Blame the Game
“Here’s Scottie Rogers, 42, a trim 160 pounds, decent hair line. Not amazing, holding on.” Despite the freedom of Bill’s headset, he keeps his legs stable while talking. He has the arthritic gigantism of a once-great linebacker. Bill and his much smaller co-anchor, Kip, watch the player from their monitors. Despite working inside a cramped studio they wear windbreakers embroidered with their lesser network’s branding. Kip jerks his body on the brown carpet like a dancing teenager, trying to get a word in.
Bill ignores him. “Rogers’ isn’t a terrible draft pick. He’s got good motion and he’s in better shape than a lot of players his age, but at this late in the game, with so few completed plays after the big upset… The market’s tight at his age. He needs to change it up. It hasn’t been an easy year.”
Kip spreads his arms and breaks in. “Not an easy year? Not easy? Try impossible. Try ruinous. Just look at Rogers’ performance,” he gestures to a nearby monitor. The broadcaster’s long desk, their stools and A/V equipment are hand-me-downs from a league with more market-share. Kip points to the monitor as animated infographics spin to life, revealing numbers and percentages. “Rogers’ incompletion stats are at record highs. And then these are so low I think they’ll break our floor.” Kip gestures to pulsing arrows pointing south. “Basic awareness: down. Earned contact: down. Assisted releases: way down. No amount of training can fix this. It’s such a fall. I remember back in the day when people were swooning over this guy. Literally.”
The camera cuts to Scottie Rogers as he walks down a Village sidewalk. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. People pass by, laughing as they head to brunch or bars or movies. Scottie, alone, gazes at a lingerie store window.
“Rogers is lost in thought. His head’s not in the game,” Bill notes.
“Not in the game is right. He barely has a pulse,” Kip says.
The camera cuts back to Bill in the studio. He touches his headset. “Sound like there’s off court movement. Could be a play coming.”
They turn to watch the main monitor and the camera cuts back to the action. Two women walk down Jones Street with the stride of runway models. Their long legs and curved glutes are sheathed in matching leather pants, giving them a liquid, carnivore ferocity. One has the shimmering blonde hair from TV commercials.
Scottie snaps away from the lingerie and pretends to study the store next door. It’s a shop for gay porn. He flips around to face the street.
“The women are getting closer. What’s he doing?” Kip asks. “Why is he checking his pants?”
Scottie adjusts his zipper of his black, too tight jeans, once, twice.
By the time Scottie has fixed his uniform the women have swished by, as concerned with the single guy on the sidewalk as they are with wetland restoration outside the Buffalo suburbs.
Kip gloats, “it’s a big incompletion by Rogers and absolutely no surprise. It’s kind of sad if you think about it. If this is his legacy, how will he coach any little Scottie juniors? Who will he teach the game to?”
Rogers looks after the women as they fade from view. He spits a sunflower seed on the sidewalk, then nudges it to the curb with his Vans.
“It’s a huge drop for Rogers after his hay day highs. I’d say his absolute peak performance was six years ago. He came this close to nabbing a championship ring with Victoria Wheatbread.” Bill swipes his tablet to check the old stats. “They had fantastic promise. He made an unstoppable series of power plays. We’re talking career highs: 25 consecutive completed dates with physical contact earned 72% of the time.”
“Those were great games, Bill. Rogers was so close to the big win, he could taste it: the victory lap engagement parties, arguments about seating assignments, how many Le Creuset pans for the registry, but then…”
“Ricardo Angelinos,” Bill says, completing Kip’s sentence.
“Ricardo. De Los. Angelinos. Wow. He transferred from the Madrid office to New York, then he met Wheatbread at a holiday party. Angelinos was a pro’s pro. A born player. By the time he met Wheatbread he had spent years, years, working ex-pat bars in the Iberian Division. When he scored the coveted Tom Ford endorsement, it was all over.”
“Angelinos was in a different league,” Bill agrees. “He was totally committed, he had zero ambiguity like we so often see in New York.”
Rogers has started walking to a coffeeshop.
Kip shakes his head, he remembers the story well. “Right out of the gate Angelinos went for Wheatbread. He pursued her every night of the week on every platform: SMS, email, social media, messaging apps, once he even called her. He texted her when he had business meetings, when he was in the bathroom, at his doctor’s office, while swimming. He was indefatigable. He knew the hottest brunch places, the best wine pairings, how to turn a ‘not tonight’ into a ‘I’d love to come over and listen to your vintage Julio Iglesias record collection.’ It’s about tenacity. It’s about single-mindedness.”
The sportscasters stop to watch their monitor. An athletic woman in yoga pants halts in front of Scottie. He almost walks into her. She scrutinizes her phone, then angles her head as she looks at street signs showing West 4th cross West 10th Street. She checks her phone again. Scottie is about to explain. A 6’3” man bounds out of a restaurant and kisses her.
We cut back to the studio as the sportscasters pick up now that another play has die. “Rogers never recovered from the Wheatbread debacle,” Bill says. “He had a few decent starts, he even tried rematches with past contestant, but his on-base performance never recovered. It’s a confidence deficit. Hard to come back from that.”
“And that’s what made last night so fantastic.” Kip smacks his hands. “I still get shivers watching the replay.”
“This could be a turning point, Kip. Let’s review the play.” Both men perch on stools behind their desk. Bill taps his tablet and the monitor fills with replay footage from a party last night. Chatting with Rogers is a mid-thirties woman wearing a vintage dress. Charms hang from long necklaces around her neck. Rogers has combed his hair. He wears a tucked-in plaid shirt, leather boots. He says something. She giggles.
“Anna Sweetfields is as cute as a Brooklyn bookshop,” Kip notes. “And Rogers looks like a lumberjack at the prom.”
“Not a bad match,” Bill agrees. “Maybe it’s no surprise that Rogers spent 15.3 minutes in play with her.”
The men watch the replay footage. After Anna’s laugh, Scottie stops smiling and speaks in earnest. She studies him for a moment. Another player intercepts Anna with a mason jar cocktail, but she turns to Scottie. The cocktail man disappears to the sidelines. Scottie gives Anna his phone. She taps out her number.
“Very nice. I like the phone hand off, gives her a sense of control. Rogers seems focused. None of that waffling. Therapy could be working, or it could be wisdom from experience. We’ll never know,” Kip says.
The action returns to present-day Scottie, now holding a small shopping bag from a bodega as he snacks on beef jerky. He’s back again on Waverly Street, where he stops to check his phone.
Kip smirks, “is he doing laps around the Village? Can’t this guy come up with a plan for a day off work? He is literally walking in circles. And why is he checking his phone? It’s not ringing. No one’s calling him.”
Scottie taps the phone.
“Looks like Rogers is going for a text. Could be to his mom. These days she’s the only woman who texts him back. Let’s get a closer view.”
The monitor adds a smaller picture-in-picture screen to show a close up of Scottie’s phone, while Scottie stands in the street.
“It’s a text to Anna Sweetfields,” Bill reports.
Kip shakes his head. “A text? Weak. Back when I was a player the most advanced technology we had was a rotary phone and Drakkar Noir.”
“You were one of the greats back in the day, Kip. No doubt about it. Three wives, six children. Impressive stats.” Bill slides his attention back to Scottie, “Check out Rogers’ thumb-to-key ratio. Nice tight formations, few typos.”
– It was incredibly meaningful to meet you last night, you are amazing and the answer to my prayers! –
Scottie pauses at the phone’s menu options: Send / Save / Discard.
“Rogers hesitates before the send.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t shoot off multiple texts. I hate that,” Kip says.
Scottie waits, then hits Discard.
“Rogers goes for a second attempt. Interest is picking up on our social feeds.”
Kip turns to another monitor buzzing with social media stats. “We have a 100k Facebook ‘likes’ and only 600 negative comments. Not bad,” he grins, pleased with the coverage. With attention like this he could get promoted to one of the beach leagues.
Scottie taps out a fresh text:
– On a scale of ten to ten, how great was it meeting me last night? –
He pauses at the phone menu options: Send / Save / Discard.
He hits Discard.
Kip groans loud enough to give his mic feedback. “This is painful. He’s so out of shape his neuroses are running wild.”
“Two rewrites and no send. Kip, what’s your take on the delay?”
Kip gestures to the newsfeed comments water-falling down the monitor. “Fans say they’re restless. I know I am.”
Scottie collects himself. Re-types.
– Hope the most beautiful girl in the party got home safe –
His fingers hover over the phone and…
“Send on the third draft,” Bill reports. “The ball’s in her court.”
Smiley faces sent from viewers blow up the social media tracker.
“I like using compliments, but that’s truly a rhetorical question. ‘Did you get home safe?’ What does that even mean? Is he saying she might be kidnapped? Is she a flight risk? Did she forget where she lives?”
A text notification dings loudly.
“That’s a 13.2 second wait according to the text-reply clock.” An animated timer pulses in a corner of the screen.
– Sorry, who’s this? You’re not in my phone. –
– But I’m hoping it’s the most handsome man from the party :) –
“Improbably, it’s a flirtatious text from Sweetfields!” Bill says.
Kip moves from his stool. “I’d wait at least two months before responding.”
Scottie types:
– Free to grab drinks? We shouldn’t deny the world the chance to see such good looking people together –
“Immediate send,” Bill reports.
Kip paces the studio, brow furrowed. “Since when do people grab drinks? I hold my drink. I sip my drink. I drink my drink. Who grabs a drink? Does he know some kind of hipster drive-through speakeasy? Why does everything sound so casual these days? Is that even a date? Grabbing?”
Scottie’s phone dings.
“Another reply. Only a 11.9 second wait,” Bill reports.
“Instant rejection. Watch this,” Kip predicts.
– I’m not one to deny the world my beauty, but is it OK if I bring my therapist along, to keep my ego in check? –
Graphics from the social feeds fill with questions marks and head-scratching emojis.
“I don’t know, Bill. I might pass on Sweetfields. She sounds crazy.”
“Our producer tells me enough texts have been sent and received to call this an official game.” DING! Bill’s voice rises, “a repeat text! Blistering speed by Sweetfields.”
It’s a yellow smiley face with red cheeks: embarrassed.
Scottie types a response:
– I think we’ll do just fine on our own. I really like you a lot, it’d be fun to get to know each other –
Scottie’s thumb floats over the menu: Send / Save / Discard.
“On my God! No! Do not hit send! That’s way too direct! What happened to the fundamentals? Beat around the bush. Create insecurity,” Kips hops in front of the monitor.
“We’re not sure what he’ll do. Rogers’ thumb hovers over the phone. There is no way to retract a text. It’s all or nothing. His thumbs are floating, it now looks like there’s motion in his right finger… and… he sends.” Bill collapses on his stool.
An animated cat gif hisses on the fan feed.
Scottie is wide eyed as he crosses the avenue. A wind curls down the sidewalk. When he makes it to the other side he checks phone, nothing. He walks towards a bagel shop. Traffic ebbs. The text reply clock racks up double digit seconds, then minutes. After a few more moments covering Scottie as he decides if he’s hungry or hungry or just boredom hungry, the screen flips to an advertisement. A montage shows a smiling single woman playing Frisbee on the beach with her dog. A voiceover intones grim statistics for intractable pet diseases. In the next scene she’s alone again at the beach, it’s winter. There’s no dog. The ad is for animal companion health insurance from Blue Cross Blue Shield.
The screen back to Scottie. He’s now holding a paper cup of coffee. Despite the low-hanging clouds he ambles towards Washington Square Park.
“We’re back from the ad break. The reply clock’s now at seven minutes forty seconds,” Bill says. “As a recap, Scottie asked Anna out in the most passive and pleading way possible. We’re now waiting for her response.”
“It’s not going to be good,” Kip opines. “This is it for Rogers. Urban Outfitters has threatened to yank his endorsement if he has another scoreless season. And let’s face it: he’s aged out of their demographic. Maybe he should pitch Men’s Wearhouse or wherever it is defeated players shop.”
Rogers’ phone dings. He pulls it out and nearly drops the coffee.
“Check this out. It’s a reply from Sweetfields,” Bill says. Scottie’s hands quiver as he reads:
– Maybe. It’s a crazy busy week –
Scottie blinks.
“And he’s OUT! It’s an amazing smackdown by Sweetfields!” Kip exults. “‘Maybe?’ She’s ‘crazy busy?’ We all know what that means. Game over dude! Scott Rogers is a goner! I can literally hear the contract papers being shredded over at Axe body spray. You can kiss that sponsorship goodbye.”
In a rage, Scottie tosses his coffee in a garbage can. It misses.
“Fan comments are angry. Can’t say I blame them,” Bill intones.
Scottie tries to type a response but the letters are a jumble. He narrows his eyes, he tightens his elbows to his frame, like he might throw a jab. Just then a bearded twenty-something-year-old man walks by, pushing angelic twin toddlers in a stroller that costs more than a car.
“I’ve always said this is a game dominated by strikeouts, but it’s a very sad day when you can’t even get on base,” Bill says.
Scottie heads to a dive bar. He halts at the entrance.
“Hold on,” Kip shouts. “Scotties’ back on his phone!”
Scottie walks back to the curb. He types so fast his fingers are a blur. The social monitor fills with thumbs up and surprise-face emojis.
Scottie walks down the sidewalk. He finds new energy, keeps typing. A huge guy strides by him and clips him, almost knocking him over, but Scottie won’t stop. He walks and types, he crosses a side street, a truck slams its air brakes as Scottie wanders back to the curb in time.
Kip bobs his neck as he follows the play. “Yes! Here we go. It’s a last ditch, Hail Mary text. Oh man, I love this. This is like the AOL instant message back in ’04 that got him a third round with the marvelous Kate Bundershaft. Fans are nervous. I know I am.”
Bill and Kip watch their monitor. Scottie’s text appears:
– I’m sure you’re as slammed as I am. Let’s get coffee sometime and introduce our laptops to each other. We’ll see if they’ll hit it off –
“Scotties’ thumb comes down like a hammer!” Kip says.
“That’s a fast send. Zero hesitation,” Bill notes.
Kip forms his hand in prayer. “If this works…. introducing their laptops… over coffee. There might be an Apple-Starbucks tie-in someday. Could be huge.”
Applauding hand emojis dance across the fan feeds.
Fragments of seconds and full seconds and then minutes wrack up once again on the digital timer. Scottie’s sent text waits on the split screen like a still life. A soft rain starts to fall but Scottie refuses to budge.
“If Sweetfields is going to respond she’s certainly taking her time,” Bill says. “Hopefully there won’t be a game delay.”
“Anything can happen now,” Kip says. “Overtime is its own private hell.”
After a few more minutes, Scottie’s coverage shrinks to a small inset as the network uses the delay to re-broadcast an old episode of The Traveler. It was a wildly popular show about a man whose wife leaves him, so he quits his office job to travel the world to find the love of his life. The season starts with him buying a ticket to the first destination out of JFK. It’s to Riyadh. Later, after surviving dysentery in Azerbaijan, he stumbles into several confusing and violent sectarian conflicts Africa. In this episode he’s been kidnapped by Somali pirates. It ends with a cliffhanger when the chief pirate’s daughter sneaks him a rotten apple. He thinks it’s a sign of affection, but the audience knows she doped it with sedatives so she can steal his iPhone.
The show ends and the inset display of Scottie grows back to full screen.
The text reply clock is now past the hour mark. Scottie has made his way to Washington Square Park. The clouds have cleared. The sun is low and golden in the western sky. He sits on a bench.
Bill and Kip have settled onto their stools. They sip branded sports drinks. Bill catches everyone up, “Rogers is still in the game but it could be days before Sweetfields responds, if ever. We have no idea what she’s thinking. She could be away from her phone. Her battery could have died.”
Kip shakes his head. “Let’s be honest, Bill. By now she’s probably met someone else. I was starting to hope Rogers’ luck turned… but whatever.” Kip pours out his beverage on a potted plant. “For all the lonely homies.”
Suddenly there’s a loud DING!
“A text! It’s been an agonizing 57 minutes, 13.8 seconds.” Bill stifles a pained groan as he gets off his stool to watch the play.
Scottie looks at his phone like it’s just announced the future six weeks of Dow Jones Industrial Average performance. Could he be this lucky? Social feeds whir with exclamation marks and blissed emoji faces.
– Don’t play games with me –
“He’s reading Anna Sweetfield’s reply,” Bill stage whispers.
“It’s early in the season. Of course he’s playing games,” Kips says.
Scottie types.
– The last game I played was Tetris. I was twenty. –
“Rogers hits send. No delay,” Bill reports.
Scottie stares at his phone, waiting for signs of life. The timer racks up five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds, twenty five seconds, thirty — ding!
“It’s from Anna Sweetfields!”
– K. Let’s grab a bite Friday. –
“They’re getting food! It’s a date! Rogers jumps to his feet! Fans are wild!” Kips shouts.
Firework gifs burst on the screen. Scottie does a little dance in the park.
Bill moves back to his stool. “That was an incredible turnaround, Kip. What a hard earned win. I haven’t said this in a while, but Rogers is in scoring position for the first time all season.” He dramatically swivels to look straight into a camera. “Stay tuned for the after-date broadcast.”
Kip and Bill power down their tablets and shuffle papers as the show ends. The cameras pull back and the studio lights dim.
“See you at the bar later?” Kip asks. “I could use a wingman.”
“Are the Senior Leagues tonight? Sorry, I lost track. Since I retired with Betty I’m not keeping my eye on the ball. I’m rooting for you Kip.” The men bump fists and the screen goes black.
