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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <RevCottonMather@excite.able.boy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game  18/30 (mf rom)
Date: Tue, 18 Dec 2001 14:10:06 -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




- 18 -

THE BULLS




Our first varsity soccer game was at home on Friday against one of
the smallest schools in our conference.  They didn't have a very
talented team, according to our scouts, so I was hoping for a little
playing time in the second half.

The stands were not even half full.  Not many kids at school cared
much about soccer yet, but we hoped that would all change as we tore
through our schedule.  Even before our first game we were whispering
about going on to sectionals, and maybe even the state playoffs.  We
were cocksure, confident we could beat any other school head-to-head.
Only a fluke could keep us from our destiny, the playoffs.

And that fluke nearly happened during our first game.  The team from
Rockland High School won the toss, and elected to take the ball. 
They tapped the ball forward and passed it back to their midfielder,
who passed it over to their right midfielder.  He immediately
launched a booming pass all the way across the field toward the left
sidelines.  Our right midfielder, Kevin Soranno, went up for the
ball, intending to head it up the field.  At the same time,
Rockland's left forward also elevated.  Everybody on the field heard
the loud crack when their heads hit, and Kevin went down like a sack
of potatoes.  The ball went soaring back toward the middle of the
field, where it was picked off by a Rockland player, who trapped it,
dropped the ball down to his right foot, and launched a rocket at the
far right post of the net.  Our keeper was one step too slow in
following the play, but the ball hit the post and bounced back out to
our striker, who promptly cleared the ball out of bounds.  By that
time, Kevin was on his knees and holding his head with both hands,
and the Rockland player he collided with was about five feet away
from him, standing with his hands on his knees.  I know he was trying
to clear the cobwebs out, having just gotten his bell rung, but at
least he was on his feet.

The referee stopped the game and trotted over to check on the fallen
players.  Both of them shook their heads when asked if they wanted to
come out.  Kevin climbed to his feet and jogged a few steps, making
sure all the parts were in working order, then walked over to shake
hands with the Rockland player.

Rockland took the throw-in, and the game continued.  Neither team
wanted to test the right side of the field yet, so the ball pretty
much stayed away from Kevin and Skip for the rest of the half.  Even
so, by the time the half ended, we were up 4-0.  Rockland never got
close to our goal after that first unlucky shot.

We started the second half by playing a little more defensively. 
Our offense was powerful, but we didn't need to score on the hapless
Rockland team any more.  They were done for, and they knew it just as
well as we did.  Skip showed a little razzle-dazzle the few times he
managed to touch the ball, but mostly we were just playing keep-away
with them.  Finally, with about four minutes left to play, the score
was 6-0.  Our coach made some wholesale substitutions, so we
benchwarmers got to play the last few minutes of the game while Skip,
Theo, Kevin, and many of the other starters came out.

At the final whistle, we subs had hardly broken a sweat.  The team
went into the locker room to shower and change.  We were in a great
mood, that first win under our belts, glad to finally get the season
underway.

Our head coach, Mr. Neville, was a history teacher, so many of his
locker room speeches contained obscure references to battles and
soldiers from the past.  Half the time I didn't understand what he
was talking about, but that night we interrupted his speech several
times with good-natured cheering.



The next week school was back to being a full-time grind.  Some of
my friends were really smart at school, breezing through on a
combination of charm and native smarts, but I had to work hard just
to maintain a B average.  Molly and Tessa both seemed to get their
homework done fast, while it seemed like I struggled just to stay in
the same place.

Finally, on Tuesday, the last bell of the day rang.  The halls were
crowded with kids jostling each other, everybody anxious to get
outside while the weather still held.  It was a beautiful late summer
day, and it seemed like everybody, students and teachers alike, were
chafing at having to spend such a great day inside.  The physical
education teachers were the lucky ones on days like this.  They could
take their classes out to the track or to the football field,
enjoying the good weather while their co-workers were stuck in their
classrooms.

I met up with Jake and Josh on the way to the gym.  We were taking
the scenic route, leaving school by the front door and walking around
the building to enter the locker rooms from the outside.  We rounded
a corner of the school and saw a small gathering of some of the
rougher kids from our school, a group of about 7 or 8 guys with their
hair slicked back and greased up, leather jackets with the collars
pulled up, chrome chains and rings hanging from jackets and jeans. 
They were a group of troublemakers who called themselves The Bulls, I
suppose in homage to their leader, a tall, gangly kid with a bad
complexion named Richie Del Toro.  Richie and his gang were standing
in a loose semicircle around the wall.  Their body language spoke of
somebody inside their circle who was regretting being there.

The three of us stopped as we took in the scene.  We glanced at each
other, and silently agreed that we should take a closer look. 
Without a word, we started walking toward the group.  When we were
about 15 feet away, I could see two smaller bodies inside the
semicircle, their backs against the wall.  Between the gaps in the
crowd, I was surprised to see Jorge and Kristina Mendoza were the
ones surrounded.

Richie was the only member of The Bulls standing inside the group. 
He had a cowlick sticking straight up on top of his greasy head, an
errant lock of hair that refused to be controlled by anything Richie
put on it.  He was derisively known as Alfalfa behind his back, and
occasionally to his face.

"I'll betcha you're a hot little tamale, aren't you?  Are you a hot
one, Conchita?  Como esta blowjobs?" Richie was saying.  He
tentatively reached out toward Kristina, who flinched away.

"Leave her alone, you piece of dog shit," yelled Jorge.

"Close it, Jorge.  Whore-Hay.  What the fuck kind of name is that,
anyway?"  The group around them tittered as if they were witnessing a
star performance on "The Tonight Show".  Richie loved playing to the
crowd, I noticed.

"It's a better name than 'Alfalfa', Alfalfa," retorted Jorge.

Richie lunged at him, perhaps intending to slap the smaller freshman
around, but Jorge was too slippery.  He ducked under Richie's arm and
moved behind him.  Big mistake, I thought.  Almost immediately he was
grabbed by the arms by two of Richie's pals and held tight.  Kristina
was pressed against the wall, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide
and scared.

This was just too much for me.  The three of us pushed our way into
the circle, and I grabbed Richie by the shoulder.  He was about six
inches taller than me, so I had to reach up to grab him, but at that
point the size difference between us didn't matter much to me.  I was
mad.

Richie whirled around as soon as he felt my hand on his shoulder,
intending to teach whoever was touching him a lesson in manners, Del
Toro style.

"Well, if it isn't the Three Musket-Queers."  There was that idiotic
twittering again, coming from his pack of hyenas.  "What the fuck are
you doing here, Porter?" he spat.  "Or do you want a little of what
we're gonna give to this puny ninth grade spic greaseball?"

"What have you got against ninth graders, Richie?" said Jake.  "You
seemed to like freshman year so much you went through it twice, if I
remember right."

The Bulls all got very quiet when they heard that.  Richie didn't
like being reminded of how he was held back, apparently.

"What did you say?" he asked dangerously, staring daggers at Jake.

"What's the matter with your hearing, Del Toro?  I heard him just
fine all the way back here," said a voice from beyond the fringe of
The Bulls.  Richie whirled around to confront this new intrusion, and
the crowd parted as Skip, Theo, Eric and Kevin all walked up.

"He asked what you had against ninth graders, since you seemed to
love it so much before," said Skip.  "Or are the crops you must be
growing in that dirt in your ears making you deaf?"

Richie's face turned an angry red, and he took a step toward Skip. 
Eric, Theo and Kevin on one side, Josh and Jake and I on the other,
all moved in closer to Richie and his gang.

Suddenly the odds didn't look quite so good to Richie and his
cohorts.  They began backpedaling away from all of us, muttering the
whole time among themselves.  They let Jorge go loose and pretty much
forgot about Kristina.  I walked over and put my arm around her
shoulder protectively.  She flinched slightly at the touch, but then
sighed audibly and hung onto me, grateful for the support.

When they were a safe distance away, Richie turned back to us.

"Don't worry, Conchita.  I'll be back for that el blowjob sometime
soon, okay?"  The group of them all burst out laughing at Richie's
sparkling wit.

Kristina burst into tears and buried her head against me.  Jorge
came over and hugged her from the other side.  I could feel him
shaking from the adrenaline rush that must have coursed through him
during the altercation.

"Thanks, guys.  You got here just in time, man.  I thought we were
goners."  Jorge looked around at all of us, the appreciation shining
through his dark eyes.

"We're a team, man.  We've gotta stick together," said Skip.  "I'm
just glad we spotted you when we were over by the corner."

"You've really gotta watch out for them guys," said Eric.  "They'll
always look for an opportunity, but they won't do anything if they
don't have numbers.  You know?"

Jorge nodded his head.  "I'll remember that.  Thanks.  I'll also
remember that I owe that greasy slimeball a big one."

"You can owe it to him, but don't go trying to pay it off by
yourself, Jorge," warned Josh.

"I won't.  I know better than that," said Jorge.  "Kristina, can you
stay on the sidelines while I'm at practice?  I don' want you walking
home by yourself."

"Good idea," I said.  "The group of us can all go that way together."

"Okay," she said.  "If you don't mind my watching you guys."  She
looked around at all the guys around her and blushed a little.

"No, of course not," said Skip.  We all started walking to the back
of the school.  It was time for us to be getting to our respective
practices.

The coaches were on the sidelines, going over their notes, so
Kristina walked over to one of the benches by them as we all filed
into the locker room to change.  She stayed there, studying most of
the time, but occasionally setting her book down to watch us
scrimmage.  Her eyes followed each of us in turn, the five of us from
the soccer team, plus her brother, who willingly stood up to her
tormentors.



A couple of days later, I was walking down the hall to my third
period class with Jake and Eric.  I saw Jorge and Kristina just ahead
of me, walking slowly in the same direction.  I didn't think a thing
of it, until I happened to see Richie Del Toro walking with a couple
of The Bulls toward us.  He was engrossed in his conversation,
oblivious to all around him.  Unlike almost all the other kids in the
hallway, Richie carried no books or papers, but instead strutted down
the hall with his hands in his jeans pockets.  It was to be his
undoing.

I saw Jorge move to Kristina's right side, so he would be between
her and Richie when they passed.  Richie was paying absolutely no
attention to anything going on around him, confident that people
would move out of his way.  As the two parties met, Jorge stopped for
just a moment and waited until Richie was two steps behind him.  He
whirled around, dropped to the floor, and swept Richie's legs out
from under him in a classic soccer slide tackle.  Richie's feet flew
up into the air, and he landed square on his backside, his hands
still in his pockets.  There was a loud thump as he hit, and an
echoing thump when his head met the tiles.  He started yelling in
pain.  His friends just stood there and goggled at him, too shocked
to take any action.  Jorge hopped up, and then knelt down on Richie's
chest while he was still flat on his back and grabbed him by his
greasy hair.

"Do you know why your eyes are so brown, Alfalfa?  It's because you
are so full of bullshit.  Do you hear me?" Jorge was so angry, I
thought sparks would fly out of his eyes as he talked softly to
Richie.  "We have a new word now in Spanish for bullshit, Alfalfa. 
We call it Del Toro Poo-Poo."

With that, he hopped up, looked quickly around, and grabbed Kristina
by the arm and walked swiftly away, never once looking back.

Jake, Eric and I all burst out laughing.  Soon the whole hallway was
clapping and cheering, just as a couple of teachers came out to see
what the commotion was all about.  Richie was still on his back,
groaning in pain, and everybody just walked around him, without
offering to help him in any way.  His two cohorts were nowhere to be
seen, having abandoned Richie to his own fate.  The three of us
ambled on, our day suddenly much more pleasant.

At practice that afternoon, the entire soccer team, varsity and JV
alike, gathered around Jorge and heard the story all over again. 
When he got to the part about Del Toro Poo-Poo, everybody whooped and
laughed.  Jorge was a little embarrassed being the center of
attention, but everybody enjoyed hearing about the fall of Alfalfa,
now better known as Del Toro Poo-Poo.

"So, what was Richie's reaction later in the day?" asked one of the
younger players.  "Anybody got him in a class in the afternoon?"

"I do," said another of the junior-varsity players.  "But he wasn't
there.  I don't think he went to any of his classes afterwards."

"That's odd," said Theo.  "I wonder why?"

"Maybe he was just too embarrassed to show his face," said Kevin.

"Yeah, maybe," I said.  "And maybe not.  Watch yourself, Jorge."

"I will, amigo.  Don' worry.  I'm a Latin lover, not a fighter," he
said.

We all laughed at that.  Just then the coaches called us back out to
continue with practice, and we all just kind of forgot about poor Poo-
Poo for the rest of the day.

The next day at school, I saw Richie first thing in the morning.  He
was moving slowly and carefully, like an old man.  He was a little
hunched over, and he was taking small, shuffling steps.  People were
not quite as careful about staying out of his way as they had been
just the day before, but he was concentrating so hard on his walking
that he didn't hardly notice.  There were beads of sweat on his
forehead, and his errant cowlick was waving all over the place.

Between first and second period, Josh came walking up to me.

"Can you believe it?" he said excitedly.  "Del Toro's got a broken
tailbone.  He can't hardly walk, he can't stand up straight, he can't
even sit down without hurting, and he's in pain, man.  It's just too
funny!"

"A broken tailbone?  No shit.  Well, I guess he won't be bothering
Jorge and Kristina anytime soon, will he?" I said.

And so Richie became known as Del Toro Poo-Poo, or Poo-Poo for
short.  And nobody was afraid to call him that to his face.  I
thought that our troubles with him and The Bulls were over.

I was wrong.



(Continued in Chapter 19)

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