Little Roots: A Champion's memoir

Prologue

You want me to what?

Say something to the kids at home? What, like a motivational speech?

All right. Fine. I've got something.

You recording? Good.

My name is Lidya Pine, and I'm now the reigning Pokémon League Champion in Hoenn. I'm sixteen years old. I just defeated Steven, the former Champion. And when all of this began—before the blood, before the tears, before the endless series of lies and heartbreaks and sleepless nights and broken dreams—I was just a kid.

I was thirteen the first time I saw a Pokémon battle live. Not one of these staged ones they do for the cameras on all the networks. Not the kind of battle they tell you about in those 'trainer schools'—a fancy name for a place that takes your money and teaches you nothing. I'm talking about a real battle. The kind of battle that happens when two trainers meet on the trail, and one sizes the other up and finds them… lacking. The kind of battle where the lucky ones walk away bleeding. The kind of battle that happens in the Gyms, those unregulated dens of gambling and brutality. The kind of battle they don't tell you about when you're thirteen, because if they told you about it when you were thirteen you'd never even pick up that first miserable Pokéball the local professor placed before you on the table.

I was thirteen the first time a Pokémon died in my arms.

Oh yes, I was like you once, young trainer. My eyes were bright and full of hope. Their luster hadn't been dulled by secrets or muted by endless pressures: pressure to win, pressure to be the best, pressure to catch them all. I looked out at the world with a haze of innocence clouding my vision.

I was a nobody then… but a happy, dumb little nobody.

that's enough? Yeah, I thought so. All right.

Sign here? Right-o.

Yes, I understand.

what? No, I don't want to do an interview right now. Just… just come back some other time, okay?

Okay. Bye.


Chapter 1: Little Roots

I didn't exactly become a trainer by choice.

My "career" began when we moved to Littleroot Town in the Hoenn region. We'd lived in Olivine in Johto since I was born, never traveling very far from the city. I can't even remember any trips outside of Olivine, come to think of it.

It wasn't exactly clear to me why we'd left. Mom said Dad had gotten a new job, but what was wrong with his old one? And why had there been so much yelling before the move? I couldn't fathom what would make my parents want to leave the lovely, temperate seaside resort town, the only city I'd ever known.

I remember the first day we arrived in Littleroot Town in Hoenn. I rode in the back of the truck with all our stuff because I was worried our valuables would break—pointless, especially since they'd already traveled on a plane to the airport in what I'd later learn was Slateport. There were so many fragile things packed hastily into the bed of the rental truck, and I was kind of a nervous kid. Fortunately, nothing back there got broken… except me. But that was later.

Mom and I arrived at our new home in the afternoon, but Dad wasn't with us. He'd already "gone on ahead" to Petalburg, where his gym was going to be. Mom had explained it this way: "Your father is very important now. He's a Gym Leader. So he won't be staying with us all the time. He'll have to stay in Petalburg some nights, especially when we first get there. You'll have to be strong and help around the house, okay?" She told me this with a strong smile on her face, but I could sense worry in her words.

I took this explanation to mean that Dad was so busy running the operations of a major Pokémon Gym that he couldn't always make the commute back to Littleroot. What it actually meant was something quite different, but at the time I lived in blissful ignorance.

For the rest of the day, we helped the Machoke on loan from the moving company move our stuff into the house. Between the heavy lifting, the hours of travel, and the newness of everything, I was wiped. Mom and I shared a pizza that night and I went to bed early. Dad didn't come home.

I dreamt of clouds.


The next day, I got myself dressed and ready to explore. It was time to learn more about my new neighborhood. I wore my favorite outfit of the time: a red and white bandana, red shirt with a collar, white skirt, black spandex leggings, and sneakers.

"You should say hello my friend next door," Mom called as I slipped on my shoes at the front door. "Jessica Birch is her name!" I said I would and left.

Minutes later I was ringing the doorbell at the next house. A stout woman answered the door and invited me in. Mrs. Birch told me her husband was out, but her son was upstairs, and that I should go meet him. I took the steps two at a time, eager to greet my new friend. You see, I'd been homeschooled pretty much exclusively up until this point. I thought everyone would always be friends and live in harmony together. It never even occurred to me that someone wouldn't want to be my friend, or worse, would want to be my friend because they wanted something from me.

As it turned out, Brendan Birch fell into the latter category. Mostly. Kind of. Sort of.

He was a slender fourteen-year-old clad in mostly dark tones, with a tuft of auburn hair poking out from beneath his black and white cap. I remember feeling a little self-conscious about how I looked as he opened his bedroom door at my knock—my leggings seemed a bit too short, my brown hair a bit too dumpy in its long pigtails, my red polo a bit too flashy. It was a sensation I hadn't really experienced before, this… worry about looking good for a boy. As he studied me, something in his eyes seemed oddly probing. But then he smiled and said hello. I liked his smile.

"You must be the new neighbor. I figured you'd be a boy," he explained.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"Oh, I dunno. Mom said you were a Gym Leader's kid, so I thought you were probably a guy." Brendan shrugged. "Anyway, I'm getting my stuff together for an expedition, so can we talk later?" He walked me back to the front door and scooted me out.

Well, huh. Thought I'd be a guy. Reflecting on it now, I should've socked him for that comment. But at thirteen I hadn't the slightest clue about feminism or equality or anything like that, so I let it go and headed north, toward the tall grass path leading out of town.

Just then a man's scream rent the air. Terrified, I froze in place. Another local kid—perhaps five or six years old—was standing at the end of the path, looking at something up ahead.

"Someone help him!" the kid cried, but he was like me: too scared to move.

I weighed my options. Get involved, get help, just ignore the problem… what to do? After a moment, my blasted sense of compassion kicked in. I had to do what I could. I forced my feet to move and hustled up the trail.

A black dog-like Pokémon was chasing a man in a lab coat round and round, snapping at his heels. "You there!" the man called as he dashed past me. I could see the sweat dripping from his brow as the sun beat down us. "My bag! The Pokéballs!"

I spotted a beige canvas backpack on the ground and dropped to my knees beside it. Rummaging inside produced three red and white balls, each about the size of a tangerine. They were three-toned, with a red top, white bottom, and a black stripe round the middle with a white button opposite a small hinge. I knew them to be Pokéballs, but truth be told a little thrill ran through me—I'd never held one before.

"Use the Pokémon inside!" the man shouted. The beast nipped at his heel.

I grabbed one of the three at random and did my best impression of what I'd seen on TV hundreds of times: shout, push the button, and throw the ball. "I choose you!" I shrieked, my voice cracking with fear. The button depressed easily under my thumb, and the ball sailed from my hand like it had wings.

Ironically, something that did have wings popped out when the capsule landed: a rotund little red and orange bird emerged and stood on one leg. "Chiiiic!" it cried. Waves of heat began to radiate from its tiny body.

I was in love. That little fire chicken was the cutest flippin' thing I'd ever seen.

Before I could issue any commands—not that I would've known what to say anyway—the dog turned tail and fled. Victory!

The man was panting as he walked up to me. "Great job. I'm… Professor… phew… Birch. Come back to my… lab… huh…"

A short hike, half an hour, and some further expressions of gratitude later, I was the proud owner of a Torchic—whom I'd decided to name Hotwings, a pun on one of my favorite foods and his species—and on my way north once more, this time bound for an actual destination: Oldale Town.

It wasn't much of a start, I'll admit. And sitting atop the Champion's "throne", as I am now, my past self looks so tiny by comparison. But that's really what it's all about: humble beginnings. Little roots planted in the ground, waiting to sprout. And sprout they did… but the garden they emerged into wasn't as hospitable as I might've hoped.