The Show Goes On | A Central Indiana Panthers Dynasty (pt. 2)

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Welcome to my continuation of The Show Goes On | A Central Indiana Panthers Dynasty. For those of you who don't know, this is a CAP dynasty with a Teambuilder school located in Columbus, Indiana. The Panthers finished the first season 1-11, but with your players at the helm, anything is possible. Sit back and enjoy the ride.

Also of note, I have a "website" function to this dynasty--click on the website links below the Central Indiana header to view the subsequent pages.

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Season Statistics will go here.

You may now post.

“Fucking shit,” Nathan Hastings muttered as he dragged the four bags of football equipment behind him. “I’m gonna be the starter. Why do I have to do this shit?”

“FREEEEESHMAN,” Daniel Joel yelled from across the field. “HELMETS! NOW!”

“Fuck me,” Hastings swore. “I’m not gonna put up with this for long.”

Hastings hauled the bags across the field, muttering and cursing under his breath. He made it to the rest of the players—minus the freshman, who, like Hastings, had been forced to complete other menial tasks around campus for the first practice of the year—before collapsing on to the turf, gasping and wheezing.

“Hastings?” Joel asked snootily. “The bag hasn’t been opened.”

The rest of the players laughed as Hastings rolled his head back and stared directly into Joel’s smiling face. Hastings pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning noisily from the effort, and frowned.

“I’m not doing your shit anymore,” Hastings said angrily. “I dragged 70 fucking sets of pads out here. Just open the bag yourself.”

Joel shook his head. “A freshman with an attitude, huh?” The rest of the players snickered. “We can’t have that. We all went through it—now it’s your turn.”

Hastings stood up uneasily and walked over to Joel. “Pick up your own shit,” Hastings breathed, throwing the handle to the bag of shoulder pads to the ground. “I’m done. The pads are here. Get your own.”

Joel took a step forward, equally confused, stunned, and angry. “Are you telling the starting quarterback what to do?”

“No!” Hastings exclaimed hastily, waving his hands in front of himself apologetically. “I’m telling you what to do, not me.”

OOOOOHHHHHHHHH. The players burst into hysterics as Joel glared at Hastings, who grinned confidently back at the sophomore.

”DAMN NIGGA,” V’Angelo Foster proclaimed. “HE GOT YO ASS GOOD.”

Joel took two steps forward and went face-to-face with the freshman—which, actually, was more like face-to-chest, as Hastings had a good five or six inches on the sophomore quarterback. Joel violently shoved Hastings backward.

“You don’t insult me like that, got it? I’m the starting quarterback. Me.”

“I don’t think the team wants a pipsqueak at quarterback,” Hastings chuckled.

There was no time to react. All Hastings saw was the flash of a fist before he felt a rocket crash in to his chest, sending him sprawling on top of the bags. Joel pounced on top of him, flailing and swinging his arms wildly at him like a drowning swimmer. Hastings covered his face instinctively, placing his arms parallel over his eyes.

TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET.

Joel immediately halted the onslaught. Everyone turned and saw coach Sherman standing on the opposite side of the field, his hands balled up into fists, his whistle dangling loosely from his mouth. He trotted over, unusually calm and collected for a coach who had just witnessed his two top quarterbacks duking it out in a fist fight. He stopped at the 15-yard line, about three feet in front of all the players.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

He started pacing back and forth across in thought. Suddenly, he stopped and faced the whole team. width the field, his head bent down and his hands held tightly behind his back like a philosopher deep

“Team chemistry is the only thing that matters for us right now.”

He pointed to Hastings and Joel, who were still slyly shoving each other on the ground.

“These two are a perfect example. Right now at least, they hate each other’s guts, and look where it got them.”

He restarted his pacing for a few moments and stopped again.

“Our team is, on paper, one of the worst in the nation. Maybe even the worst. The only thing we have that will allow us to win is team chemistry. Without it, we won’t win a single game.”

[center][img]“Fucking shit,” Nathan Hastings muttered as he dragged the four bags of football equipment behind him. “I’m gonna be the starter. Why do I have to do this shit?”

“FREEEEESHMAN,” Daniel Joel yelled from across the field. “HELMETS! NOW!”

“Fuck me,” Hastings swore. “I’m not gonna put up with this for long.”

Hastings hauled the bags across the field, muttering and cursing under his breath. He made it to the rest of the players—minus the freshman, who, like Hastings, had been forced to complete other menial tasks around campus for the first practice of the year—before collapsing on to the turf, gasping and wheezing.

“Hastings?” Joel asked snootily. “The bag hasn’t been opened.”

The rest of the players laughed as Hastings rolled his head back and stared directly into Joel’s smiling face. Hastings pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning noisily from the effort, and frowned.

“I’m not doing your shit anymore,” Hastings said angrily. “I dragged 70 fucking sets of pads out here. Just open the bag yourself.”

Joel shook his head. “A freshman with an attitude, huh?” The rest of the players snickered. “We can’t have that. We all went through it—now it’s your turn.”

Hastings stood up uneasily and walked over to Joel. “Pick up your own shit,” Hastings breathed, throwing the handle to the bag of shoulder pads to the ground. “I’m done. The pads are here. Get your own.”

Joel took a step forward, equally confused, stunned, and angry. “Are you telling the starting quarterback what to do?”

“No!” Hastings exclaimed hastily, waving his hands in front of himself apologetically. “I’m telling you what to do, not me.”

OOOOOHHHHHHHHH. The players burst into hysterics as Joel glared at Hastings, who grinned confidently back at the sophomore.

”DAMN NIGGA,” V’Angelo Foster proclaimed. “HE GOT YO ASS GOOD.”

Joel took two steps forward and went face-to-face with the freshman—which, actually, was more like face-to-chest, as Hastings had a good five or six inches on the sophomore quarterback. Joel violently shoved Hastings backward.

“You don’t insult me like that, got it? I’m the starting quarterback. Me.”

“I don’t think the team wants a pipsqueak at quarterback,” Hastings chuckled.

There was no time to react. All Hastings saw was the flash of a fist before he felt a rocket crash in to his chest, sending him sprawling on top of the bags. Joel pounced on top of him, flailing and swinging his arms wildly at him like a drowning swimmer. Hastings covered his face instinctively, placing his arms parallel over his eyes.

TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET.

Joel immediately halted the onslaught. Everyone turned and saw coach Sherman standing on the opposite side of the field, his hands balled up into fists, his whistle dangling loosely from his mouth. He trotted over, unusually calm and collected for a coach who had just witnessed his two top quarterbacks duking it out in a fist fight. He stopped at the 15-yard line, about three feet in front of all the players.

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

He started pacing back and forth across in thought. Suddenly, he stopped and faced the whole team. width the field, his head bent down and his hands held tightly behind his back like a philosopher deep

“Team chemistry is the only thing that matters for us right now.”

He pointed to Hastings and Joel, who were still slyly shoving each other on the ground.

“These two are a perfect example. Right now at least, they hate each other’s guts, and look where it got them.”

He restarted his pacing for a few moments and stopped again.

“Our team is, on paper, one of the worst in the nation. Maybe even the worst. The only thing we have that will allow us to win is team chemistry. Without it, we won’t win a single game.”

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Keep up the good work!