index


Message-ID: <30881asstr$992700605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RevCottonMather@excite.com (Reverend Cotton Mather)
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 15 Jun 2001 13:40:15 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game 1/? (mf rom) by Rev. Cotton Mather
Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2001 10:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Right Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded for
the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to download 
or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there is no 
intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring this 
material.

(copyright 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather)
------------------------------------------------------------------------



PLAYING THE GAME
by Reverend Cotton Mather



- 1 -

MEET SEAN PORTER


You wonder, sometimes, how you get into these situations.  Looking 
back, I have to believe that, somewhere along the timeline of my life, 
I was led to this point, that I would be here no matter how I led my
life.  But I digress…


	
Flash back to 1980.  At that time, I was a 15-year-old jock, having 
spent the past several years honing my skills on the sandlot baseball 
fields.  At some point during the previous year, I caught the soccer 
fever that was just beginning to grip the American landscape, and by 
the end of that summer I was playing on two teams and earning a little 
side money as a youth referee.  Since they had some trouble getting 
enough qualified adults to be referees, I had the chance to work games 
with older kids than I otherwise would have.

Typically, I would be a referee for the real young ones, say 6-8 years 
old.  These kids would play what I liked to refer to as "swarm-ball".  
Every kid on the field, except the designated goalkeeper, would swarm 
to the ball, no matter where it was on the field, and kick at the 
thing as if it were a biting dog, all the time laughing and shouting 
and having absolutely no idea where it was going to go next.  The 
coaches and parents, meanwhile, would be screaming on the sidelines, 
as if the sheer weight of their voices would make little Kimmie or 
Matthew suddenly do a bicycle kick like Pele and score the game-winning
goal.

A couple of times that year, though, I was given a game with older 
kids, usually in the under-14 girl's division.  These kids were usually
fairly new to the game also, but they were a lot more coordinated in 
their athletic abilities, and could see how a play could develop, so 
they tended to play positions a little better than the young ones.  
Their games were a lot more fun to officiate, and the girls were a lot 
more fun for a horny 15-year-old guy to watch running up and down the 
field.

A lot of these kids were the little sisters of friends of mine, so I 
knew a lot of their names.  On the soccer field, though, I began seeing
them as individuals, instead of as that annoying kid who was trying to 
hang around with us older guys.  At the first of these games that I 
officiated, I could see groups of girls huddled together, glancing over
at me, talking and giggling, before the game started.  I thought of 
myself as an official, however, and acknowledging that I knew some of
them was beneath my dignity.  During the inspection and instruction 
prior to the game, as I checked cleats and shin guards, a couple of the
girls that I knew softly said hi to me, almost embarrassed to know me.

As the game progressed, I forgot about who they were and 
concentrated on the play.  Some of the girls had been playing for 
several years, others were just learning the fundamentals, but nearly 
all of them, regardless of skills or experience, played 
enthusiastically, and played hard.  It was kind of a revelation to me 
to see these kids running hard up and down the field, heads down, 
shoulders and hips and feet fighting for possession of the ball, and 
sweating.  Not "glowing", not perspiring, but honest-to-God, hard-work 
SWEATING.  My estimation of their commitment to athletics climbed, and 
I decided then and there that I would never again think of them as 
annoying little kids.

I learned a lot about those kids that day, and learned a little about 
myself, too.


I didn't have any idea then, of course, but I had a LOT more that I 
would learn about them….and me.



(Continued in Chapter 2)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+