Chapter Text
The lizard girl giggled as the TV screen flickered through a grainy projection of colorful lines and shapes. A spinning logo swerved onto the screen; letters spelling out “ROAR” in bright bold font. She realized her tongue had been spilling out of her lips in excitement— she shoved the floppy thing back into her mouth with a trembling index finger as two broadcasters appeared on screen. It was dark out, which meant her favorite show was finally on.
“Well, it’s that time of the year again, folks. It’s Rusty here, covering with my ever-reliable courtside analysis partner-in-crime Chuck. Chuck, another season, another debate; fans are asking, recruiters and players are asking: they all want to know, who really is the GOAT of Roarball?!” A bat with an unfortunately blonde pompadour wig exclaimed, hands waving wildly from his short torso.
“That’s right Rusty, and what a season we have coming up this year. Jett Fillmore, the Thorns’ hometown hero and all-time highest scorer in the league by a staggering margin is going head-to-head in hot contention with the newly revitalized Mane Attraction, whose loss of the Roarball series final last season to the Thorns has lit a new fire in the rowdy racehorse…” The musk ox beside the bat said emphatically, all while holding an unusually calm, slow-moving demeanor on his face.
“Wow! So cool!” The young Uromastyx gawked at the montage footage being played; action replays of Jett Fillmore shoving a Magma player down beneath her as she dunks the ball in the fourth quarter, then cutting straight to Mane Attraction sinking a 3-pointer to make a lead even more egregious for the Magma.
She spun in a circle around the thick rug on the ground in front of the TV box. Around her, string lights and posters of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls. Roarball memorabilia, signed (albeit likely forged) posters of Jett Fillmore, and mockups of ROAR league stadiums made of building blocks spanned the perimeter of the room. The short, vaulted ceiling of the apartment caught the sounds of sand and dust blowing outside, the window on the wall creaking with the wind.
And not far behind her, an aging water monitor lizard stirred in a plush recliner chair. The old reptile’s eyes flitted back and forth between the screen and the girl, sighing contently. She spun a small blankie like pizza dough on her fingers. She releases a sharp whistle from her lips, getting the girl’s attention immediately.
“It’s the fourth quarter… twenty seconds left…” The old lizard muttered, just loud enough for the girl to hear. The Uromastyx’s eyes lit up. “Anya Moroz is wide open!” The lizard crumples up the blankie into a ball and shoots it with impeccable form from her seat, the fabric splaying open mid-air; it lost all of its momentum, but the little girl jumped up from her seat with a yelp and dove for it, catching the blankie and swiveling to toss it into a laundry hamper— and of course, it hit the backboard of a Roarball hoop and swished in.
“Woohoo! Anya scores! The Sandstorms win the series!” Anya cheered, running wildly around the room. She hit a victory pose and dance, the routine clearly choreographed ahead of time. The old monitor lizard clapped along, serving as the roaring crowd within The Dust Bowl.
After her moment in the spotlight dimmed down, the young Anya toppled onto her back, breathing wildly and laughing excitedly. Her guardian tossed over the girl’s inhaler and the Uromastyx took three deep breaths of the medicine, exhaling with a sigh once she got her breath back.
The TV broadcast cycled through another newscaster’s segment discussing renovations to the stadiums after last season, ensuring an ever-changing and intimidating game for the players this time around.
“And not to forget The Dust Bowl, whose high-speed winds generated completely artificially last season are now being supplemented by natural winds through a channel carved out in the middle of the general admission seats…” An emu pointed a laser pointer onto a screen displaying drone photos of the construction on the stadium.
“Nana… You played Roarball, right?” Anya turned from her new spot on the floor, looking up at the old lizard with beaming, inspired eyes.
The lizard chuckled, endeared by the young girl’s excitement. She leaned forward in the recliner, elbow on her knees with a hand on her chin as if listening intently. “I might have played a few games back in my heyday… Why do you ask, sweet pea?”
“Well, I was just curious. Cause, what was it like? I mean...” Anya looked at her own hands, then back at the TV screen. "Roarball is just so cool!" She threw her hands up in the air, practically tossing herself over.
"They're all jumpy and wow, they go boom, boom! And then the court explodes or turns into an ice shelf or the players get all tangled up and they're all just going all over the place! I just can't believe you did that, for realsies! And won! What was it like for you to play Roarball as an ecto?"
The aging reptile sighed out of her nose, warm air escaping out into the already-humid apartment. She glanced out the window at the dark night outside, watching sand particles accumulating in between the glass and the window frame. Her eyes scanned the room around her.
Not a single piece of memorabilia from her days in the ROAR league remained amidst all of Anya's trinkets and toys. They had all gone into a box and been left somewhere around the apartment, but she couldn't begin to know exactly where. It had become a piece of history to Zima, a reminder of days that had already been lived through countless times.
Suddenly, the memories began to flood back to her. She harkens back to the smaller moments admidst the chaotic limelight of being the first reptile ever to play in professional Roarball; the championship round of her first season, the teammates and managers and coaches she met, the treatment they gave to her; the young lizard outside the Cryosphere, the words that she said. The last words of her parents, her classmate that encouraged her. She had come to believe that her time in the ROAR league had become irrelevant amidst the innovation, the constant change and growth of the sport.
She glanced back down at her granddaughter, eyes glistening with the same kind of hope and aspiration she had felt all those years ago. It was at that moment she considered the idea that it wasn't all meant to be swept under the rug. Maybe her time in the league had meant something to someone.
Maybe it was worth unearthing, just for a day.
Zima Moroz laid back in her seat, scratching the dry scales on her chin with a reminiscent smile creeping onto her face. “How did I know I wanted to play Roarball? What was it like...? Hm, my dear Anya, I'm not sure. Where to begin, where to begin…”