"I know what a lessor Sorkin is... and I want to be one."

Ark Book IV, Chapter 4, Part 2

This threw me a bit. A question?

I looked around. The voice seemed to come from all directions. It wasn't loud; it just had an enveloping quality to it.

I looked around, again, to see if anyone could listen.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Good."

I went back to the garden to try to do what I came out to do, pick those few weeds that were trying to make a go of it amongst the dense foliage. I was shaking. I managed to fumble on weeding for the ten minutes it took. The plants were given a good drink of water while I thought of getting a good shot of vodka.

I returned inside the house, and got a sugar cookie instead, which seemed to do the trick of calming me down. Genna strode into the kitchen, ready to go. Record time, I thought, but I remembered she didn't have to fuss with her hair today.

"I'll be home by mid afternoon;" Just as I thought.

After a kiss on my cheek, she was into the car in the garage. Door up, door down, away she went.

After a record time shower and change, I was driving to the Ark. I'd think of the errands later.

Quincy

Here it was mid-morning, and I was having that twilight feeling again. It's like all the molecules in my body are readjusting to the unknown zone I'll be subjecting them to. I'm not fearful. I'm sort of used to it happening at this point. Maybe I watched too many Star Trek episodes, but I start thinking that this must have been the feeling the members of the Starship Enterprise felt as they were about to be "beamed up."

I again started speculating why Quincy Wilson would be the second player wanting to talk to me. As I said, he's been the most successful of all his teammates after he left the hardwood of Sunnyside . His family was extremely wealthy, and he didn't have to bounce a ball after Sunnyside. He could just manage the family portfolio and cash those dividend checks, but bouncing that ball was his first love. The money for him would always be there. I'm trying to think what may have happened after his college playing days that left him unfulfilled, and tormented by something that might have been.

Quincy, as a reminder, was the point guard of the team. I can make an argument with anyone for at least fifteen minutes that the name of the game should be 'point guard,' not basketball. The point guard is a combination spark plug and thyroid gland that controls the speed or tempo of the game. He calls out the plays, constantly monitoring what the other team's defense will allow him to do. He's the coach on the floor. His success depends on how he can direct his teammates into position for the highest percentage shot at the basket. There's a lot of finesse involved in being a good one. The other players must be kept happy, and get their share of "touches" with the basketball. A great point guard can turn around a team's fortune noticeably in one year. If football is a game of inches, as a great coach once said, then basketball is a game of split seconds, and those rapid decisions are made by the point guard.

Quincy was a great point guard. With all he was responsible for on the court, his knowledge exceeded the other players. That knowledge served him well in the professional ranks, where he had a solid, if not stellar career, while managing to win a championship ring for his efforts. Professional players make a lot of money, (which didn't faze Q anyway), but it's the ring, ala Tolkien, that binds their pursuit. Quincy's knowledge took him further as a successful pro coach, and, to this day, he's still at it.

So again, why, is he involved in this futile endeavor?

I kept looping this around in my head all the way to the Ark, which traffic-wise was uneventful. The Eos seemed to know the way by now; I was parked and heading for the back door in no time.

The court area was being covered with folding chairs lengthwise across, with a raised dais and speaker's lectern facing the rows and rows of sky blue and white seats. I had a flashback to my freshman assembly I've told you about, happily recalling that I was one of the two that made it. I was also glad to see the guys weren't playing amongst the chairs; that would have amounted to a terrible headache for me.

Off to the supply room where I expected to find Q, and I did. The same deal as Charlie, uniform wise, and "Quick" had his mop head haircut circa 1971, which waved to either side of his head as he sped down court.

"Q, you're the only one on this team who I haven't ever met, even in future years." I realized how strange that sounded, but it didn't seem to faze him.

"John, it's nice to finally meet you, then, even under these circumstances."

"I wonder, Quincy, if I'll ever get to meet you in real time."

"One never knows. I think I'd like that though, based on the talk I had with CB. I haven't seen him look and feel this good in all these years. You said something to him that did him a whole lot of good. He even played a lot better last night, after you had your talk. He knocked down forty points."

"I'm glad to hear he's feeling better. All I did was offer encouragement that I could figure this out. I also told him that despite things not working out the way he's planned, he still made a big difference in the memory bank of a lot of people."

"That's what I thought, but Charlie kept the conversation to himself. That's CB. He just said the talk you had was good, and I can see on the court it was."

"Q, what do you make of all of this? How much does your real self forty years from now, know and feel what's going on here?"

"I'll bet I think of these days every now and then, but not nearly as much as Charlie. Based on his demeanor most of the time here, he probably thinks about these days all the time. I'm not going to speak for the other guys because you haven't talked to them yet, but I'm certain they don't dwell as much as he does."

I took his answer to mean no, his real self hadn't a clue about any of this, just memories of that season, but why is Q here with the other guys, being subjected to the same loop in time? Individual regret didn't seem to have much to do with it. Some collective force kept them all here regardless of what happened to them since.

"Q, all you guys do is keep replaying Megamont, correct?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think that is? For forty years, you keep playing the same team over and over: Mega. Do you talk to their players? What do they think is going on?"

'You know, John, it's strange. We don't talk to each other. In the real first game, we tried some small talk, but they wouldn't say anything. We could tell they thought they were better than us and were trying to psych us out. Obviously, they were successful; we didn't show up that day. In these replays, we don't even bother anymore. They still play hard, and they always want to win, but that's all they do is play. After the game, they just walk off, no hugs or shakes. They're like ghosts of ghosts! It's like we're imagining them to be there to help us do what we've gotta do."

Ghosts of ghosts, I thought, just when I thought this couldn't get any stranger.

"Quincy, can you tell anything about their demeanor? I mean, do they seem more content than the Sunny players, like, this doesn't matter because we won the real one?"

"John, now that you mention it, yeah, like they think this is a good way to stay in shape. It's like they're doing us a favor in their spare time, while to us it's a job."

"Q, you've been a big help. I think I'm getting a much better handle on this. I've got to go now, before I'm missed. I haven't told anyone else about our meetings; although I'm not sure they could help. I don't want to end up in a psych ward, and be of no use to any of you. Let me ask you one more question before I go. Does it bother the team that next to nothing was said about the fortieth anniversary of your accomplishment during this past season by the Athletic Department?"

"A lot."

Two words were all Quincy said. His gaze at the floor offered the same lament as CB had the day before, and spoke volumes more than his answer.