Write a story about a young man, who on the best day of his life, finally realizes why the old man is dancing in the middle of their locker room waving their trophy around in this link. Make both he and I cry please.
[AN: Sport is not my forte…]
(#00210)
It had been his job to round up the towels on the day they won. The crowd had been too thick for him to see the old man, and too raucous for him to make sense of the words. But there was a feeling in the entire room. The soul of victory was awash in the air. Even he smiled, though he was still rounding up manky, sweaty locker room towels at the time.
He never understood sport. Everyone wanted to make it needlessly complicated with rules and sub-rules and sub-sub rules that ended up looking like an End User License Agreement. Or at least the terms and conditions. And worse, every time he confessed his ignorance, people who loved sport felt compelled to explain it to him in excruciating detail.
It was one of the reasons he never explained his loves to anyone else.
But it still remained a mystery why people got so excited when a team of trained athletes were victorious over another. Until the Great Day.
It started with a sound night’s sleep, a rarity with noisy neighbours who complained if he so much as belched. Then, a forgotten fifty dollars found intact in his pants’ pocket. Then, the breakfast he set aside the night before had not been devoured in the wee small hours by his ever-voracious roommate.
He was on time for the bus, and it was on time for the train.
The office meeting was free of asinine banter and actually got to the freaking point. And ended before lunch. The vending machine dispensed snacks perfectly, and gave correct change.
And then he spotted the vinyl figurine on Dalia’s desk.
Dalia. Beautiful, shy, soft-spoken and impossible-to-talk-to Dalia. She of the minimalist verbalizations and the efficient hairstyle. Dalia… had a vinyl Bamf on her desk.
To the end of his days, he never knew how he got the courage to speak up. To out himself as a nerd. But he did remember coming up to her and saying, “Cute Bamf. Where’d you find him?”
“I don’t have to prove–” Dalia stopped. “Um. There’s this little place in a side-street off of Grey street. One of those L-space shops.”
“I thought they were extinct,” he said, inwardly singing, Yes! She knows of Pratchett! to himself. “The last one on the corner of Fifth and Twenty-second went belly-up, last month.”
“Yeah, I was really looking forward to getting that model kit, but my paycheque and their debts never met. Pity.”
“Which model were you after?”
“I was sorta drooling over a 1:8th scale Moya with chambers and articulated Pilot…” Dalia sighed. Looked directly at him. “You’d better get back to work before they catch us geeking out… Kevin.”
Oh right. Nametag. “Maybe you could show me the new place at lunch?”
A smile. “Meet you in the lobby.”
He floated to his cubicle. Never before had he wanted to sing. Never before had he felt the compulsion to dance.
His air was full of the soul of victory.
And now he knew why the old man danced.
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