Fic: New Rules - Ray/Walt
Ray had never really been much for team sports. Or organised sports. Or sports where you had to run in a straight line. Or around in a circle, for that matter. Or swimming. He fucking hated swimming.
Ray had never really been much for sports. He was good at them, most of them, and he did them, because the Marines kind of kicked you out if you didn’t, but until he and Walt started playing Calvinball, his heart wasn’t ever really in it.
Calvinball changed everything.
~
Kuwait was fucking hot.
Call CNN, right? Kuwait is hot! Breaking news! It wasn’t anything any of them didn’t know, but you couldn’t go half an hour in this bitch without someone moaning in agony, “Fuck, it’s so fucking hot.” It was almost like a game. Sometimes it was posed as a question: “Jesus, it’s hot, isn’t it?” Sometimes as a cry against God: “Why is it so goddamned hot?” Sometimes, they bargained: “If it drops below 100 tomorrow I’ll do five extra laps in PT, I swear it. I’ll let Trombley borrow my Ralph magazine. I won’t talk about fucking Colbert’s sister…in front of him.” Sometimes it was just a simple statement of fact: “I’m hot.”
Ray was hot.
Just because they were all training to invade an entire country, didn’t mean they got out of PT. Ray soaked his black shorts and t-shirt in cold water before starting, was dry three minutes in, was soaked again with his own sweat in another two. He ran when they told him, and did push ups when they told him, grappled with Garza and Chaffin when they told him, jumped up and down and didn’t ask how high, but only because the dust in his mouth made it all but impossible to speak. And then finally, blissfully, it was done, they were dismissed, they could drop to the floor and whine about the heat and pour water over their heads and curl up like bitches.
But they were Marines, so they didn’t.
Half the platoon went off with slightly guilty looks on their faces to where Rudy was teaching his yoga class. Some paired up and started sparring, serious sparring, the kind the LT mostly had to turn a blind eye to. Some piled on the gear and went for a run. But Ray and Walt shot each other a grin, headed out to the open patch of dirt that served as combination parade ground, staging area and games pitch, and got their asses ready for some hardcore Calvinball.
“You got the masks?” Ray asked, and Walt nodded, dug around in the Official Calvinball Duffle and pulled out a pair of hi-vis belts, green and orange, tossing one to Ray. They hadn’t figured out how to punch workable eyeholes in them, so they just tied them round their foreheads like Rambo at a pride parade. Colbert had asked, once, whether the pretty coloured headbands were really necessary for the game, and for that Ray and Walt had banned him from Calvinball for an entire week. Ray was pretty sure he’d been heartbroken.
Masks on, Walt put out the bases while Ray set up the goals. He decided today that the goals were going to be fifteen metres away from the pitch, sitting on top of a low rock wall. Walt, observing this, nodded seriously, and moved the bases (round pieces of canvass they’d scavenged from a discarded tent) into a big circle, with one sticking out about fifteen metres on the opposite side.
“Can’t score a goal until you touch the goal base,” he informed Ray, pointing. “And you have to be singing a Willy Nelson song when you do.”
“”I like it,” Ray said, and put a green flag in a tree, and a yellow one underneath a rock. “Also, you need to goose-step between third and second base or else you have to freeze for ten seconds.”
“Unless you’re holding the opposite stone, obviously,” Walt added, and with a bounce of the Calvinball, they were off.
They’d been playing for about thirty minutes, almost passing out with heat exhaustion and the giddiness of six-year-olds doing something stupid, when Espera and Garza rolled up. “Marines on the pitch!” Ray screamed. “Hop on one foot!”
They hopped up and down for a while, until Espera, who was a natural at Calvinball when he could be bothered playing, snatched up one of the flags and waved it around. “All play stops for five minutes when someone whose name begins with E waves the yellow flag, dogs!” he yelled. “Don’t you know anything?”
“He’s right,” Walt panted. “Lucky he didn’t wave the green flag.”
“What’s the green flag make you do?” Garza asked. Garza had only played once, and had had to go and sit down quietly by himself after five minutes. Calvinball wasn’t his strength.
“Your mom,” Ray told him, and Walt laughed.
“Yeah, it’s a real bitch, ‘cause you have to organise flights and everything.”
Espera shook his head. “I can’t believe you crazy white boys are playing this shit in 105 degree weather,” he said. “Even Rudy cut his yoga class short, because he said the heat was messing with his Zen.”
“Kuwait is hot, bro,” Garza added. Ray and Walt shrugged.
“Calvinball waits for no man, my friend,” Ray said. “By the way, the yellow flag rule doesn’t apply because I was in the contrast zone. That means that if someone waves the yellow flag they have to join in for five minutes or else everyone on the pitch starts singing Sk8terboi.”
“Aww, fuck,” Espera sighed, but there was no arguing with the Calvinball rules. He pulled out a hi-vis belt, tied it on, and bolted towards the bases. “New rule! If a Mexican touches fifth base he gets a free shot at goal,” he yelled, and Walt threw the Calvinball at him as hard as he could.
“Race card! Poke pulled the race card!”
“Everyone do fifteen jumping jacks!”
~
By late that afternoon, almost the entire platoon was playing. Walt and Ray had excused themselves because they were about to die, but the game went on without them, Q-Tip naming himself referee, Colbert trying to play to win like only he would, Lilley with a huge grin on his face just running around in circles and laughing.
Ray collapsed onto his back in the dust, staring up at the faded denim of the sky. “It’s fucking hot,” he said. Walt, sitting next to him, sprinkled water from his canteen over Ray’s face.
“I know,” he replied. “Look at Colbert. I can’t believe he’s playing.”
“Brad told me that he wants to write down the rules and make them official,” Ray said, aghast. He’d been pretty sure Brad was fucking with him, but the idea freaked him out all the same. “Official!”
“Oh, the horror,” Walt said dryly, and flopped down onto his back as well, sending a little dust storm into the air around him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Ray smiled. The sky was getting darker, which meant the air was starting to cool, a little, making the sweaty skin on his arms and legs prickle. “Walt?”
“Mmm?”
“I really like whupping your ass at Calvinball. I just want you to know that.”
Walt chuckled. Ray listened to the sounds from the pitch, raucous laughter, good-natured arguments. A few hours ago, the entire platoon had been ready to drop, the heat, the boredom, the stress of preparing for an invasion that never seemed to come. Now they were acting like a bunch of kids at a park with no adults around. Carefree.
He felt Walt’s fingers brush his, just briefly, a little spark of heat in the cooling air.
“I like it too.”
Ray closed his eyes. “Well good,” he said faintly. “You’re gonna have to put up with it for a while.”
“Looking forward to it,” Walt promised, and even though the heat of the day was fading, Ray felt like some of it was caught in his chest, glowing there.
Yeah. Calvinball had changed everything.
And Ray kind of thought it was just the beginning.
The End!
Ray had never really been much for sports. He was good at them, most of them, and he did them, because the Marines kind of kicked you out if you didn’t, but until he and Walt started playing Calvinball, his heart wasn’t ever really in it.
Calvinball changed everything.
~
Kuwait was fucking hot.
Call CNN, right? Kuwait is hot! Breaking news! It wasn’t anything any of them didn’t know, but you couldn’t go half an hour in this bitch without someone moaning in agony, “Fuck, it’s so fucking hot.” It was almost like a game. Sometimes it was posed as a question: “Jesus, it’s hot, isn’t it?” Sometimes as a cry against God: “Why is it so goddamned hot?” Sometimes, they bargained: “If it drops below 100 tomorrow I’ll do five extra laps in PT, I swear it. I’ll let Trombley borrow my Ralph magazine. I won’t talk about fucking Colbert’s sister…in front of him.” Sometimes it was just a simple statement of fact: “I’m hot.”
Ray was hot.
Just because they were all training to invade an entire country, didn’t mean they got out of PT. Ray soaked his black shorts and t-shirt in cold water before starting, was dry three minutes in, was soaked again with his own sweat in another two. He ran when they told him, and did push ups when they told him, grappled with Garza and Chaffin when they told him, jumped up and down and didn’t ask how high, but only because the dust in his mouth made it all but impossible to speak. And then finally, blissfully, it was done, they were dismissed, they could drop to the floor and whine about the heat and pour water over their heads and curl up like bitches.
But they were Marines, so they didn’t.
Half the platoon went off with slightly guilty looks on their faces to where Rudy was teaching his yoga class. Some paired up and started sparring, serious sparring, the kind the LT mostly had to turn a blind eye to. Some piled on the gear and went for a run. But Ray and Walt shot each other a grin, headed out to the open patch of dirt that served as combination parade ground, staging area and games pitch, and got their asses ready for some hardcore Calvinball.
“You got the masks?” Ray asked, and Walt nodded, dug around in the Official Calvinball Duffle and pulled out a pair of hi-vis belts, green and orange, tossing one to Ray. They hadn’t figured out how to punch workable eyeholes in them, so they just tied them round their foreheads like Rambo at a pride parade. Colbert had asked, once, whether the pretty coloured headbands were really necessary for the game, and for that Ray and Walt had banned him from Calvinball for an entire week. Ray was pretty sure he’d been heartbroken.
Masks on, Walt put out the bases while Ray set up the goals. He decided today that the goals were going to be fifteen metres away from the pitch, sitting on top of a low rock wall. Walt, observing this, nodded seriously, and moved the bases (round pieces of canvass they’d scavenged from a discarded tent) into a big circle, with one sticking out about fifteen metres on the opposite side.
“Can’t score a goal until you touch the goal base,” he informed Ray, pointing. “And you have to be singing a Willy Nelson song when you do.”
“”I like it,” Ray said, and put a green flag in a tree, and a yellow one underneath a rock. “Also, you need to goose-step between third and second base or else you have to freeze for ten seconds.”
“Unless you’re holding the opposite stone, obviously,” Walt added, and with a bounce of the Calvinball, they were off.
They’d been playing for about thirty minutes, almost passing out with heat exhaustion and the giddiness of six-year-olds doing something stupid, when Espera and Garza rolled up. “Marines on the pitch!” Ray screamed. “Hop on one foot!”
They hopped up and down for a while, until Espera, who was a natural at Calvinball when he could be bothered playing, snatched up one of the flags and waved it around. “All play stops for five minutes when someone whose name begins with E waves the yellow flag, dogs!” he yelled. “Don’t you know anything?”
“He’s right,” Walt panted. “Lucky he didn’t wave the green flag.”
“What’s the green flag make you do?” Garza asked. Garza had only played once, and had had to go and sit down quietly by himself after five minutes. Calvinball wasn’t his strength.
“Your mom,” Ray told him, and Walt laughed.
“Yeah, it’s a real bitch, ‘cause you have to organise flights and everything.”
Espera shook his head. “I can’t believe you crazy white boys are playing this shit in 105 degree weather,” he said. “Even Rudy cut his yoga class short, because he said the heat was messing with his Zen.”
“Kuwait is hot, bro,” Garza added. Ray and Walt shrugged.
“Calvinball waits for no man, my friend,” Ray said. “By the way, the yellow flag rule doesn’t apply because I was in the contrast zone. That means that if someone waves the yellow flag they have to join in for five minutes or else everyone on the pitch starts singing Sk8terboi.”
“Aww, fuck,” Espera sighed, but there was no arguing with the Calvinball rules. He pulled out a hi-vis belt, tied it on, and bolted towards the bases. “New rule! If a Mexican touches fifth base he gets a free shot at goal,” he yelled, and Walt threw the Calvinball at him as hard as he could.
“Race card! Poke pulled the race card!”
“Everyone do fifteen jumping jacks!”
~
By late that afternoon, almost the entire platoon was playing. Walt and Ray had excused themselves because they were about to die, but the game went on without them, Q-Tip naming himself referee, Colbert trying to play to win like only he would, Lilley with a huge grin on his face just running around in circles and laughing.
Ray collapsed onto his back in the dust, staring up at the faded denim of the sky. “It’s fucking hot,” he said. Walt, sitting next to him, sprinkled water from his canteen over Ray’s face.
“I know,” he replied. “Look at Colbert. I can’t believe he’s playing.”
“Brad told me that he wants to write down the rules and make them official,” Ray said, aghast. He’d been pretty sure Brad was fucking with him, but the idea freaked him out all the same. “Official!”
“Oh, the horror,” Walt said dryly, and flopped down onto his back as well, sending a little dust storm into the air around him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Ray smiled. The sky was getting darker, which meant the air was starting to cool, a little, making the sweaty skin on his arms and legs prickle. “Walt?”
“Mmm?”
“I really like whupping your ass at Calvinball. I just want you to know that.”
Walt chuckled. Ray listened to the sounds from the pitch, raucous laughter, good-natured arguments. A few hours ago, the entire platoon had been ready to drop, the heat, the boredom, the stress of preparing for an invasion that never seemed to come. Now they were acting like a bunch of kids at a park with no adults around. Carefree.
He felt Walt’s fingers brush his, just briefly, a little spark of heat in the cooling air.
“I like it too.”
Ray closed his eyes. “Well good,” he said faintly. “You’re gonna have to put up with it for a while.”
“Looking forward to it,” Walt promised, and even though the heat of the day was fading, Ray felt like some of it was caught in his chest, glowing there.
Yeah. Calvinball had changed everything.
And Ray kind of thought it was just the beginning.
The End!