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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 1-4  (mf rom)
Date: Thu, 28 Nov 2002 02:10:04 -0500
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 1 -

SEAN PORTER'S DILEMMA


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...



In the spring of 1981, I was experiencing a crisis.  I was a 16-year-
old soccer jock with girl trouble brewing, ready to spill out and
burn me good.  On this particular weekend, I had spent Saturday
afternoon fooling around with Kristina Mendoza, the girl I had been
dating for a few weeks, only to end up frustrated when her mother
called, interrupting our fun, and she had to go home.  Later that
same afternoon, I helped coach a team of younger kids, a boy's under-
8 soccer team, to their first win of the season, and we all
celebrated by going out for pizza and sodas afterwards.  Davey and
Kip, two kids I had been working with who were on the team, fell
asleep in my car as I was driving them home, so I carried them into
their house, where my old girlfriend, Molly O'Toole, was babysitting.
One thing led to another, and before I could stop it, Molly and I
were going at it on the family room floor.

Now, here it was, Sunday afternoon, and I still couldn't work up the
courage to call Kristina, even though I knew she was waiting to hear
from me.  Not only did I screw Molly, but I had the feeling I had
royally screwed myself by letting the little head do my thinking for
me last night.  I had no idea what I should do.

So I did nothing, which was probably even worse.  I hid at home most
of the day, even though it was a gorgeous spring Sunday.  I didn't
want to see anybody, I didn't want to talk to anybody.  I couldn't
even stand being in my own skin.  I tried to tell myself to give
Kristina a call, pretend that everything was all right, but I knew
things weren't all right, and I knew my voice would betray me.  I
thought about calling her brother Jorge, one of my best friends, but
I wouldn't know how to explain it to him, either.  My best buddy Jake
would be sympathetic, but he had his own troubles, ever since he was
caught with his pants down, literally, with his next-door neighbor,
Jaimie.

It was just too much of a dilemma for a 16-year-old kid.

So I stayed locked away from the world at large, hiding in my room
(it almost sounds like a Brian Wilson song; in fact, it felt like a
Brian Wilson song).  I dreaded going to school on Monday, but I knew
I wouldn't be able to effectively fake an illness.  Mom and Dad had
seen it all with my older brother Mike, and he pretty much ruined it
for me and my younger brother Stephen when it came to trying to scam
the parents.

Monday morning dawned cold and rainy, perfect for my mood.  In the
hallway before first class, I imagined that everybody around me was
whispering and pointing at me accusingly, knowing practically first-
hand what had happened over the weekend.  I kept my head buried in my
locker, trying to will myself into some sort of invisibility.

By lunchtime, I was a wreck.  I wanted to move away, start life over
under a new identity.  Everything, including what little future I
had, looked bleak.  And then, things got really bad.

I was standing under the canopy of one of the rear doors of the
school during lunch.  It was one of the spots where the smokers
tended to congregate, but I was hoping that the weather would
discourage a lot of them.  Of course, today I couldn't be that lucky,
and I was enveloped in a blue-white cloud of cigarette smoke as I
tried to choke down my sandwich.  Finally, I had enough, and
disgustedly tossed the rest of my lunch away and yanked open the
door.  I thought maybe the library would be a safe place to hang out
for the rest of my lunch period, so I headed in that direction, only
to bump into Jorge Mendoza.

Jorge was a couple of inches shorter than me, but what he lacked in
height, he more than made up for in ferocity.  He grabbed the front
of my shirt and pushed me back against the wall.

"What the fuck is going on, Sean?" he growled.

I put my hands up in resignation, and tried bluffing.  "What do you
mean?  Get off of me, Jorge."

"You know what I mean," he said.  "Rumor has it you're back together
again with Molly.  So tell me, Porter.  What the fuck is going on?"

"No, I'm definitely not back together with Molly.  Where did you
hear that?"

"The usual sources," he admitted.  He let me go, but still stood
close to me, not willing to give me a chance to slip away.  "So how
would a rumor like that get started?"

"Uh," I said cleverly.  My mind was scrambling for something
plausible to say, and was coming up blank, as usual.

"You din' call Kristina all weekend, either.  And she's pretty upset
about it.  It's pretty suspicious, Sean," he continued.

I desperately needed a friend in my corner, if I had any hope of
redeeming myself in Kristina's eyes.  I had to hope that Jorge was
that friend.

"Look, Jorge, I need your help.  You've got to talk to Kristina for
me."

"Why, amigo?  Why don' you talk to her yourself?"

"Because I am drowning in a lake of shit, and she's probably going
to throw an anchor at me, instead of tossing a safety rope, when she
hears about this."  I put my arm around his shoulder and turned with
him to walk down the hallway.  I felt his shoulder muscles bunch up,
as if he wanted to shrug off my arm, but I was determined to enlist
his help here.  "I'll tell you all I have to tell, Jorge, but you've
got to help me convince your sister that I'm not the bad guy here," I
pleaded.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but at least he didn't
shove me away and bury me.  I steered him toward the library, where
we might be able to find a corner we could whisper, and I could
confess my sins.

I laid myself bare and told him nearly everything.  I told him about
studying with Kristina in the afternoon, about making out with her
after lunch.  I told him about the soccer game, and how well the boys
had played, and especially how the keepers had seemed to grasp what
Jorge had tried to teach them.  I told him about going out for a
pizza celebration afterward, about how the boys had fallen asleep,
and about how Molly had answered the door at the Wilkinson house.  I
told him about putting them to bed, and about how I was looking at
Molly's art project.  I confessed about being lulled by her, and I
told him about her little play with the wax banana, and how she used
it to her advantage.  I told him about fucking on the floor, sparing
no detail, offering no excuses, letting him see the Sean Porter I had
come to loathe.  The only thing I didn't tell him was how his sister
looked on my family room floor, her hands on the back of my head,
pressing my mouth harder onto her naked pussy as I reveled in her
sweet taste, and how much she loved licking her own juices from my
face and lips.  I needed an ally, after all, not another enemy.

"Sean, you really fucked up," whispered Jorge as he shook his head.

"I know I did.  I've been beating myself up about it since it
happened.  But what do I do about it?" I asked in desperation.

"I dunno.  Lemme work on it a little."  Jorge stood up from the
table and walked away, still shaking his head.

Maybe I had found an ally.  I hoped I had.  Then again, maybe I had
given him all the ammunition he needed to bury me.








- 2 -

RUNNING



Jorge was a true friend.  Even with all his efforts, though,
Kristina cried for a week after she found out about what happened,
and wouldn't hardly talk to me.  Molly started out the week
practically vamping around me, but after a couple of days of me not
even acknowledging her, she toned it down a little.  It was still
monumentally embarrassing for me, but there was nothing I could do
about it.  Maybe I was imagining it, but there seemed to be an awful
lot of whispering and finger-pointing going on in the halls between
classes as I walked alone through school.  My appetite was gone, and
I couldn't concentrate on homework.

What I did, instead, was run.  Every afternoon after school, I would
grab my soccer ball and head for the park and run laps around the
baseball fields and the soccer fields.  At first I just kicked the
ball and ran after it, getting some of my frustrations out by
slamming on the ball.  Chasing that ball down got old pretty fast, so
I began to give myself targets to kick at.  Maybe it was a stick in
the grass I would try to hit, or I would aim for a fence post and
give myself some imaginary give-and-go passes.  This progressed into
doing alternating laps dribbling with just my left foot, then my
right foot, then just the inside of each foot, followed by a lap
using just the outside of my foot.  By the end of the week, I had
added an occasional lap where I would try to keep the ball in the
air, juggling it off my foot, my knee, my head, shoulder, chest,
anything I had to do to keep the ball from hitting the ground.  That
was surprisingly hard to do, especially while trying to move around
the perimeter of a field.

Twice a week, Coach Bill and the team would meet me at the park for
practice.  Bill and I had allowed the boys to pick a team name, and
they decided to call themselves the Warriors.  Lori Wilkinson saw me
working out when she dropped off the boys for practice.  I was just
coming toward Bill and the boys, doing a crossover dribble that made
me look like a hopping, wounded duck, when I saw her walking toward
me, a big smile on her face.

"What are you doing, Sean?  It looks so funny," she said.

I was out of breath, and couldn't answer for a minute.  I wiped the
sweat off my face with the edge of my t-shirt.  I saw her eyes glance
at my belly, but I was huffing and puffing too much to suck it in.

"Torturing myself," I finally managed to reply.  "It looks pretty
odd, I know, but it makes me concentrate on the ball more."

"How early are you here before practice, Sean?  If you have time, I
know Davey and Kip would really like to play more soccer with you."

"That would be great," I said.  "Practice starts at 5:00, so if you
can bring them by around 4:15 or so, that will give us plenty of
time."

"Wonderful!"  Lori clapped her hands together in delight.  "I'll
tell them about it on the way home.  If I let them know now, they'll
be impossible to handle during practice, they'll be so excited."  Her
eyes were bright as she continued, "You've been so good for them.  I
can't even express how much you have meant for them, Sean."

We chatted for a few minutes more, as Coach Bill got his cones and
drills organized.  Other moms were driving up, dropping boys off for
practice.  Justin's mother saw Lori and me talking, and came over to
say hello.

"Sean," said Lori, "this is Wendy Marcus, Justin's mother."

Mrs. Marcus was short and chunky, very busty, with short, dark brown
hair.  "Hi, Mrs. Marcus, glad to meet you," I said, holding out my
hand.

She held my hand in hers, her fingers tracing along my hand as
lightly as feathers.  "Please," she said with a twinkle in her eye,
"call me Wendy."  She turned to Lori.  "You're right, Lori, he is to
die for."  She actually winked at me as she turned and walked back to
her car, giving her backside a little extra wiggle as she went.  I
just stood there goggling at her.  Lori snorted, then burst out
laughing.

"Subtlety is not Wendy's long suit," she said with a chuckle.

"I guess not," I mumbled, embarrassed.

"I'll see you after practice, Sean," said Lori.  She waved to Davey
and Kip, and walked up the slope toward her car.  I caught myself
admiring her ass as she was walking away, comparing her slim backside
to Wendy's more substantial one, and gave myself a mental boot in the
ass for it.  'Jesus Christ, Sean, aren't you in enough hot water over
women?  Now you're going to go letching Mrs. Wilkinson?' I chided
myself.

I trotted over to catch up with Bill, so we could go over the drills
he had in mind for that day's practice.





I had also called Mrs. Dailey, from the soccer association, and told
her I would be glad to referee any games she wanted.  After some
convincing that I really did have the time for such a schedule, she
assigned three games to me for Saturday, and three for Sunday.  Along
with Coach Bill's game, that meant I would be at seven soccer games
each weekend, more than enough to keep me busy, exhausted, and out of
trouble.

The next Saturday morning, I started at 9:00 with an under-8 girl's
match, followed immediately by an under-12 boy's game that required a
lot of running on my part.  I had an hour break for lunch, and then
it was back to the field for the Warriors game.  I just had time to
help Bill pack up his equipment, and I was off to referee my third
game, an under-12 girl's game.

On Sunday, I worked as a referee in two games, and as a linesman for
an adult game.  By the time I got home late Sunday afternoon, I was
sweaty, tired and hungry, and I still had all my homework to do.  I
spent about 15 minutes on the phone with my best friend Jake Lehigh,
and managed to crawl into bed by 9:00, looking forward to simply
closing my eyes and allowing my troubles to float away for a few
short hours.

The next week it was more of the same, except that I wasn't quite
the monster at school that I had been.  Typical of such an
environment, a new crisis emerged that took the spotlight off me, and
nearly everybody, except for the primary players in the Sean Porter
Soap Opera, pretty much forgot about it all.  Even my best buddies,
Eric Johnson and Jake, dropped the subject, leaving just Kristina and
Jorge, Molly and me to address the lingering issues.

And even the other three players in the drama never mentioned the
one issue that was scaring the shit out of me: because of our little
adventure, I was afraid Molly might be pregnant.





- 3 -

TRYING TO MAKE AMENDS


Finally, the place we all most liked to hang out, the Dairy Queen,
opened for the season.  I  headed over there between games on a
Saturday, and found a bunch of kids there.  Molly and her  best
friend, Tessa Navarrone, were sitting at a table with Tessa's
boyfriend, Austin Graves,  and, of all people, Joey Amonte, one of
Richie Del Toro's Bulls, our local version of a gang of  bad boys.
Joey was acting large, no doubt because he had one of the prettiest
girls in school  sitting next to him.  I ordered a hot fudge sundae
and joined Toby Mueller, Ashley Horvath, Josh  O'Toole, and Andrea
Coulter at another table.  Toby and Ashley had started going out
together  right after the Turnabout Dance, and Josh, Molly's twin
brother, had been going with Andrea  since around the first of the
year.

As I sat down, I nodded in the direction of the other table.

"What's up with that?" I asked.

Josh looked disgusted.  "You know," he said, "I used to think that
Molly was pretty much okay,  as sisters go.  But lately..."  He just
shook his head at the sight of his cheerleader sister  sitting with
one of the true losers of our school.

Andrea grasped his hand, as if she could somehow channel support
into him.

"Hey, Sean," Toby began, "I thought you and M...  Ow!" he exclaimed,
giving Ashley a hurt look  as he reached down to rub his shin where
she had swiftly kicked him.  She was giving him a stern  look,
practically willing him to shut up, if all he could say was something
about me and Molly.

"So, Sean," said Ashley, trying to divert the conversation, "I hear
you've been refereeing a lot  this spring."

"Yeah," I said.  "I'm on an hour lunch break right now, and then I
have to go back and referee  one more game, and then the boy's team
I'm helping with has their game right after that."

"Is that the team with the Wilkinson boys on it?  I hear that Mrs.
Wilkinson is a hottie," said  Toby.  Again, out of the corner of my
eye, I could see Ashley trying to kick him into shutting  up, but
Toby wasn't going to let himself be caught within her range again.
He drew his feet up  and sat Indian style on the bench.

"Yeah, I guess she is," I said uncomfortably.  "I just coach the
boys, though.  After all, she's  kind of old.  Old enough to be a
mom, anyway."

"She could mother me anytime," laughed Josh.  That earned him a good-
natured jab from his  girlfriend.

"I guess I'd better be getting back," I said as I stood and tossed
my empty paper cup into the  trash can.  "Gotta keep them young 'uns
in line, don'tcha know."  I hopped back on my bike, but  before I
could pedal off, Kristina Mendoza walked around the corner of the DQ.
She stopped  short when she saw me, and then nonchalantly walked over
to the table where Molly and Tessa were  sitting.  I heard the tone
of her voice, if not the actual words, as I rode away, making me feel
hollow and empty inside.




The Warriors were gaining a reputation as the Under-8 Boy's team to
beat.  Bill and I had worked  out a good schedule for practices that
took advantage of the high energy levels and the short  attention
spans of boys that age.  We did some warm-up drills first, followed
by some simple  passing drills, making sure all the boys were kept
moving in patterns.  After a short break, we  started up with
scrimmages.  Sometimes we played full-field scrimmages, dividing the
team into  two squads.  Other times, we played 3-on-3 short sets,
rotating teams around in a kind of  round-robin tournament and
playing across the width of the field.  Other times, we played the
World Cup game, usually with me in goal.

We also developed a scrimmage we called Freeze Soccer.  We would
divide the team into two squads  for a full-field scrimmage, and let
them go at it.  When they heard either Bill or me blow the  whistle,
they had to freeze right where they were.  We would then give them a
specific  instruction, such as "Red team take 3 giant steps to your
right", or "Blue team switch forwards  and backs", or "You can only
touch the ball two times".  All of our instructions during Freeze
Soccer were designed to keep them from bunching up.  We were trying
to instill in them the  concept of keeping as much space around them
as they could, giving them confidence to pass into  open space
instead of into a crowd.  Sometimes it worked beautifully, sometimes
it failed  miserably, but both Coach Bill and I knew we were building
a good foundation for all these boys  as they progressed in their
soccer pursuits.  In the meantime, we discovered that the lessons we
were giving them, under the disguise of practice fun, were carrying
over into game situations.   Our team average of goals scored per
game was 6, and the average of goals scored against us was  just
under 1.

At the game later that afternoon, all the moms, along with a few
dads, were crowded along the  near sideline for the game.  Some of
the boys had brothers or sisters who were starting to catch  the
soccer bug, and there was an impromptu passing game going on behind
the parents as Bill and  I organized the warm-ups.

We had come up with the idea of using our criss-cross passing and
shooting drill as our standard  game warm-up.  We called it our
Warrior Warm-up Shuffle.  It was a very efficient drill, in  which we
divided the boys into four groups of three or four players each.  We
had a group line  up at each of the goalposts, with the other two
groups about 12 meters straight out from the  posts.  Our starting
keeper was in the net, and the balls were lined up by the goalposts.
The  boys at the posts were to alternate passing the ball across to
the boys on the outside, across  from their position.  Those players
would trap the ball, set themselves up with a touch or two,  then
take a shot on goal.  They would then rotate around, until each
player had passed from each  corner, and taken a shot from each
position.  The drill not only warmed them up for the game by  keeping
them moving around from position to position, but it also helped them
to kick the ball  where they intended, it gave them a chance to shoot
on goal, plus it gave our keepers lots of  opportunities to try to
stop a 10-meter open shot.  We could even vary the drill by making
the  players receiving the passes one-touch the ball across to the
boy on the other side, giving them  an opportunity to practice their
crossing passes.

By the time the referee came over to check equipment, the boys were
warmed up and anxious to  play.  We announced our starting lineups,
and let the boys know who the first substitutions  would be, and had
the team gather around Bill and I for last-minute reminders, a
routine we had  developed early on in the season.

"How do we play the game, boys?" asked Bill.

"Zones and lanes!" they all shouted.

"And what does zones and lanes mean?" he continued.

"Lanes are up and down the field," said Justin, "and zones are back
and forth."

"Right!  Okay, can you cross into the zone or lane next to yours?"

"Yes!" came the collective shout.

"How far over?"

"Five steps!"

"Right!  And can you cross two lanes over?"

"No!" came the resounding yell from the boys.

"Okay, boys," finished Bill, "go out there and have fun."

With a final "Go Warriors!" cheer from the boys, the starting lineup
raced into their positions  on the field and prepared for the opening
whistle.

We had heard from some of the boys, and some of our fellow coaches,
that the team we were  playing, the Eagles, was a pretty good team,
well coached with some talented kids.  In  particular, they had two
of the best keepers in our league, plus they were rumored to have a
very fast player who loved to play forward and score goals.  However,
Bill and I were confident  enough in our team that we felt that our
opponents had to figure out how to beat us, rather than  us trying to
change our game plan to suit an opponent's game.  Besides, we really
felt that the  Warriors needed to face a challenge soon.  Otherwise,
practices were going to become less  important to some of the boys if
they thought that winning was so easy.

And the Eagles were good.  Before we even had a chance to challenge
their starting keeper to see  how effective he was, their fastest
player, a small Hispanic boy who controlled the ball as if  it was
lined with iron and his feet were magnets, took control of an early
play.  He seemed to  know the limits we had assigned to our lanes,
and managed to find the seams where our boys  weren't supposed to
double-team.  One against one, not a single player of ours could keep
up  with him, and within the first five minutes of the game, he
squirted through our defense twice,  approaching our goal with the
ball.  The first time, his shot went wide as our keeper came out,
just like he was supposed to do.  The next time, our keeper was a
little slow in coming out to  challenge the boy, and the ball slipped
past him, and into the back of the net.  For the first  time all
season, we were behind in a game.

Panic set in on our side of the field.  All of a sudden, the
Warriors were scrambling all over  the field, and our lanes and zones
got sloppier and sloppier as the players gave in to  temptation and
started stalking the ball, wherever it went.  Oddly, it slowed down
the Eagles  after the game had degenerated into swarmball.  They only
scored twice more on us during the  first half.  The Warriors, on the
other hand, couldn't manufacture even one goal against their
opponents.  We couldn't even mount a serious challenge on their
keeper.  Bill was pacing the  sidelines, calling out to his players,
practically pleading with them to play their positions,  but our team
was beyond the reach of our coaching out on the field by then.

At halftime, the boys were panting and jittery about what was going
on out on the field.  Bill  and I handed out water and orange slices,
and asked the boys to sit around us and try to be  quiet, instead of
yelling at each other about blown coverages and missed assignments.

"It's not so bad," I said to the boys.

"It's terrible!" retorted Andrew.  "They're really good.  Better
than us."

"So what?" said Bill.  "Maybe they are better than you, maybe they
aren't.  Does that mean  you're just going to give up?"

"No!" shouted Davey.  "Warriors don't give up!"

Andrew looked abashed as the rest of the team reluctantly agreed.

"But what can we do about that kid?" asked Andrew.

Now we had their attention.  They were frustrated, and ripe for some
better playmaking  decisions.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," I said.  "Devon, you're going
to be our goalie, and our  defensive co-captain."  He nodded, and
reached for the keeper's jersey.  "All the defensive  players on the
field, listen for instructions from Devon.  A lot of the time, the
keeper can see  what's happening on the field better than the players
that are involved with the ball, so he  will be in charge of
directing you guys around.  Davey, you will be the other co-captain,
in  charge of the offense.  You can move forwards and midfielders up
or back, and I want you to play  center-mid.  That way you can direct
everybody around you, if you need to.  Zones and lanes are  now
expanded to overlap by half."

"What do you mean, Sean?" asked Kip.

"That means that you still need to play your lanes and zones," I
said, looking around at all the  boys.  "But, you can cross over to
as much as half the zone or lane next to you.  But no more  than
half.  All right?  Everybody agree?"

There was a general mumble of agreement, until Bill's voice cut
through.

"Everybody needs to agree to the plan, otherwise it won't work," he
said.  "Does everybody  agree?"

With much more enthusiasm, the boys endorsed the plan.  Bill and I
got the boys standing, and we  gathered together for a unifying cheer
of "Go Warriors", and our second-half starting lineup  took the field.

With Bill and I shouting encouragement and suggestions to our
captains and the team, the second  half progressed a lot more
according to plan.  Devon moved the defense around a bit when he
thought it was necessary, but he was a little uncomfortable in the co-
captain's role, afraid of  being too bossy.  Davey, on the other
hand, reveled in his role as co-captain, and moved players  up and
back on his side of the field at whim.  Bill finally had to send in a
substitute with  specific instructions for Davey to only move players
when it was necessary.  He looked a little  disappointed when he
glanced over to the sidelines after receiving our message, but he
calmed  down out there, and let his players play the way they were
supposed to.

The expanded lanes and zones did the trick.  Every part of the
field, except for the sidelines,  were now double-covered, and our
midfielders and defensive players did a great job in shutting  down
the Eagles.  They got one more goal on us late in the game, and we
managed to make up some  ground on the offensive side.  Their keepers
were good, stopping 8 of our 10 good shots on goal.   The score at
the final whistle was Eagles 4, Warriors 2, but our kids still walked
away from  the loss feeling like they had played well, especially
after Bill pointed out to them that they  had won the second half, 2-
1.

As I was helping Bill pack up equipment and clean up our bench area,
Justin Marcus came toward  us, dragging his mother along by her hand.

"Sean!  My mom says it's okay!" he shouted as they got closer.

I was confused.  Did he tell me something earlier that I didn't
remember?  "What's okay?" I  asked.

"I'm sorry, Sean," said Mrs. Marcus.  "Justin asked if he could join
in when you were giving  Davey and Kip their soccer lessons.  I guess
he just forgot to ask you first," she added  sheepishly.

"No, that's fine," I said.  "It's just been for about 45 minutes
before practices.  I've been  here anyway, working on my own game,
and I'd be glad to have Justin work with us, if you can get  him here
that early."

"Oh, that's no problem, really.  I'll call Lori, and we'll work out
a schedule.  Is that okay?"

"Sure, that's fine," I said.  "It beats running by myself, too."

She handed me a slip of paper with her address and phone number on
it, waved to Bill, and headed  back across the field, Justin in tow.
I shoved the paper into my pocket and returned to picking  up the
rest of the orange peels scattered on the ground like so many lost
Halloween smiles.




Before going home to get cleaned up, I decided to swing by the DQ
one more time, just to see if  any of my friends were there.  Jorge
Mendoza was there, with Trent Abbott and Eric Johnson, two  more
friends from the varsity soccer team.  I plopped down on the bench
next to Eric.  He  lightly punched me on the arm in greeting.

"How you doing, Seanster," he said.

"Doing okay, I guess.  The boys lost their first game this
afternoon.  Got outplayed in the  first half, and couldn't make up
the lost ground," I said.

Eric grunted.  "Probably good for 'em, anyway," he said.  "They was
getting too confident,  probably."

"Probably," I agreed.  "All in all, it wasn't a bad thing."

Jorge stood up.  "You going to be here for a few minutes?" he asked
me.

I shrugged.  "Sure," I replied.

He walked over to the pay phone hanging on the side of the building.

Trent said, "Hey, are either of you signed up yet for the Olchick
clinic this summer?"

I looked over at Eric.  He looked as confused as I felt about the
question.

"What's the Olchick clinic?" he asked.

"You know Duane Olchick, right?"

"As in Duane Olchick, the pro soccer player?" I asked.

"No, Duane Olchick the pro fry cook at Mickey D's," said Trent
sarcastically.  "Of course, Duane  Olchick the pro soccer player.
He's running a clinic this summer.  Two weeks of intensive  training,
high school and college players.  I heard he might do some shorter
clinics with some  younger kids, too, right after.  Anyway, me and
Mikey Evanson were going to sign up.  You guys  need to ask Coach
Neville about it.  I'm sure he's got the information on it."  Coach
Neville  was our varsity soccer coach.

Jorge walked back to our table in time to catch the last of what
Trent was saying.  "Are you  talking about the Olchick clinic?  Yeah,
I t'ink Kristina and I are both going to go to that  this summer."

"Who were you calling, Jorge?" I asked.

He pointedly ignored my question.  "How about you, Eric?  You going
to go to the clinic?"

"I dunno," he replied.  "Depends on how much it's gonna cost.  I've
got to work a lot this  summer.  Gotta start saving up for college.
And Keisha's going to want me to spend some money  on her this
summer, probably."

"Man, you almost married," said Jorge disgustedly.  "She's really
got you by the cajones,  doesn't she?"

Eric smiled.  "Yes, she does, and sometimes that's every bit of
okay, amigo."

We all laughed at that.

A small voice drifted to us from around the corner of the building.

"Jorge?  Venido aqu�, por favor."

Jorge looked around toward the front of the Dairy Queen, then
glanced back at me a little  guiltily.

"Wait here, Sean.  I'll be right back," he said.

He walked over and around the corner.  Trent and Eric and I just
looked quizzically at each  other.  We could just hear two voices
murmuring in Spanish from that direction.  Finally, Jorge  came back
around the corner.  He pointed at me, and gestured for me to join
him.  I got up and  walked over to him.  He silently pointed me
around the corner, but he didn't accompany me over  to where Kristina
was sitting, alone, at another table, her back to me.  I looked at
him.  He  just shooed me along, and turned to rejoin the other guys.
I hesitated, and then walked over  and sat down opposite Kristina.
Her eyes were downcast, and they were red and teary.  She was
clutching a paper napkin nervously, and her shoulders were hunched.
It was obvious that she  didn't want to be here with me.  I couldn't
blame her.

"Hi," I said.

After a moment, she finally responded with a weak "Hi," still not
looking up.

"Look, Kristina," I blurted, "I know I hurt you.  You can't beat me
up any worse than I've been  beating myself up.  But it meant nothing
to me.  You've got to believe me!"

She looked up at me now, her eyes hard, pinning me down like a bug
in an eighth-grade science  project.  "It meant nothing to you?
Sean, it meant everything to me.  Everything!  You were so  kind to
me, so patient, I thought we were getting along really good, you
know?  I thought I  might even have been in love with you, and I
thought you might have felt the same for me.  And I  find out in the
worst possible way that it was all a lie!  And now you tell me it
meant nothing  to you?  Is that how you valued me?  You were willing
to risk losing me over 'nothing'?  And  this is supposed to make me
feel better?"  She just shook her head at my insanity, as tears
began to stream down her cheeks.

Hoo boy.  Now I had really stepped in it.  All the arguments, all
the rationalizations that had  sounded so logical in my mind, slipped
away like a deer through an early-morning fog.  I slid  out of my
seat and moved around the table to sit next to her.  I tried to drape
my arm around  her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, scooting away
from me down the bench.  I wasn't going to  give up so easily,
however, so I slid down next to her and grasped her hand in both of
mine.   She allowed this small comfort, at least.

"Kristina, I did love you.  I DO love you.  What do you want me to
say?  That it did mean  something?  It's just not true.  Molly and I
have a history, Kristina.  I can't help that.  I  never meant for
anything to happen.  You have to know that.  You know how she's been
lately,  Kristina.  I just got caught up in a bad moment.  If I
hadn't been tired from the game with the  kids, and worked up from
the...studying..."

She flashed me a look that told me I was on dangerous ground.  I
knew I should go slowly here,  but I was getting pretty worked up
now, myself.

"Well, it's true, and you should know it.  I promised I would take
things as slow as you wanted,  and I stopped when you said stop,
didn't I?"  She just looked at me noncommittally.  "Well,  didn't I,
Kristina?"  She reluctantly nodded in agreement.  "I stopped when you
said stop, but  that doesn't mean that I wasn't going to feel a
little frustrated," I continued.  I was on  unsteady ground here, but
it was too late to turn back.  "It was late, and I was tired, and I
think Molly just unconsciously took advantage of the situation, and I
just got caught up in it  without thinking.  Christ, if I could take
it all back, you know I would..." I trailed off,  finally running out
of apologies.  At least she hadn't removed her hand from my grasp
yet, which  I took to be a good sign.

Kristina took a big, shuddering sigh.  "I just can't pretend to
still be Molly's friend," she  said, almost to herself.  "Not after
what she's done.  I can hardly stand to look at her  anymore."  She
looked up at me again, her brown eyes large in her darkly tanned
face.  "I heard  a rumor, Sean.  Joey Amonte is telling people that
Molly told him she's going to have a baby."

I was speechless.  A baby?  Was it mine?  Was it even true?

"Sean?"  Kristina brought me back out of my suddenly dark thoughts.
"If it's true, if she's  pregnant because of you, I could not accept
that.  It's just all too horrible.  But if it's not  true..."  She
left the sentence unfinished.  I thought I understood: if Molly was
pregnant, it  was all over with Kristina, but if the rumor was false,
maybe - just maybe - Kristina would be  my girlfriend again sometime
soon.

Maybe.







- 4 -

TWO TELEPHONE CALLS


I spent the next week or so racking my brain trying to figure out
what to do.  I finally decided that the direct approach was probably
the best.  I certainly didn't want to confront her at school, so I
waited until I could get the nerve up to call her one evening.  After
pacing my room nervously, I finally called Molly.

"Hello?"

"Molly, it's Sean.  Can I talk to you for a minute?"

She chuckled softly, a throaty sound even over telephone wires.  "I
thought I'd hear from you eventually," she said.

"Hey, all I want to know is if what I've heard is true," I said
roughly.  "Nothing more."

"And what have you heard, Sean?" she asked, almost playfully.

I took a deep breath.  The next couple of minutes would have a very
real impact on the rest of my life.  "Are you pregnant, Molly?"

There was a long pause.  At the time, it felt like it was about an
hour before she said anything, but it was probably only a few seconds.

"What would you say if I told you I was, Sean?  Would you be happy?
Or would it upset you?"

I felt like my head was going to explode.  "Is it mine?" I croaked.

I heard her sigh on the other end of the line.  "I'm going to make
your day, Sean, and maybe even give Kristina Mendoza a little gift in
the process."  I could hear her take a big breath before continuing.
"There is no baby.  I'm not pregnant.  I've never been pregnant.
I've been on the pill since last fall.  If we hadn't broken up, I was
going to tell you about it at Christmastime."  She took a large,
hitching breath before continuing.  "Do you feel better now, Sean?
Do you?  I wish to Christ that I did."  And she hung up.

I set the telephone back down gently.  A great load had just been
lifted from me.  I felt great!

Or did I?  But I was too buzzed to consider that thorny question.

My first thought was to call Kristina and tell her the good news.  I
dialed the Mendoza home, and Jorge answered.

"Jorge!  I've got great news.  Molly's not having my baby.  I mean,
she's not pregnant.  I've got to let Kristina know!  Is she home?
Lemme talk to her, buddy."

"Hold on, man, take it easy.  I'll go get her.  You can tell her
yourself.  Thass great, Sean.  Hold on a minute."

The handset thumped down and I could faintly hear his footsteps
fading away.  In just a few moments, I heard somebody pick up the
phone.

"Kristina?  It's Sean.  Guess what?  I just talked to..."

The deep, rumbling voice of her father interrupted me.

"Kristina cannot come to the telephone," he said.  "You have
disappointed me greatly, Mr. Porter.  Do not call here again."

"Mr. Mendoza, please, I just need to..."

"No mas, Senor Porter.  No mas."  There was no room for argument in
his voice.

"Yes, sir.  No more," I agreed reluctantly.  With that, the line
went dead.

My buzz departed just as swiftly as it had arrived.





(Continued in Chapter 5)
















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