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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <RevCottonMather@excite.able.boy.com>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 16 Dec 2001 13:41:20 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game  16/30 (mf rom)
Date: Sun, 16 Dec 2001 11:10:11 -0500
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Welcome to the Church of The 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)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@excite.com
Don't be shy!  I enjoy hearing from you.

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PLAYING THE GAME
by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 16 -

YELLOW CARD


That afternoon, the combined varsity and junior varsity soccer teams
drilled together.  It had turned into a cool, cloudy day, and I felt
like I could run forever.  We did really boring passing drills, we
did three-man weaves, we did 3-on-2 defensive drills, we did 4-on-2
offensive drills.  We ran laps around the field three times, once
during warm-ups, once just before our water break, and as a final
exercise.  The coaches called it a "warm-down", but we got sweaty all
the same.  Having played on two teams most of the summer, I quickly
got tired of drills and skills tests, and was anxious to scrimmage
and play games.  About half the varsity team, and a few of the guys
on the J.V. team, were of the same opinion, having played most of the
summer also, but the coaches were going to do what the coaches were
going to do, and no amount of interference from the players,
especially underclassmen, was going to change their minds.  

 From our point of view, certain players on the teams had played
together for such a long time, that they knew what to expect in a
game situation.   But the coaches, not having watched us all over the
past couple of years, were starting near ground zero, and had to
evaluate each player according to their position, their skills and
weaknesses, and their teammates.  The learning curve was much larger
for them than it was for us.  Even so, there were a substantial
number of guys that I was not familiar with, as far as their soccer
playing was concerned.  By the time we played our first game, still
more than a week away, I knew that I would have a good idea of the
strengths and weaknesses of most of the players on both teams.

During our lap runs, we tended to run with our classmates or former
teammates.  The juniors and the seniors tended to ignore us
underclassmen, clumping together as if for protection.  During the
drills, however, Skip made sure I was partnered with him most of the
time, and he kept up a running commentary on defensive maneuvers the
whole time.  It was his final year as a high-school player, and he
was being very generous in sharing his time and his experience with
me.  I knew most of the other guys at least by name, but after
practice ended Skip took me around to nearly all the upperclassmen
and introduced me to them.  Eric's eyes nearly bugged out when he saw
that, and he began laughing almost uncontrollably.  I shot him a
look, but he kept on laughing and making quiet comments to Jorge and
some of the other younger kids.

That evening I called Molly and talked to her for about an hour.  I
told her about the team party at Skip's house, and she put the phone
down to ask her parents if she could go.  She came back on the phone,
slightly breathless.

"They said I could go, but I have to leave the phone number with
them, just in case," she said.

"Great.  I'll get his number and give it to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay.  I can't believe that tomorrow's the last day of summer
vacation, Sean.  I'm not ready to go back to school."

"I'm not either.  I could live on summer vacation all year long."

"So, if tomorrow's our last day of freedom, can you come over?"

"I don't know, Molly.  I've got an away game in the morning, and
then team practice in the afternoon.  I'm going to be pretty wiped
out by the end."

"Too wiped out to see me?"  She sounded disappointed, and maybe a
little angry.

"No, no, not too wiped out to see you, but I'll probably have to be
home pretty early.  What did you want to do?"

"I don't know, maybe go to a movie or something?  Or we could just
watch TV or something.  I just don't want my last night before school
to be wasted."

"I know, I agree.  Tell you what.  I'll call you when I get home
from practice, and we'll figure something out, okay?"

"Okay, Sean.  Goodnight.  Dream good dreams of me tonight."

The huskiness in her voice sent sudden signals through my
bloodstream, connecting my ear to my inflating cock.  Her wish was
going to make it difficult for me to get to sleep that night, at
least without relieving some pressure beforehand.




The next morning was cool and rainy, one of those gentle summer
rains that gets you wet but doesn't make you wish for shelter from
the storm.  Our team all piled into cars and vans driven by our three
coaches, and we drove the 30 miles to our last game of the season.  I
rode in the car with Mr. Reyes, our head coach.

On the way, Eric Johnson kept on pumping me for details about why
Skip was having me tag along with him.

"Come on, Eric, I've told you all I know.  If you want to know more,
ask Skip yourself."

"Fat chance he'd even talk to a lowly scrub like me," he complained.
"Why you, Porter?  Are you the anointed successor?"

"Oh, give it a rest, would ya?  I don't know, I don't care.  I just
want to play the game, you know?"

"Maybe he don't like black soccer players.  Maybe he's got a thing
for your skinny ass.  Maybe he's just setting you up for some
elaborate joke.  Maybe..."

"Maybe you could just shut up about it, okay?"

He gave me a big, theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes, as if I were
the mosquito buzzing around his head, instead of the other way
around.  I mentally shrugged my shoulders and stared out the window,
ignoring everybody else in the car.

We finally got to the field, about 30 minutes early, and we all
scrambled out of the cars and unloaded our gear.  Balls were passed
out, and we all set up for warm-up drills without the coaches needing
to tell us what to do.  Another game was being played on the field,
and there was a good local crowd filling about half the bleachers
lining one side of the field.  There was some enthusiastic cheering
going on, despite the rain.

Just as the other game ended, we took off at a slow run to lap the
perimeter of the field once, and then picked up the pace for a faster
run for one more lap.  We then took the field and rotated around to
pass out to a player, who then took a shot on goal, warming up our
keeper.

The referee blew the whistle, and the starting lineups took the
field.  We had lost the coin toss, but with no sun, no wind, a light
rain, and virtually no lengthwise slope to the field, there was no
real advantage, other than psychological, to winning it.  Even so,
our opponents, named the Stingers, elected to take the ball on the
kickoff.  The timers started, the whistle blew, and the game started.

The Stingers tapped the ball forward, and then immediately passed
the ball back to their center midfielder.  It's a basic maneuver for
a kickoff, designed to keep possession of the ball (a key part of the
game).  If our opposing coaches and players understand the wisdom
behind the play, they will continue to pass the ball back or across,
keeping the ball and waiting for an opportunity to advance it up the
field.  If, however, they are performing it as a drill simply because
they know they're supposed to pass it back, we knew how to
counterattack.

It became immediately obvious to us that the midfielder for the
Stingers didn't understand the play.  He trapped the ball, looking
for an immediate pass up the field into our territory.  It was a
classic mistake we saw often from unsuspecting teams.  We had a play
designed for just this type of kickoff, a play that rarely failed
us.  Our forwards raced in a triangulation toward the hapless
midfielder with the ball, effectively cutting off any forward passing
lanes, while our midfielders moved down the field, switching with our
forwards, blocking any possible crossing passes to their defenders,
and confident that we would shortly have possession.  We defenders
moved up to cover their other midfielders, leaving all of
their forwards racing toward our goal with no ball and no prospects,
since if, by some slim chance, a pass was able to get through us to
them, all three of their forwards would be hopelessly offsides.

Their coaches were on the sidelines screaming at the players to get
back and regroup, but it was too late.  Our forwards stripped the
ball and lofted a pass over to Eric Johnson, who was on the left
sideline.  He trapped the ball, juked the defender, and crossed the
ball about 15 yards in front of the goal, and it was booted in past
the goalkeeper with no problem.  This all happened so fast that the
Stingers barely had time to react.  They were caught with five of
their players on our half of the field, while eight of ours were
attacking their goal.  Less than 20 seconds into the game, and we had
our first goal.

They were a good team, however, and not prone to panic.  Instead,
they got mad.  They controlled their next kickoff and started an
offensive set that was tenacious, if unimaginative.  They didn't get
a good shot off against us, but on the other hand, they didn't give
up the ball, either.  Every time one of their players got trapped,
they managed to pass the ball back, sometimes all the way back to
their defenders, only to start another offensive sequence.

Finally, at about the ten-minute mark, the ball came over to the
midfielder on my side.  We were kind of caught out of position, so my
midfielder dropped back to defend while I moved up to meet the ball
handler.  I dropped down, slide-tackling at the ball, but I missed
the ball and ended up cutting the midfielder's legs out from under
him.  I hopped up, wet and muddy, only to be faced with the referee
charging at me, fumbling at his pocket before blowing his whistle and
waving a yellow card at me.

"You're kidding," I said.  The ref scowled and reached for his
pocket, perhaps intending to pull out a red card, which would have
forced me to leave the field, and our team would have to play short.
I held up my
hands to him and backed away, shaking my head.  Our coaches, on the
far sidelines, were going nuts about the supposed infraction, while
in the stands on the near side, the parents and friends of the
Stingers were howling for my blood.  I backed off the required 10
yards, and the referee moved me back further before allowing the free
kick.  The midfielder tried to center the ball to his forwards, but
the small delay allowed us to position ourselves to cover everybody,
and we took possession of the ball and drove down to the other end of
the field.

The see-saw battle continued until about the 25-minute mark.  We
took the ball and got it out to Eric Johnson on the left side, and he
started running down the sidelines with the ball.  The ground was a
little slippery, so he didn't feel like he could run full out, and
the Stingers defender had the angle on him anyway.  The defender
caught up to him, lowered his shoulder, and knocked Eric completely
out of bounds and on his ass, skidding and rolling on the wet grass
of the sidelines.  The defender took the ball and moved it back up
the field, all the while knowing that the whistle that we fully
expected for the foul would never come.  Again our coaches and
players on the sidelines started yelling and complaining to the
referee, until he called a time-out, on our possession, and trotted
over to our bench.  He stopped in front of our head coach and pulled
out his yellow card and waved it in his face, calling him for a
violation.  We were dumbfounded, and Mr. Reyes looked like he was
going to have a stroke.  But he kept his mouth shut.  The referee
restarted the game, awarding possession to the Stingers on the
infraction, and the game continued, getting rougher and muddier and
less organized as time ticked on.

By the end of the first half, it was obvious that the Stingers were
focusing on Eric, apparently with the intent of getting him out of
the game.  They roughed him up at every opportunity, and by the
halftime whistle he was bruised, muddy and gasping.  One of our
assistant coaches jogged over to the referee as he was standing on
the sideline talking to one of his line judges, intending to lodge a
complaint about the rough and uncalled-for treatment that Eric had
put up with,
but to no avail.  He came back over to our bench, shaking his head
ruefully, and let us know what was going on.

"It's a hometown ref making hometown calls, boys," he said.  "Let's
whip their asses, then beat it out of town.  We are not going to get
any fair calls in this game, so don't look for help from any of the
officials.  Just play your game.  Got it?"

We all nodded.

"Eric," Mr. Reyes said, "do you want to sit out the second half?  I
know you have school practice this afternoon.  Maybe you'd better
just rest."

"No, sir," said Eric defiantly.  "I'm playing.  This is the last
game, and I am not going to let them drive me off the fucking field. 
Sir."

"Watch your language, Eric.  And get in there and play tough, if
that's where you want to be.  I'll sub you out for a rest at about
the 15-minute mark."

I looked over at Eric.  He stared back at me, a look of
determination in his eyes.  I nodded at him, and he nodded back. 
After a last pull from my water bottle, I stood up, held out my hand
to Eric to lift him up onto his feet, and we all trotted out to the
field even before the ref blew his whistle.

The second half of the game started out right where we left off,
rough-and-tumble, but we knew more about what to expect now.  The
first time Eric touched the ball, their midfielder came barreling
over to knock him down, but he was not expecting Eric to be as quick
as he was.  He did a neat sidestep, and the midfielder skidded out of
bounds, waving his hands to try to keep his balance, as Eric slid
right past the charging defender and ran full out at an angle toward
their goal.  Their keeper came spidering out to cut off Eric's
targets at the goal, arms out and head up, until suddenly he dropped
and dived headfirst for Eric's knees, intending to at the least knock
him out of the play, and maybe do some bodily damage in the process. 
Eric used the outside of his right foot to pass the ball neatly to
our center forward, and then he leaped high in the air, allowing the
keeper to slide underneath him.  He landed on his feet nimbly, goal-
side of the keeper, and watched with pleasure as our forward walked
the ball in past the last defender and touched it into the back of
the net.

That goal finally took the wind out of their sails.  We ended up
scoring four more times, and Mr. Reyes, true to his word, subbed for
Eric at about the 18-minute mark, and let him sit and recuperate for
the rest of the game.  During the last five minutes, the Stingers
managed to score a cheap goal on a corner kick that we deflected
right to a startled Stingers forward.  It bounced off his shin guard
and skittered into the corner as our keeper vainly dived for it.  By
that time, I was sitting on the bench next to Eric, watching the end
of the game from underneath a towel draped over my head.

At the end of the game, we lined up to congratulate the other team,
and the coaches all shook hands.  Mr. Reyes, our head coach, normally
a very polite, conscientious and somewhat formal man, pointedly
walked away from the referee without shaking his hand, a gesture I
had never before seen from him.  It probably didn't bother the ref,
since he didn't know Mr. Reyes or our team at all, but I know that
Mr. Reyes thought long and hard about the snub before allowing
himself to deliver it.

We stopped for lunch on the way home, and that revived everyone.  We
were soaked and muddy, tired and exhilarated.  It was our best moment
as a team.  It's too bad it was the last moment of that particular
team.

Mr. Reyes dropped Eric and I off at the school for our team
practice.  We were late, but it was obvious to our coaches why, since
we were still in our muddy uniforms.  We made it through that day's
practice, barely, finally holding each other up as we stumbled
through our final lap around the field at the end of the afternoon.

I had time to eat dinner and take a long, hot shower before getting
on my bike to ride over to Molly's.  The rain had stopped hours ago,
and the skies were clearing, promising a spectacular sunset.  Heather
and Josh were both home, too, so the four of us ended up in the
family room watching a movie on HBO.  Heather and Josh were on
opposite ends of the couch, and Molly and I were sitting together on
the floor, leaning back against the sofa.  Somewhere in the middle of
"An Officer and a Gentleman" I fell into an exhausted sleep.  My
friends let me sleep until the end of the movie, then roused me
enough to push me out the door.  I biked home and fell into bed, not
even bothering to take off my clothes or brush my teeth.




(Continued in Chapter 17)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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