind, so this challenge was a good one for the team and for his style.
“Malone, for two.”
“Whitelatch, for two.”
A sudden foul from the feathery hands of Jamie Velazquez, a swift free-throw point from Catherine DeMille, and the Summit found themselves tied with Dakota. There were only a few minutes remaining in the game. Nerves rarely set in, but this was a special occasion. He looked over again to The Foxes – was it just him, or was Vicki staring him down?
“Brylee, for two!”
“EVANNN MARSHALLL, for two!”
One minute remaining.
Malone takes the inbound pass up court, and passes to the right to DeMille, who gets swallowed up immediately by Marshall, so she sends it back to Malone.
God damn it, they’re not following the play setup already…
Fourty seconds left.
Malone, to Brylee, who stops mid-cycle to find an open lane, but is stopped short by Turner. He sends the ball to Redfield – he’s heavily guarded, as usual, so he turns to his right and passes to Malone – who sends it to Whitelatch. Cass turns around…
… and bam. Quvianuq. Damn Quvianuq.
The ball tumbles loose onto the hardwood floor. The crowd is going wild.
Twenty seconds left.
Malone’s back on the right side, but Whitelatch isn’t following up. Redfield’s double-covering and playing out of position. Bud’s eyes go wide.
The firefox passes to Marshall.
The coach is shouting. He doesn’t even know what he’s shouting.
Up goes the ball…
…
“EVANNNNN…. Mmmssshhhmmmm”
The bison covered his ears mid-shout and lurched over in disgust. He didn’t want to hear or see the excitement. He didn’t really want to see Malone’s attempt to half-court the ball in as the buzzer ran out of time. Seattle had won by one point, and it was because he had taken his biggest guy off the court again.
Bud met mid-court for the casual handshake with Coach Sherman. The guy was literally half his size, so it was always like bending over to shake a child’s hand. And then Bud high-tailed it off the court… he hated giving the one-point loss pep-talks. More importantly, though, as the after-effects of what just occurred settled into his mind…
The February Slump.
God damn! Instantly his head started to throb. Why did he have to think about that now, right before he was supposed to rally up his team and get over this latest behemoth of a loss? He could do just about any kind of speech – but not with that in the back of his mind. Maybe he should just lay it out there for the team – maybe bottling this ‘curse’ up was what brewed this bad karma in the first place. Would anybody take it to heart? Would anybody truly listen to his words, and understand this made-up curse he carried? Learn from the mistakes? Treat him with respect??
The leaders of the team were letting him down in such an insecure way, that he didn’t know how to handle the situation any more. It wasn’t like the Taproots and Nina Lime – where it seemed like everyone followed suit. Or like Hirvonen on the Spectrums. Even that relatively new guy – what was his name? Barbie Shnazz or something like that? The big dressy shark?
And it was then, while he was walking to the locker room, that he suddenly recalled one of the candidates he had reviewed. It was of a young shark living and playing in the minor leagues somewhere in Asia. He remembered it had included a short essay that reveled over the kid’s drive and determination. Despite not being drafted, he reportedly trained and played as if he was on an FBA team nonetheless. The skill sets weren’t completely there yet, but the work ethic and loyalty of this young shark was astronomical. It was the kid they needed during a down time like this.
Cell phone out. Speed-dialing Bracy… the donkey picked up this time.
“Boorman! How do you explain this one?”
“Never mind that. Look, I know – ”
“… never MIND that?? Just forget this loss? Are you insane??”
“Hold on!” the bison shouted into the phone. “I know the guy we need.”
“…”
“Ben?”
“Wh - okay. Get me the name and I’ll handle the rest.”
*Friday*
Washington State International Airport
He was ecstatic, but entirely exhausted, by the time he found himself landing in the Seattle airport. For him, it was later the next day. Bud had forgotten of the struggles that came with signing an international player. Additionally, signing “another shark” to Dakota, nonetheless, may not prove too popular after last year’s debacle. But it took the previous evening’s loss to remind him about how important a guy like this would be to a team like that – one that, perhaps, would kick the slump.
The slump.
How was this going to work again, exactly? The poor kid is just a rookie. But he had read the reports a few more times before finally giving Ben the thumbs up to sign the guy. It kind of felt like vindication to any doubters in the media. His first rookie signing! A rookie who had been overlooked in the draft was getting his chance.
The bison intercepted the young shark in the security area of the airport. The fresh-faced aquatic looked better than he imagined. He had nothing with him but a backpack. Motioning for the limo driver to put down the “Kurosaki” sign, Bud reached out his hooved hand to shake. Kurosaki opted to bow instead.
“Thank you for this opportunity. Are you the Coach?”
The coach couldn’t help but smile at the politeness.
“Our pleasure, Keitaro. And yes. We are happy to see you here.”
END
Whether you know it or not, I am the head coach for the FBA's Dakota Bikers this season - which is pretty damn cool. But we haven't done a whole lot to "promote", per se. So I wrote a story!
This is supposed to explain the reasoning behind letting go of a veteran player (William Keen) and signing a rookie (Keitaro Kurosaki). It's also supposed to introduce some personality to the otherwise unknown head coach, Bud Boorman.
This team has some pretty cool historic significance to it, in terms of the FBA universe. If you get a chance, search FA for "Dakota Bikers" and dive into the comic series that went down a couple years ago. It's pretty cool!
Players are owned by their respective characters.
The FBA is a collaborative project created by
buckhopper and currently headed by 
steviemaxwellWelcome to Sturgis, South Dakota. It’s about seven o’clock at night on a Tuesday evening. Lights are off in the hallway, with everyone having left hours ago, save for the custodial crew stopping by each office to empty out the bins. The smell of the coffee that had long since cooled off was the sole aroma left in the room. In all, it was a typical evening spent late at the office for Dakota Bikers head coach Bud Boorman - the newest head coach in the FBA. The “noobie”. The “local” guy, as he was known. Everyone who worked and played in Dakota had come from hundreds or thousands of miles away to work or play there. It was Bud, this local buffalo of medium size and a less-than-affectionate smile, who had found himself suddenly dropped into a major franchise coaching role. The middle-aged bison, divorced without children, who virtually nobody had heard of before he got that weird phone call on some idle Tuesday to “meet me at the Bikers head office tomorrow at noon”; the leader of the black and silver. It was he who had to make the insufferable decision to let William Keen walk away.
Well, not “let” – more like “force”. Sports organizations, after all, are never so clear-cut. The media didn’t know any better, and assumed it was Keen’s choice.
The news had not come as a surprise to the old pup. William had spent a good amount of time warming the bench through the first half of the season. It was a neglecting feeling. Every time Bud looked over to the bench, he saw a wolf watching the game with vacant eyes. Sure, he wanted to be out there playing – every basketball player in the game wants time on the court – maybe he was actually watching the plays. And the coach knew William well enough to know what was going on in his mind. But it was a detached kind of spirit that the coach saw each time. He had seen that look before. He had seen other players, players from Bud’s team’s past, who had that same kind of desolation painted on their faces. He was a player who was losing the game before he had even set footpaw on the court… and so he needed to let him go.
But that didn’t mean he took the news easy. A disappointed and defeated personality, Mr. Keen – the same Keen who had only years earlier been a proud member of the Dawg Pack of Tallahassee Typhoons fame - walked out of that office willingly, but with his tail between his legs. It was bad news for the Bikers, who were now down to fourteen players, and they were losing games.
Mulling over the events from the day, it was then he remembered. It was February. God damn it. It was Bud’s least favorite month of the year.
It was a curse. The “February Slump”, he called it. Every time February rolled around, the losses would start rolling in right after. His best player would get injured, or an off-the-court conflict would arise – somebody would sneak in after-hours and record footage of their practices. He remembered 2002, when one of his best point guards fell ill for the entire month, and the team didn’t win a single game as a result. A tumultuous college and high school coaching career were painful notches in Bud’s coaching belt up to this point, and somehow… it wasn’t something that anybody else knew about him, or had figured out about him. It wasn’t a thing that the media had dug up from his past. No, it was a personal thing. The bison simply knew that February was bad luck, and so he never brought it up to anyone in fear of stirring up trouble.
In short, it was not a good sign to be looking to sign a new player to the team in February.
For Bud, still being at work at seven o’clock usually meant a lot of paper work had been dumped on his desk by the secretary. In the year 2015, when most staff and players were texting with their phones or taking in emails, Bud preferred paper and print. It was a physical mark that showed him how much work needed to be done. And there was much to be done - that was exactly the case for Bud on this frigid evening. He did admit that prospecting for new talent was enjoyable. So many young faces with plenty of accolades and credits to their names – he and the general manager had spent most of the day pouring over the long list of candidates, but ‘sir Bracy’ had long since trekked home to take care of his kids.
“Coach” didn’t have anything to go home to. There was very little going on in Sturgis at this time of the year, so he wouldn’t be heading to any bars on Thursday. Oh, and – you know – he was kind of a local celebrity… and everyone had their own opinion on “how the Bikers should be coached!” So he figured it was just as well to stay late and work on this alone.
The bison yawned. Stuck brewing over a few of the candidates, he picked up the phone and attempted to call Bracy, but it went directly to voicemail. The donkey’s goofy voice bounced off the office walls:
“You’ve reached Ben! You know who I am, I guess – okay? But you know… this is a voicemail, not the real me . So that means you… yes, you! ‘Ya gotta leave a message and stuff. I’ll try calling you within approximately fourty-five to fifty minutes of this call reaching my phone. Yeah! Those are my favorite numbers. Deal with it. Post script – I’m the general manager of the Bikers. So, I guess… I guess that’s it. Do your thing. Arrivederci or – wait, no that’s the wrong one. Okay whatever. Now where’s the -”
“It’s Bud. Still looking through the candidates. Got a few favorites. Call me.”
Tired and exhausted, he strolled by the gym to see if there were any stragglers practicing for tomorrow’s game. But nope. Bud knew many of the players had their own personal gyms. Redfield had installed a half-court in his home shortly after deciding to stay in Sturgis, so he almost never stayed at Sofawolf during afterhours anymore. The rookies were likely exhausted from today’s practice, too, and were sleeping it off.
“That’s what I should do,” the bison said to himself aloud, and so he took the keys off the door and headed back to his private escape just outside the city.
*Thursday*
Dakota vs. Seattle
3rd Quarter
“Sickstra up now… covered by Naranjo, the cat looking to the left – throws it over to Brylee, now. Brylee, back to Sickstra, who’s taking it up the key and …”
Bud was intent on winning this one, but it was at the Seattle Summit’s brand-spanking-new stadium – bigger and better than Sofawolf, even. Across the court, he could see “The Foxes”. In many circles, that’s how they were known now, unbeknownst to them. Almost like tunnel vision, the elder Turner – arms crossed – sitting behind the player’s bench, watching Coach Sherman motion to his left. She didn’t really have any business being courtside…
“Stolen by Turner! The firefox, turning back up-court, gets by Thal and…”
Incoming migraine. He shouted for a change in their defensive formation but it was too late, the young fox taking it most of the way back and dropping the easy layup. Great, ten points behind.
And his team can’t even block a rookie.
TIME OUT!
It was Mongoste, Malone, Sickstra, Brylee and Thal who came running over from the court. The big aurochs was short on breath. “Time to give the big guy a break,” the coach thought.
“Okay. Whitelatch in for Thal. And Sickstra, keep in the three spot but you are gonna trade in for Sekforde at the four at the next time. Look for Dylan to get back in at the beginning of Q-4. And then I need you to come through, Malone! No more distractions! Stop checking out the goods and get your head screwed back on. Now GO.”
The kangaroo was livid for getting the blame, but he kept his composure. Ryan slowly turned away back to the court, as the coach looked on. He smiled. It was another mind game. Sometimes he would bench him and not tell him how long he’d be there – other times he’d design plays to get the ball out of his hands. He had to play games with Ryan - he didn’t have the time to refute. But this time, he knew he could get through to Malone if he pissed him off like this. Being new to coaching in the FBA, Bud had to get creative to motivate the untrusting veteran.
“Malone for two!”
“Redfield with the layup…”
“Malone again, for two.”
A glare, and a wink. The kangaroo was back. Perfect – just as the 3rd quarter came to a close, Dakota was on the move to take this over.
In the fourth quarter of games, Bud rarely ever played his bench guys and pushed the starters to their extremes. He was used to playing from behind, so this challenge was a good one for the team and for his style.
“Malone, for two.”
“Whitelatch, for two.”
A sudden foul from the feathery hands of Jamie Velazquez, a swift free-throw point from Catherine DeMille, and the Summit found themselves tied with Dakota. There were only a few minutes remaining in the game. Nerves rarely set in, but this was a special occasion. He looked over again to The Foxes – was it just him, or was Vicki staring him down?
“Brylee, for two!”
“EVANNN MARSHALLL, for two!”
One minute remaining.
Malone takes the inbound pass up court, and passes to the right to DeMille, who gets swallowed up immediately by Marshall, so she sends it back to Malone.
God damn it, they’re not following the play setup already…
Fourty seconds left.
Malone, to Brylee, who stops mid-cycle to find an open lane, but is stopped short by Turner. He sends the ball to Redfield – he’s heavily guarded, as usual, so he turns to his right and passes to Malone – who sends it to Whitelatch. Cass turns around…
… and bam. Quvianuq. Damn Quvianuq.
The ball tumbles loose onto the hardwood floor. The crowd is going wild.
Twenty seconds left.
Malone’s back on the right side, but Whitelatch isn’t following up. Redfield’s double-covering and playing out of position. Bud’s eyes go wide.
The firefox passes to Marshall.
The coach is shouting. He doesn’t even know what he’s shouting.
Up goes the ball…
…
“EVANNNNN…. Mmmssshhhmmmm”
The bison covered his ears mid-shout and lurched over in disgust. He didn’t want to hear or see the excitement. He didn’t really want to see Malone’s attempt to half-court the ball in as the buzzer ran out of time. Seattle had won by one point, and it was because he had taken his biggest guy off the court again.
Bud met mid-court for the casual handshake with Coach Sherman. The guy was literally half his size, so it was always like bending over to shake a child’s hand. And then Bud high-tailed it off the court… he hated giving the one-point loss pep-talks. More importantly, though, as the after-effects of what just occurred settled into his mind…
The February Slump.
God damn! Instantly his head started to throb. Why did he have to think about that now, right before he was supposed to rally up his team and get over this latest behemoth of a loss? He could do just about any kind of speech – but not with that in the back of his mind. Maybe he should just lay it out there for the team – maybe bottling this ‘curse’ up was what brewed this bad karma in the first place. Would anybody take it to heart? Would anybody truly listen to his words, and understand this made-up curse he carried? Learn from the mistakes? Treat him with respect??
The leaders of the team were letting him down in such an insecure way, that he didn’t know how to handle the situation any more. It wasn’t like the Taproots and Nina Lime – where it seemed like everyone followed suit. Or like Hirvonen on the Spectrums. Even that relatively new guy – what was his name? Barbie Shnazz or something like that? The big dressy shark?
And it was then, while he was walking to the locker room, that he suddenly recalled one of the candidates he had reviewed. It was of a young shark living and playing in the minor leagues somewhere in Asia. He remembered it had included a short essay that reveled over the kid’s drive and determination. Despite not being drafted, he reportedly trained and played as if he was on an FBA team nonetheless. The skill sets weren’t completely there yet, but the work ethic and loyalty of this young shark was astronomical. It was the kid they needed during a down time like this.
Cell phone out. Speed-dialing Bracy… the donkey picked up this time.
“Boorman! How do you explain this one?”
“Never mind that. Look, I know – ”
“… never MIND that?? Just forget this loss? Are you insane??”
“Hold on!” the bison shouted into the phone. “I know the guy we need.”
“…”
“Ben?”
“Wh - okay. Get me the name and I’ll handle the rest.”
*Friday*
Washington State International Airport
He was ecstatic, but entirely exhausted, by the time he found himself landing in the Seattle airport. For him, it was later the next day. Bud had forgotten of the struggles that came with signing an international player. Additionally, signing “another shark” to Dakota, nonetheless, may not prove too popular after last year’s debacle. But it took the previous evening’s loss to remind him about how important a guy like this would be to a team like that – one that, perhaps, would kick the slump.
The slump.
How was this going to work again, exactly? The poor kid is just a rookie. But he had read the reports a few more times before finally giving Ben the thumbs up to sign the guy. It kind of felt like vindication to any doubters in the media. His first rookie signing! A rookie who had been overlooked in the draft was getting his chance.
The bison intercepted the young shark in the security area of the airport. The fresh-faced aquatic looked better than he imagined. He had nothing with him but a backpack. Motioning for the limo driver to put down the “Kurosaki” sign, Bud reached out his hooved hand to shake. Kurosaki opted to bow instead.
“Thank you for this opportunity. Are you the Coach?”
The coach couldn’t help but smile at the politeness.
“Our pleasure, Keitaro. And yes. We are happy to see you here.”
END
Category Story / Miscellaneous
Species Bovine (Other)
Size 1200 x 1200px
File Size 167.9 kB
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