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"If you don't have a hobby, are you really alive?", read the sign Elijah Bates had set up to stare them in the face when they woke up every morning. They lived in a quaint townhouse, a little too small for their needs, because it had been modified to be a bed-and-breakfast. God, that was, what, 27 hobbies ago? They stepped over a laundry basket full of typewriter parts, edged past a half-assembled spice cabinet, and into the bathroom, every possible surface covered in abstract waterproof paintings. It made the mirror a little hard to use, but they knew what they liked. Their face was in the newspaper every few days, anyway. They'd made a habit of reading the newspaper when they were trying to make newspaper-based blackout poetry, but wound up simply reading it for the fun of it. Those reporters really did say the darndest things.
On autopilot, they greeted their guests, filled up the food bowls for the cats who napped lazily in their catnip garden, and made their signature pepermint-chocolate chip waffles. Today, it was a family, two kids, a parent, a grandparent. The four of them dug into the waffles with fervor that made Bates' heart flutter.
"Going anywhere special?", they asked, and the four of them explained- interupting each other- and pausing to take bites of the waffles (from which Bates themselves abstained after a worrying assesment from Blaseball's enignmatic Checker-Upper). They were here to see the sights of the strange city, the [], [], and (if the lines aren't too bad) [].
"That sounds like a fun day!", said Bates. It did sound like a fun day. They had meetings and projects and even their day job to attend to, but they'd love to tag along. It was always a delight to see Sunken Halifax through the eyes of people to whom its culture was noteworthy. "If you'd like, I have tickets to the game tonight. We're playing the Spies- or maybe the Tigers. I can't remember if it's that I can never remember, or that one is disguised as the other. Either if you'd like, I have tickets."
The family had somehow picked this bed and breakfast not knowing who Bates was. It was a little bit refressing, a little bit insulting. Bates knew they weren't the biggest name on the team- not even close- but Blaseball being the jugernaught of culture it was, they expected a little bit of noteworthyness. The family debated. The grandmother thought Blaseball might be too much for the youngins, who were competing to see who could most loudly say yes. They would probably need some time to figure it out. Bates dug through their kitchen drawers- past screwdrivers, hobby knifes, and their burgeoning bottle cap collection- and eventually found the pile of tickets. They passed them out, along with the care packages they bought in bulk for their guests. Printouts of the basics you could just google about Sunken Halifax, a handful of water-resistant snacks, some spittle-free bottled water, and disposable ponchos. They said a polite goodbye and left the house, for either a pottery class or an interview. They'd gotten the address right, but had forgotten to write down why they needed to go there. A quick dingy ride down the hill to a squat, unremarkable conch-style office building. Probably an interview.
One dentist appointment later