The League

by Za Raapini

Tryouts

LA was impressive, Dunk had to admit. The city just seemed to stretch on forever, and everywhere you looked you were reminded of the sheer amount of ponies that made their homes here. He heard the chatter of a dozen different languages as he walked the streets, the smell of foods from the same number of cultures; everything about this city shouted as to its status as a melting pot of ponykind.

However, there were a few things that could unite them. Adoration for Celestia and Luna was one. Sports was another; whatever culture you came from, everypony appreciated watching the best athletes in the world strut their stuff in the sport they were good at.

Granted, most of the ponies in this city were Lakers fans. Had been for years; it was just the way things worked here. The Kickers were like the ugly little brother of the Lakers, never really catching anyone’s imagination. Not surprising, given a disturbing tendency for Kickers players to become horrifically injured.

There was the highly touted prospect Set Screen, who blew out three of his legs in his first game as a Kicker. There was the pony they signed to a lavish contract who ended up having a potentially fatal heart condition. There was another Kicker who got fouled on a shot, and his left foreleg ended up being paralyzed. The list went on. It seemed anyone with even mediocre talent on the Kickers was at risk for a terrible, potentially career-ending injury.

It was this team that Dunk now found himself trying to play for, after every other one had shut the door on him. Dunk could only hope that his career here would be short-lived and injury free; he hoped to ask for a trade to somewhere else as soon as he was recognized again.

“You okay Dunk? You want some coffee? Coffee always helps calm me down a little bit when I’m nervous. Are you nervous? I wouldn’t be. This is a great opportunity. You could turn this franchise around kid! What a comeback that would be huh? From undrafted to franchise player! Think of the legacy that would be, huh?” Top Dollar said as he walked alongside Dunk. The agent had not stopped talking since the flight landed three hours ago.

“I’m alright Top. Just thinking about the team. All those injuries… I just don’t want it to happen to me, too,” Dunk said. As much as he wanted to play for an EBL team, he didn’t want to have something serious happen to him. He didn’t want to be just another statistic.

“Look kid, you’ll be fine. All that stuff? In the past. Doctors have gotten better. Medicine has advanced. Matter of fact, I think there was a royal decree made after the last major ligament injury, that the Kickers would have no less than three surgeons on retainer,” Top joked.

“It’s just… basketball is really the only thing I’m good at. And apparently I’m not that good at it, or so twenty nine teams think. My name, my cutie mark, everything in my life, it revolves around basketball. What happens if I can’t do that anymore?” Dunk said.

“And you don’t think any other pony who plays sports, and had something serious happen to them, thought that? My brother was the agent for a pitcher; he was supposed to be the next Big Unit. His throwing leg tore a muscle, and he had to get major surgery. He never had the same control over his pitches again. He stopped playing the next year, broken and forgotten in a Triple-A club. These things happen in sports,” Top said.

“What did the player end up doing?” Dunk asked.

“He finished up his degree, started working in advertising. I get it, your special talent is basketball. But if things don’t work out, it’s not the end of the world. It’s just the opening to a new chapter in your life,” Top said.

Dunk didn’t respond to the last one. For him to even think of a life that didn’t revolve around basketball was simply ludicrous to him. It was the thing that made him who he was.

They finished the walk to the Bridles Center in silence. As they approached the building, Dunk saw the statue of former Lakers great Magic Jutland outside. He had been one of the most legendary players of all time, even going hoof-to-hoof with his father on numerous occasions. He had helped shape the league into what it was today.

Now there was a statue of him outside of his old arena, reminding everypony who walked by of the greatness that had once resided here.

Dunk wondered if there would ever be a Kickers player immortalized out here. He sincerely doubted it.

“You see him kid? That’s what you need to be like. He was a complete player. He could score, he could pull in rebounds, he could dish the rock. He played however he needed to to help his team win the game. It was never about stats with him. If all you care about is stats, let me know and we’ll just cancel right now,” Top said. Dunk wondered what had gotten into his agent recently.

“What’s wrong with stats? That’s the best way of judging how good a pony is at basketball,” Dunk said.

“Everything is wrong with stats kid, because they don’t show the full story. You didn’t get drafted because you focused on offensive stats. You put up a lot of points. But something they don’t keep stats on is blown coverage. They don’t keep stats on shoddy shot defense. They don’t keep stats on a lot of things that impact the way the game is played,” Top said.

The two stood there in silence for a moment, each digesting the other’s words.

“We’re wasting time. Let’s get you inside you can get all the details on the tryout, meet some of the ponies that will have a big influence on you if you make the team,” Top said. The two walked into the back of the Bridles Center and looked for the pony they were told to meet—a Mr. Comet. He was supposed to be running the tryouts.

As they walked through the halls, Dunk saw a few other ponies that were here for the tryouts. As much as he wanted to make fun of them, he was in the same boat as them. Guess I’d better just go out there and rock their muzzles off, Dunk thought to himself. It was key that he went out there and played his best; he didn’t want to end up not playing after all this time.

As they stood around waiting, Dunk wondered what was taking so long. Surely whoever was going to run the tryouts was here. Suddenly a door slammed and a surly looking unicorn walked up to the group.

“Everypony here? Good. I’m Mr. Comet and I’m running this little shindig. You call me anything other than ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Comet’ and you’re gone. No questions asked. You’re all here for a variety of reasons. Maybe all the teams thought your game had promise but needed some polish before you signed with a team. Maybe you had a skillset that they already have filled by a solid veteran.

“Could be any number of reasons. Point is, you’re here for a tryout, to see if maybe we can’t fill a slot for you. You work hard, show us what you’re made of, you’ve got a good chance of signing. I’mma tell you all right now, there’s only three open slots, and there’s ten of you. Who makes it, believe it or not, is up to you,” Comet said.

They all stood there, unmoving, letting his words sink in. Everyone let it hit them in a different way. Dunk was focusing on the fact that now that he was here, his destiny was in his hooves, and his alone. He couldn’t let this one slip by him. Not after everything he had built towards.

“Alright, if there are no questions, let’s get you all on the court so we can start the party,” Comet said. Everyone grabbed their bags and headed through the double doors to the court floor.

As they walked through, Dunk felt himself gasp a little. The arena was huge! He had played in a couple professional arenas during the college tournament, but none of them were as big as this. He saw an endless stack of seats reaching up towards the roof, and envisioned a crowd of ponies filling it, chanting his name.

That was what the goal was. Now he had to seize this chance and make the team.

The ponies set their bags down by the bench and put on their headbands. Dunk put his on, then pulled out his sleeve. He had worn it for years now. He wasn’t sure if it made him better, but it was comforting to feel it on his shooting leg. Like he was whole with it on.

“Alright gents, let’s get you at the baseline, we’re gonna do some suicides, get you loosened up, then we’re gonna run you through some drills. Just do what you normally do, give a hundred and ten percent, all that crap,” Comet said.

Dunk jogged over to the baseline, resolute to be the first one there. It was time to start showing ponies that he actually cared about making this team. The more effort he showed now, the better.

“First round of suicides will be on all four hooves, second round of suicides will be on your back hooves. Three sets of each. Same thing you guys have been doing for ages. Three-point line back, half court back, far three-point line back, far baseline back,” Comet said.

Good mixture right there, Dunk thought. While ponies rarely played an entire quarter on their hind legs, it was good to strengthen those muscles as much as possible so their legs didn’t give out on them when they were handling the ball.

With the tweet of the whistle, the drill started, and all ten ponies charged off the line. Dunk had long ago come up with a trick to help him get through running drills, and he started to put it into effect.

They’re playing basketball, we love that basketball, Dunk thought to himself, matching the words with every second step. He was able to find his rhythm quickly, and charged through the first suicide. One down, two to go.

As he galloped back upcourt for his second one, he could see that there were a couple ponies on the same pace as him, and a few lagging just behind. He wasn’t that surprised though; running was such a huge part of the game, and Dunk would have been shocked if he had a noticeable lead already. He kept grinding it out, three-line, back, half-court, back, far three-line, back, far baseline, back.

He had run thousands of these during his life, and by starting with a running drill, Dunk was able to relax even further. This was just like a normal practice. He finished his second suicide and turned around for his third.

The same two ponies were still keeping up right along with him, matching him pace-for-pace. Dunk smiled inwardly, glad for the competition. He cranked it up a little bit, hoping to finish first by a good margin.

I like the pick and roll, I like the give and go, Dunk thought as he charged down the court. Having that song in his head was doing wonders, as he didn’t even feel anything yet. He was turning at the far baseline when he noticed that one pony had managed to pull ahead by a step.

I don’t think so, Dunk thought. Summoning all his energy, he exploded off the line, determined to beat this pony. As he passed half court he caught up to the other pony and began to pass him. His mystery competitor, having the same plan as Dunk, began to run even faster.

They were neck and neck past the three-line and as they ran through the baseline, Dunk wasn’t sure who had won. He caught his breath and went back up to the line for the next set of suicides.

“Good speed Dunk, Touch,” he heard Comet say.

Touch… Soft Touch? From Seaddle? Dunk could have sworn that Touch had been drafted.

Guess I didn’t really pay too much attention, Dunk thought. He decided to walk up to Touch, introduce himself. Dunk had found that practices were always a bit easier to handle when you had someone to talk to.

“What’s up? That was some good speed dude, I’m impressed,” Dunk said as he held out his hoof. Touch responded with a light tap, a small grin on his face.

“Yeah, that was fun. I think I had you by a hair there though,” Touch said with a grin.

“What? No way! I definitely had that one,” Dunk said.

“Yeah, you had one good view of my ass coming off the baseline!” Touch said and the two players laughed.

“Tell you what Touch. Let’s make a bet. Loser of this next round has to buy the other dinner tonight,” Dunk said.

“You’re on man. I like dumplings,” Touch said.

“Well isn’t that a shame, because I like pasta,” Dunk said.

“It is a shame. I don’t see you eating much of it tonight,” Touch said, and with a laugh they separated and took their places for the next drill.

Well that wasn’t so hard, Dunk thought. He had always been able to quickly make friends, and it appeared here was no exception. Hopefully we’re able to push each other to our highest levels this week, Dunk thought. He was shaken out of his thoughts by the blow of the whistle.

Hind leg suicides. These were extraordinarily difficult, but essential to becoming a basketball player. If a pony couldn’t maintain his balance on his back legs while running, he wouldn’t ever be able to play the game today, since so much of it depended on mastering that ability.

These runs were noticeably slower than the ones on all four legs, but they were no less intense. Dunk found his rhythm and started grinding these ones out, keeping a careful eye on where Touch was with his.

He had polished off two suicides and was again rounding the baseline on his third when he saw Touch just in front of him.

Not letting him beat me. No way, Dunk thought. He took off from the baseline in a dead heat, wanting more than anything to beat Touch back to the other end. As he flew past him, he could see that Touch had a shocked expression on his face, and that was enough for Dunk. He redoubled his efforts and finished up the run, beating Touch by at least two lengths.

“Good speed Dunk, Touch. Now we’re going to go over some layups, then some perimeter shooting, then some three-line stuff, and that’ll be it for today. Line up at half court,” Comet said.

Dunk trotted up to half court and made sure he was first in line. He wanted to keep this whole good impression thing going. He smiled as he saw a cart full of basketballs being wheeled out. This was his element. Handling the rock, making plays, draining shots. It’s what he was best at.

“Alright gents, pretty simple here. Take the pass, use your dribble, sink the layup. We’re looking for economy of movement here as well as ball protection on the way to the basket. Sink your shots. These are supposed to be an automatic two points,” Comet said.

As they started handling the basketballs, Dunk felt himself sink into a familiar mood while he took his shots. Swish after swish, no wasted effort on the shots, no haphazardly exposing the ball to a steal. Dunk had sunk thousands of layups since he was just a foal. This was an even easier drill than the running.

He wondered if there was a reason behind all of this. Certainly they couldn’t be having them tryout on things they could’ve talked to coaches for, or watched tape on. No, something was up here. Dunk was going to find out what.

As they finished up the shooting drills, Dunk could see Comet talking to a few other ponies in hushed tones. Confused, Dunk sat and watched for a minute. A couple ponies seemed to be quite flustered, and Dunk noticed a splint for a cutie mark on one of the ponies. Team trainer maybe?

As Dunk sat there observing them, he noticed Comet look at him, and delivered a gaze which shook Dunk to his very core. Dunk began to realize that he had just done something very wrong.

“Alright! Since one of you wants to watch me talk to the training staff, I guess you’re all done shooting, right? Everyone on the line! Suicides until I say stop!” Comet shouted, his voice echoing throughout the arena.

As they jogged to the line, Dunk noticed everyone giving him surly looks. Everyone except Touch. He still had the same goofy smile on his face, like this was all some sort of game.

“Go!” Comet shouted, and the ponies took off running.

Up and down the court they went, everyone charging hard, everyone giving it their all, determined not to show weakness in front of the staff. As they rounded the near baseline, they all got a glimpse of the terrible scowl showing on Comet’s face.

Reminding them who owned them.

After what felt like hours, Comet finally blew the whistle.

“Stop! Everyone, gather ‘round! Pack it in nice and tight!” he shouted, and all the players scrambled to get near him. They had been run ragged, and Dunk wondered if he would be able to hear Comet over the sound of everyone breathing.

“You listen up, and you listen up good. While you’re here at these tryouts, you do not stop moving! You got downtime between drills? Pushups. Situps. Build that core. Build up your strength. If we’re running plays? You talk about the plays! If you’ve got a chance, draw it out on the court floor! Celestia knows you’ll be sweating enough for it!” Comet said, driving each sentence home with a hoof gesture.

“When you’re in my gym, your fucking ass belongs to me. You do what I tell you to, when I tell you to. Does everypony understand that?” Comet asked.

“Yes, sir!” the players responded.

“Alright, that’s it for today. Put away the basketballs, put away the equipment, shower up, clean the locker room, and get the hell out of here. Be here tomorrow bright and early at seven o’clock. That means ready to practice at six forty-five. Not six fifty, not seven. Six forty-five. Go,” Comet said.

As the players broke, Dunk started gathering up the basketballs. He wanted to leave one out to work on post-up moves. It was the one area of his game where he didn’t feel confident at all, and he wanted to change that.

The ponies cleaned up the area and started filtering in towards the locker room. All except for Dunk. He grabbed the basketball he had saved and posted up, pretending there was somepony guarding him. Dribble, guard the ball, keep pressing towards the basket, Dunk thought.

Suddenly Dunk felt a very real ‘bump’ on his back. He turned to see Soft Touch looking at him, still with the same goofy smile on his face. It was like nothing ever bothered this guy.

“Sup? Guess you thought you could just work on stuff and not invite me, right?” Touch asked while pressing hard into Dunk’s back.

“Don’t remember giving you an invitation!” Dunk shouted as he spun and put up a shot. He expected to hear a swish, but instead heard a loud slap as Touch swatted the ball away downcourt.

“You’re telegraphing your move, and you ain’t got the height to launch the hook, not from right here, not while I’m guarding you that close. That’s contesting a shot,” Touch said as he started jogging down court to grab the ball.

Did he… did he just coach me? Dunk thought. Sure, he was no stranger to getting advice from a team mate. But that sounded entirely like something a coach would say. Dunk took off, hoping to catch up with Touch.

“Yo, what was that about back there?” Dunk asked.

“What?” Touch replied.

“That, back there! What you said!” Dunk said.

“Oh, I was just telling what was what dude. Your low-post stuff might have worked in college, but we’re gonna be facing a different level man. We facing the pros! The ponies we grew up watching! We gotta be ready. That includes elevating our game,” Touch said matter-of-factly as they turned back up court.

“How do you know what it’s going to be like to play against them?” Dunk asked, both miffed and genuinely curious.

“Dude, did you forget? My brother plays for the Bucks. He would come home every offseason and play one-on-one with me. They’re good, dude. Freaky good,” Touch said as they arrived back at half court.

“So here’s the deal, since I think our bet shouldn’t be decided by a hoof race. One on one, make-it take-it after five, first to eleven wins, win by two, inside is worth one, outside is worth two. Got it?” Touch said.

“Yeah man, I got it. Check it,” Dunk said, waiting for Touch to bounce the ball to him.

“Oh yeah, one last thing—no jams,” Touch said with a devious smile.

“Oh, so that’s how it is, huh? Okay, okay. Guess you like being embarrassed from beyond the arc, then,” Dunk said as he checked the ball with Touch. With that the ponies were at it, fully enthralled in their pick-up game. Touch played a far more physical game than Dunk was used to, and Dunk found himself being thrown for a loop several times with how hard Touch was driving the lane.

Back and forth they went, and the more they played, the more Dunk realized just how lacking he really was. Touch was hotly contesting every single shot Dunk tried to jack up, and Dunk simply couldn’t create anything off the dribble.

When Dunk didn’t have the ball, he was quickly learning what the real meaning of defense was, as he and Touch kept banging bodies, with Dunk more often than not making desperation moves, and even resorting to fouling, to prevent Touch from scoring easy buckets.

Eventually the score was ten-all, and Dunk found himself with an opportunity for a win. After he checked the ball with Touch, he started his dribble, trying to appear cautious and hesitant. In fact, he was anything but. His goal was to beat Touch off the dribble, swoop to the open wing, and nail the open three. Simple. It was the same play that Dunk had used to win a college title this year. Dunk started to make his move.

Soft Touch apparently had different plans, because as soon as Dunk exposed the ball, he felt a cold emptiness in his hooves, like a part of him got ripped out.

He heard a sound over his head, and looked up to see the ball on a perfect arc. Swish.

“Looks like you’re buying dinner. Come on. I know a good place not too far from here. Let’s get cleaned up and put this stuff up,” Touch said, his voice holding no small amount of triumph.

The two ponies put up the equipment and headed to the showers, not once noticing the two ponies that had been watching them in the stands.

"Told you he turned a new leaf,” Top Dollar said.

“We’ll see. This is just the first day. He keeps this up? Odds are in his favor. He’s gotta keep working hard. I got ten ponies working their asses off for three roster spots. I’m not making any decisions until the end of the week. He walks the line, keeps improving? Odds are in his favor,” Comet said.

As Dunk lay down in his hotel bed, he thought about the day. He appeared to have made a solid friend in Soft Touch, and the two had agreed to make a one-on-one game part of their post-practice routine. It could only help them improve.

Looking back on it, Dunk noticed how even though it had been a struggle, and that he was out fifty bits for the dinner, it had been fun. There’s no reason I can’t enjoy myself while I’m making myself better, Dunk reasoned.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of better days. He dreamed of playing in front of a crowd for a championship.

Slam! Dunk! Slam! Dunk! Slam! Dunk!

That was what he wanted to hear more than anything in his life. He let those thoughts comfort him as sleep washed over him.