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Disclaimer: Yes, I don't own Quodpot. I don't make any money off of this either. That kind of makes me sad. : (

Quodpot: It's Worse Than Football

p1971-Sean is 21

            pSean sat there on the bench glaring out at the playing field. His friend Jackson entered from the field, poured himself some water and said, "man, that's some game, huh?"

            pSean let his glare slide onto Jackson's profile. "Hmpf. I'm sure it is," he responded darkly.

            Jackson looked at him, surprised. Then- "oh, I'm sorry man, I forgot you weren't playing again. Dang, how any games is Coach going to make you sit out?"

            p"Heck if I know, but I'm damned tired of it. Why did he put me on the team if I'm not going to play?"

            "Warm the benches?"

            p"Shut up." Sean turned back towards the playing field just in time to watch Sam Alstone score.

            "Maybe you should talk to him," Jackson suggested.

            "Why? Do you think me going up to Coach us really going to change his mind and let me play?"

            pJackson shrugged. "Can't say, but at least you'll know why."

            pSean thought about this. As much as he didn't want to, he had to admit it made sense. Knowing why would be better than floundering around in the dark as usual. "Okay, fine I'll talk to him."

            p"When?"

            p"Ummm…how about after the game?"

            Jackson looked at him dubiously. "You're going to chicken out."

            "Why do you say that?"

            p"Because you usually do—you get all worked up about something then you don't do anything about it."

            pSean puffed his chest out in annoyance. "I said I'll talk to him," Sean growled and with that, he turned back to watching the Quodpot game.

pHe waited until the locker room had emptied before approaching Coach's office. Sean had been have tempted not to go at all but a knowing look from Jackson changed his mind. Coach was sitting behind his desk staring at a play sheet. Sean cleared his throat to get his attention.

            "Er, Coach?"

            pHe looked up, startled. "Oh, Sean, didn't see you there. Have a seat, son."

Coach was one of those old school athletics directors who treated his players like they were all long lost sons. Estranged sons, that is. Ones who left 20 years ago then finally came back wringing their hands and asking for $1000 loans. Sean felt like a little kid every time he entered his office.

            p"Thanks," Sean said quickly as he sat down.

            p"So, I imagine you wanted to speak with me about something?" Coach folded his hands together and placed them on his desk.

            p"Uh, yeah. I was just wondering why I've been benched so far this season," he paused to work up more courage. "Coach, we've played three out of 8 games so far this season. One more and that will be half the games I've been benched."

            pCoach nodded. "That's true."

            p"Well, why then?"

            p"Coach stared him in the eye. "Sean, do you have any idea why you've been benched so far this season?

            p"No," Sean replied. "If I did, I would I be here asking you right now?"

            pCoach smiled. "No, probably not. Well, I'm not going to say you're a bad player, son, cause you're not. Let's just say your skills leave a lot to be desired."

            pA lump formed in Sean's throat. "What do you mean?" If my skills leave so much to be desired, why am I here?"

            p"Well, you've got the talent, that's for sure, else you wouldn't be here. You're ability to work well on a team is what I'm referring to."

            p"So…"Sean started.

            p"You need to learn that you're not the only person on that field."

            p"I know that."

            p"Then why don't you act like it? Quodpot is not about winning personal glory. What does it matter how many goals you score if the team loses the game?"

            pSean shrugged. " At least I got something out of it?"

            p"No. That's the problem Sean. If the team loses, you lose. There is no in between. As long as you fail to realize that, then the longer you'll be on the bench."

            pSean nodded. "I see. So, either I give up my playing style or I give up my playing?"

            p"Yes, that's about right."

            p"Ok, then." Sean stood up and pushed his chair in and headed for the exit. "I'll clean out my locker then."

            pCoach stood up in surprise. "Wait, you're leaving?"

            "Yeah. I can't stay can I?"

            "But you're under contract." Disbelief filled Coach's voice.

            "I know," Sean said with a shrug.

            p"If you leave, the cops, lawyers and who knows what else will be after you. But you already know that right?"

            pSean nodded, trying desperately to think of a place he could stay and the police couldn't find him…or at least the lawsuits couldn't. Where was that place he'd heard of in school—that place where wizards who were wanted or unkosher could go?

            "Don't worry, sir. I have a place I can go where no one will ever find me unless I want them to."           

            pCoach looked at him, concerned. "You're sure?"

            "Yeah," Sean said reassuringly. He wasn't quite sure it was Coach he was trying to assure.

            p"Alright then. I was hoping to give you a chance to reform—to change. Just because I don't like your playing style doesn't mean I don't like you." He extended his hand. Sean walked up, took it, and they shook hands for a moment. "Good luck, son."

            p"Thanks, Coach." Then Sean turned and went, the door shutting soundly behind him.

            pCoach stood there for a moment, then sat down in his chair and sighed wearily. "Yeah, good luck…maybe you won't end up disappointing everyone."

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