Maybe I could even pay Brock for a copy of the tape, to send back to my Pa so he could see I wasn't completely full of shit and could actually be a real trainer. I wanted some record of the validation that I was looking for. I wanted at least some record of this, for my own sense of selfish pride and vindication. Unless I did something spectacular, of course. I'd be lucky if I even rated a slot in the evening league recaps for my first attempt at a gym challenge. I was a nobody, a bumpkin from a tiny stinking backwater that didn't even rate a mention on any local travel guides. I knew that nobody would be watching this match live. I stepped onto my platform, heart pounding in my chest. Our proudest moment was when the hamlet of a half dozen families got mentioned on the evening news one time nearly twelve years back for naming our village after the cash crop we were most known for. Yucca village was a small farming community, not even on most maps unless you bought a local regional map from the northern gate of Saffron City and managed to find the smallest dot on it. Like hell I was going back there as anything other than champion. I'd marry a suitable girl, probably Sarah Walker or Jenny Mathers if my pa had his way, and take over the farm once he got too old to do so. Failure meant crawling back to the smallest speck on the map and staying there for the rest of my life. I'd blown through every scrap of my meagre savings and then half a starter training loan in pursuit of this dream. There would be no second challenge if I failed here. I only had two balls there, only two pokemon for this battle, but I hoped to all hell that they'd be enough. I stepped forward, my hand dropping to the belt on my side. There was no noise of the crowd, no searing lights for the cameras, just an old loudspeaker that crackled and fizzed as it spat out its call. It smelled like sweat and blood, crude reminders of what it would take to actually accomplish my goal.
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