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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 14 (mf rom)
Date: Sun, 17 Nov 2002 06:10:04 -0500
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And the story continues.  Thanks for all the messages, folks.  I appreciate 
it.

Enjoy.







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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 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 14 -

NICKNAMES CAN BE FUN




Someday, I thought to myself, somebody will be able to explain to me
how come I suck at relationships with girls my own age.  And why I
couldn't seem to keep any sense about me when it came to older women.
Wendy was just too much of a hedonist for me.  I had to look the word
up in the Thesaurus, but I was pretty sure that was the right term
for her.  And now I was deathly afraid that I had ruined my
friendship with Kip and Davey's mom, too.  And, to top it all off, I
always seemed to blow any chance of having a girlfriend for more than
about five minutes.

I know, I know, it was my own damn fault.  I was willing to admit
it: I was extraordinarily stupid when it came to girls.

Why was I being so hard on myself?  I could explain it in four
simple words.

I never called Becky.

All weekend long, I agonized about what I would say to her, after
Saturday.  I have never been good at making small talk, that chatty,
unimportant chitchat that comes so naturally to some people.  I get
tongue-tied, and my brain freezes up, and the pauses in my already
stilted conversations get long enough to become uncomfortable for me,
as well as the unfortunate I happen to be conversing with.  My
solution?  Why, to avoid potentially troublesome situations, of
course.  Which, as we all know, only makes matters worse.  But I was
16.  Not facing up to my responsibilities in relationships was a
specialty of mine.

Not that Becky and I had much of a relationship.  It was kind of a
budding one, I suppose, but I still had not given up hope that
Kristina and I might be able to get back together, either.  And Becks
and I had never talked about boyfriends and girlfriends, and dating
each other, and all that.  But I had an idea of what her expectations
might be, and here I was, falling well short once again.

I was fucked up, and there was no doubt about it.

Monday was a rainy holiday, so Jake and I hid out at the shopping
center.  There was a new video game out, Pac-Man, and we spent all
afternoon feeding quarters into the machine, taking turns with the
joystick.  It was mind numbing, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Reality came crashing back down on me on Tuesday, however.  It was a
mild, sunny day, but there were thunderheads inside the school,
evident every time I saw Becky.  If looks could kill, I would have
been fried to a crisp several times that day.  I took to walking the
halls hunched over, as if I was expecting raining blows to land on my
head and shoulders at any time.  By the time school ended, I was
relieved to be able to head for the locker room.  I was looking
forward to getting out on the track and running.

Normally, our weekly practice schedule was the same.  Monday's
practices consisted of an hour of drills, and an hour of watching
film of our last game.  Tuesdays were devoted to conditioning drills,
Wednesdays were scrimmages.  On Thursdays, we watched film of our
upcoming opponents for an hour, discussing their strengths and
weaknesses, and then we spent an hour working on plays we thought we
could use in Friday's game.  This week, being a holiday week, meant
that we would be practicing for three hours on Tuesday, so we could
still see our game film, and get in a full practice session.

When I met up with the other guys in the locker room, we were just
buckling on our shin guards and lacing up our shoes, when we heard
loud voices coming from the direction of the offices.  Eric, Trent
and I looked at each other quizzically, but none of us knew what the
ruckus was about, and nobody was willing to venture over there.  If
Coach Neville or Coach Simonson, our assistant coach, wanted us
involved, they would come out and get us.  We filed out the door, and
headed out to the track to begin running our laps.

After about 15 minutes, the two coaches came out the door, led by
Adam Prince and Anthony Rogers, who looked pretty disgusted.  Adam
and Anthony started running around the track as the coaches began
setting up the drills they wanted to work.

Eric slowed down, waiting for Anthony to catch up to him, and the
two of them trotted around side by side.  Anthony was filling Eric in
on what had transpired, I knew, so we would find out in due time.

During the drills, I only had a chance to stop for a moment and ask
Eric what was going on.

"I still don't know, man," he said quietly.  "Tony was really
ragging on, something about the challenge ladder.  I still don't have
it straight."

We finished our outside work, and we headed back inside to the
classroom where the projector was set up.  It was an easy win for us,
so there wasn't a lot that Coach Neville really had to say about the
game, but he did stop the film several times so he could draw the
developing plays out on the chalkboard, showing us where we might
have improved our play, or where our opponents might have penetrated,
had they been a better team.  His real lesson during that session was
that, no matter how well you thought you might have played, there was
always room for improvement.

After the film was finished, Coach turned the lights back on, and
called for our attention.

"The first challenge for position on the team challenge ladder has
been issued," he announced.  "Adam Prince is challenging Anthony
Rogers for his starting position."

Adam stood up defiantly.  "No, I'm not," he said.  He looked over at
me contemptuously.  "You want me to challenge Anthony, but I still
say I want to challenge Porter for his spot."

Coach Neville pushed his hands at Adam, indicating that he should
sit, which he reluctantly did.  Coach removed his glasses, and began
to absentmindedly polish them on his shirt.

"We have already had this discussion, Mr. Prince.  Since you insist
on being pugnacious about this, I will inform the rest of the team of
our earlier conversation."  He sighed, put his glasses back on, and
then continued.  "Mr. Prince, as he has indicated just now, was
interested in pursuing an opportunity to earn a starting position,
and he wished to play in our defensive position currently handled by
Sean Porter.  I have informed Mr. Prince, and I now inform you all,
that there are certain positions on our team that I consider to be
inviolable and unchallengeable, sacred if you will.  Those positions
are Trent Abbott's forward spot, and Sean Porter's defensive
position.  One other player will be, if I may use the term,
protected, but still may be challenged if I feel the challenger has
proven merit, and that is Jorge Mendoza's keeper duties.  As far as I
am concerned, any other position may be challenged, but these three,
being the basis for our strengths as a team, are not subject to
change through the challenge ladder.  Therefore, I have refused Mr.
Prince's request to challenge for Mr. Porter's position, and
suggested that, if he wished, he could challenge for the left
defensive position."

"But..." began Adam.

"But nothing," interrupted Mr. Neville.  "Do you wish to challenge
Mr. Rogers, or do you withdraw your challenge?  Those are your
choices."

I stood up.  "Wait just a minute," I said.  "I'm not sure I want to
be a sacred cow."  The entire team laughed.  "I mean, if I can't keep
up with a snot-nosed freshman, maybe I don't deserve the spot
anyway," I continued.

I could see Adam's face turning red at the insult.  He jumped up.
"So you accept?" he asked eagerly.

I stared at him.  "Sure, weasel," I said.

The room went silent as we all watched Adam's eyes bug out.
"Weasel?  Get ready to eat my dust, Porter.  Then we'll see who the
weasel really is."  He stood up straighter, and looked around the
room.  "I choose as my partner," and he paused, as if for dramatic
effect, "Eric Johnson."

Eric nearly fell onto the floor.  "Uh-uh, no way am I helping The
Weasel to beat Porter," he said.  "Get yourself some other do-gooder.
It ain't gonna be me."

That took a little of the wind out of Adam's sails.  I thought he
had been planning on taking Eric, so I couldn't rely on him, and now
he was stuck.

"Okay," he said.  "In that case, I choose Robert Anderson."

"Sheee-it," came a drawl from Robert.  "If this quest ain't good
enough for my man Eric, it sure as shit ain't good enough for me.
Count me out, Weasel."  He slouched in his chair, a stubborn look on
his face, his arms crossed in defiance.

Adam looked as if he had swallowed a bowling pin.  His eyes were
bugged out, and his face was beet red, his mouth opening and closing
soundlessly.

"Have you had enough yet?" asked Coach Neville quietly.

"No!" shouted Adam.  He looked wildly around the room at his
teammates, wondering whom he could enlist.  "I... I choose Brett
Oldman, then."

There was a snort from the front of the room.  "Third choice, huh?"
Brett stood and turned to face Adam and the rest of the team.  "Under
normal circumstances, I would let you crash and burn right here and
now, Weasel, but I'll tell you what I'll do.  I'll be your partner,
Prince.  And I promise you I will play hard for you, and try to win
with you.  But if we fail, Prince, here's the deal.  You will never
challenge me for stopper.  Deal?"

Adam was stuck with no place to go.  "Deal," he muttered.

"Mr. Porter?  Who would you like as your second?" asked Coach.

"Eric Johnson," I replied.

"Good.  The challenge will be played tomorrow during practice."
Coach looked around the room questioningly.  "Any other comments?
No?  Good.  Dismissed, gentlemen."

He gave me a significant look, so I hung back until the room had
emptied.

"Are you sure about this, Sean?" he asked.

"Don't worry, Coach," I replied.  "Eric and I will toast him good."

"I trust you are right about this, Mr. Porter.  I would be very
disappointed, and not a little embarrassed, if you were to lose this
challenge."

"Prince is good, and Oldman is very good, Coach.  But Eric is better
than either of them, and I can hold my own against a freshman."

"Don't let his age lull you, Mr. Porter," he admonished.  "Many a
warrior has been taken down by underestimating a younger opponent."

"I'm not underestimating him.  But I've got Rocket Johnson on my
side.  He'll torch Weasel so badly, he'll have burn marks on his ass."

"That's quite enough, Mr. Porter," said Coach.  But I could see a
smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, all the same.  "See you
tomorrow," he finished, dismissing me.





The next day, we ran through our warm-up procedures.  Coach Neville
set up the scrimmages, leaving Adam, Brett, Eric, and me standing on
the sidelines until he was done.  He left Coach Simonson in charge of
the scrimmage, and led the four of us to another practice field,
where two nets were already set up across the width of the field.

"Okay, Eric and Sean, you take the far side.  Adam and Brett, you
defend the near side.  No goalies, standard game rules.  Challengers
start with the ball on the midfield stripe.  If the ball goes out of
bounds, instead of a throw-in, the team with the ball gets a free
indirect kick.  If I blow this whistle, the game stops.  Depending on
why I stop the game, we will probably restart with a drop ball.  The
first team to 5 points, winning by two, takes the position being
challenged.  Any questions?"  The look on his face discouraged
questions, even from someone as thick-skinned and clueless as Adam,
so we took our positions.

Coach blew his whistle to start, and the game was on.  Adam dinked
the ball to Brett, but it was a weak opening kick, and Eric took
advantage by elbowing Brett off the ball, taking it away, and lofting
it into the open field.  I ran toward the bouncing ball, with Adam
hot on my heels, and kneed it back over to Eric, who popped it into
the net.  One-nil for us.

On the second possession, Brett shot a strong pass over to Adam,
right through Eric's legs, and just like that, it was 1-1.

At 2-2, our possession, Eric turned on the afterburners and streaked
by Brett.  Adam decided the threat was too great, so he left me, and
tried to angle Eric off the goal.  Brett caught up on the switch, but
it was too late, and Eric's pass led me by about five feet, making it
way too easy for me to hit the back of the net.  We were up, 3-2.

On Adam's possession, I was all over him by his third stride into
our half, so much so that, if it had been a real game, I probably
would have been called for a foul.  As it was, Coach let us play on,
and Adam tried to force a shot past me, from too far away, and it
glanced off my leg, and went wide right and out of bounds.  Our
possession, from the goal line.

Adam and Brett were a little winded, so they backed off, allowing us
to advance the ball across our half of the field unobstructed.  Eric
had the ball, and he sped up, pressing Brett.  Adam was crowding me,
making sure he stayed between me and their goal, trying to impede my
advance down the field.  I thought he was thinking he could muscle me
off the play, similar to what I had done to him on their last
possession.  I didn't mind at all, especially since I had worked out
a couple of special plays with Eric on the phone, the night before.
This situation fit right into one of them, and Eric recognized it,
too.  He allowed Brett to close a little, and then he passed across
the field to just behind me, and Brett followed the ball's direction,
anticipating an errant pass rolling behind me.  Instead, I cocked my
right leg, swept it behind me, and gave Eric a heel-pass give-and-go
that we had developed during Duane Olchick's clinic.  He picked up
the pass, and, since Brett was caught woefully out of the play, was
all alone and wide open as he tapped the ball into the net.  It was
game point, at 4-2, and all over except for the shouting.  An easy
steal later, and our opponents only made a cursory try at defense,
and Eric and I walked away with a 5-2 victory.

As we walked off the field, back toward where the rest of the team
was still playing, Brett trotted up to Eric and me.

"That was a great play, that behind-the-back pass, Sean," he said.

"Thanks," I replied.  "That was one of the tricks we learned over
the summer from Olchick."

"Really?  Can you show it to me sometime?"

"Sure," I said.  "Maybe tomorrow after practice."

"Porter!"  Adam sounded angry as he came up behind us.

I stopped and turned around, sighing.  "What the fuck do you want,
Weasel?"

Angrily, he said, "First of all, stop calling me Weasel."

Eric was at my side.  "If you earn the name, Weasel, you better
learn to live with it," he said threateningly.

Adam took a step back, putting his hands up in front of him.  "What
did I ever do to you?" he asked innocently.

Before Eric could take a step toward him, I put a hand on his arm to
stop him.  He was breathing fire, and he looked like he wanted to
tear Adam's arm off and beat him unconscious with it.

Brett stepped up to save the kid's bacon.  Facing Adam, his back to
us, he said through clenched teeth, "What did you do to him?  You
wanted to use him to take Sean's position.  You wanted to cash in on
their friendship.  You wanted to divide this team into pro-Prince
versus pro-Porter.  You wanted to bring a little spotlight onto
yourself, at Eric's and Sean's expense.  And, incidentally, you tried
to drag me into the middle of all this, too."

Adam had the good grace to look abashed.  He mumbled what sounded
like an apology, and then stood there, content to let us walk away
and leave him standing there.

Eric was not quite finished, however.  He turned back.  "Weasel?
Don't do it again.  Don't challenge Sean, don't challenge Anthony,
don't challenge Brett.  And don't even think about challenging me.
Got it?"

Adam just stood, rooted in place, and nodded.

"And get used to the name, Weasel.  It fits you, so it's yours.
Understand?"  Again, Adam merely nodded.  Eric looked a little less
angry, a little more satisfied with the outcome of the afternoon.  As
he turned away from the freshman, he said, "See?  Nicknames can be
fun."  Eric stepped back to rejoin Brett and me, without waiting for
Adam's reluctant, assenting nod.




(Continued in Chapter 15)



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