Gemotions

The harsh glare of the stadium lights illuminated the empty bleachers. Coach Thompson stood at the center of the field, waiting. He saw the kid, Mark, walking toward him, slow and deliberate. He wanted to scream.

“Mark, come here a minute,” he said, his voice clipped and short. He couldn't stand the pretense.

Mark walked up, his eyes averted. He knew, everyone knew. He was a disappointment.

“Mark, we’ve made some decisions…” Thompson began, using the familiar, rehearsed phrases. He hated all of it.

Mark interrupted, “I’m gone, aren't I?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Thompson simply nodded. He felt nothing, just a dull ache of annoyance. The kid turned, then walked back toward the locker rooms. The whole thing was just tiresome.