2025-02-23, 02:12 PM - Word count: 839
Five hundred and forty-three years, one month and 17 days ago today the people awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal.
While the sixth of January, 1482, is not a day of which history has preserved the memory, the nineteenth of January, 2025, is a day bound to be immortalized in the recollection of Parisiens young and old. For although the fabled city of Paris is steeped in lore and legend, the heroes of these historical tales all but fade away in the shadow of the cities magnum opus, an epic many had not even realized had started to be written on that momentous day.
And it is on the wakening, on a glorious Parisien morning, of our eponymous hero that our chronicle begins. A single ray of pure, unadulterated sunlight pierced the darkness of Slab Head's townhouse bedroom. He stirred to the melodic cacophony that was the morning bells of the neighbouring cathedral of Notre Dame. Slab felt groggy, his mind dampened by the frivolities of the evening before. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, and pushed himself upright. No sooner had he reached a vertical position as had commenced a splitting pain in the right side of his skull. He winced.
What happened to me last night he pondered, as his usual wit pulled itself slowly out of it's slumber. And slowly but surely the memories began to return; at first mere outlines sketched roughly in charcoal, then transformed into full scenes packed with colour and motion, so real he could almost reach out and touch them. As his sensibilities returned, he began to piece the whole story together.
First there was apprehension, excitement, the unknown. For the evening in question was one he was sure he would have no trouble recalling for the rest of his days, the night of the infamous SSL Draft - the 19th edition of this annual epic, a night that forged legends and branded disappointments, forevermore. The emotions flooded back to him, how excited he had felt to commence his journey, and how uneasy he had been at his clouded destination. But it was the waiting that was the worst of all, oh god the waiting. When awaiting the fate of your future, each second passes with an eternity, seasons change outside the window with each sentence uttered.
Secondly, there was anger. Slab Head was a proud man, and he took slights poorly. Even if the intention of others was not to offend him, he did not appreciate being overlooked in favour of others he believed below his standard. And it was in this manner that the draft began.
The first pick came and went, and Slab Head's name remained unspoken. He understood there was an element of politics involved in this spectacle, but he still did not appreciate being overlooked in this manner.
The second pick arrived, and still his name was not uttered. How could this be? Had he not gone above and beyond over the preceding months to prove his worth? His grit? His steel? A tide of rage swelled in Slab Head's chest, and despite his best efforts, he did not feel as though he could contain it forever. It bubbled away inside him, building, growing, ready to splinter the delicate atmosphere asunder.
Until, the most poetic of sounds floated to him on a warm Parisien breeze. Slab Head - the sound was so pure, as if whispered by an angel from the kingdom above. He remembered scanning the room in confusion, unable to process the countless faces pointed in his direction; some familiar, others less so. He remembered rising to his feet, unsure if this was voluntarily or if he was thrust forwards by the sea of strangers behind him. He remembered the crowd, a million faces still staring directly at him, hands a blur in applause, parting before him as if they were the red sea and he Moses. As Slab reached the stage, and the applause in the room began to settle, something rhythmic began to sneak it's way into the venue from the street outside. It wasn't so much a song, not even a chant, the earthly tone and intensity of its delivery gave it the manner of a call to arms.
Quasimodo, quasimodo - echoed around the room.
Quasimodo, quasimodo - the crowd gathered outside showed no signs of stopping
Quasimodo, quasimodo - a growing call, that would one day weave it's way into the very fabric of this storied city.
Slab Head began to laugh, his mind now clear and the pain in his skull now forgotten. He could scarcely believe it had happened in the first place, nevermind then forgetting it for even a second, the excess of liquor no excuse. Paris he thought I'm going to play for Paris.
And thus began the fable of Slab 'Quasimodo' Head, the Centre-back of Notre Dame...
While the sixth of January, 1482, is not a day of which history has preserved the memory, the nineteenth of January, 2025, is a day bound to be immortalized in the recollection of Parisiens young and old. For although the fabled city of Paris is steeped in lore and legend, the heroes of these historical tales all but fade away in the shadow of the cities magnum opus, an epic many had not even realized had started to be written on that momentous day.
And it is on the wakening, on a glorious Parisien morning, of our eponymous hero that our chronicle begins. A single ray of pure, unadulterated sunlight pierced the darkness of Slab Head's townhouse bedroom. He stirred to the melodic cacophony that was the morning bells of the neighbouring cathedral of Notre Dame. Slab felt groggy, his mind dampened by the frivolities of the evening before. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, and pushed himself upright. No sooner had he reached a vertical position as had commenced a splitting pain in the right side of his skull. He winced.
What happened to me last night he pondered, as his usual wit pulled itself slowly out of it's slumber. And slowly but surely the memories began to return; at first mere outlines sketched roughly in charcoal, then transformed into full scenes packed with colour and motion, so real he could almost reach out and touch them. As his sensibilities returned, he began to piece the whole story together.
First there was apprehension, excitement, the unknown. For the evening in question was one he was sure he would have no trouble recalling for the rest of his days, the night of the infamous SSL Draft - the 19th edition of this annual epic, a night that forged legends and branded disappointments, forevermore. The emotions flooded back to him, how excited he had felt to commence his journey, and how uneasy he had been at his clouded destination. But it was the waiting that was the worst of all, oh god the waiting. When awaiting the fate of your future, each second passes with an eternity, seasons change outside the window with each sentence uttered.
Secondly, there was anger. Slab Head was a proud man, and he took slights poorly. Even if the intention of others was not to offend him, he did not appreciate being overlooked in favour of others he believed below his standard. And it was in this manner that the draft began.
The first pick came and went, and Slab Head's name remained unspoken. He understood there was an element of politics involved in this spectacle, but he still did not appreciate being overlooked in this manner.
The second pick arrived, and still his name was not uttered. How could this be? Had he not gone above and beyond over the preceding months to prove his worth? His grit? His steel? A tide of rage swelled in Slab Head's chest, and despite his best efforts, he did not feel as though he could contain it forever. It bubbled away inside him, building, growing, ready to splinter the delicate atmosphere asunder.
Until, the most poetic of sounds floated to him on a warm Parisien breeze. Slab Head - the sound was so pure, as if whispered by an angel from the kingdom above. He remembered scanning the room in confusion, unable to process the countless faces pointed in his direction; some familiar, others less so. He remembered rising to his feet, unsure if this was voluntarily or if he was thrust forwards by the sea of strangers behind him. He remembered the crowd, a million faces still staring directly at him, hands a blur in applause, parting before him as if they were the red sea and he Moses. As Slab reached the stage, and the applause in the room began to settle, something rhythmic began to sneak it's way into the venue from the street outside. It wasn't so much a song, not even a chant, the earthly tone and intensity of its delivery gave it the manner of a call to arms.
Quasimodo, quasimodo - echoed around the room.
Quasimodo, quasimodo - the crowd gathered outside showed no signs of stopping
Quasimodo, quasimodo - a growing call, that would one day weave it's way into the very fabric of this storied city.
Slab Head began to laugh, his mind now clear and the pain in his skull now forgotten. He could scarcely believe it had happened in the first place, nevermind then forgetting it for even a second, the excess of liquor no excuse. Paris he thought I'm going to play for Paris.
And thus began the fable of Slab 'Quasimodo' Head, the Centre-back of Notre Dame...
