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Message-ID: <39482asstr$1038471005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 9-12  (mf rom)
Date: Thu, 28 Nov 2002 03:10:05 -0500
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Here's a repost of the first 16 chapters as a Thanksgiving gift.

Enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

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
Don't be shy!  I enjoy hearing from you.
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 9 -

NEW TRICKS AND OPPORTUNITIES



My club team had started up again by mid-summer.  Eric and I were
joined by Jorge, who made the team as keeper.  We had practices four
evenings a week, and played either one or two games on the weekends.

At about the same time, the Duane Olchick clinic began.  Olchick was
a Czech player who had been playing for three years in the U.S. and
was scheduled to go back to Europe in the fall to play.  He had a
couple of months of down time before he left, so he was running
clinics in several cities in the Midwest.  He had two weeks scheduled
here for college and high-school players, and the organizers had
announced that he would stay for one more week to work with a select
group of younger players.

Trent, Eric, Mike Evanson, Jorge, Kristina, John Bennington, Tessa
Navarrone, Ashley Horvath, and I were joined by a whole bunch of
players from other schools.  I didn't know most of them, but I was
surprised to see that some of the kids from the All-State team that I
had met at the banquet last winter were attending, including Jesse
Wilhoit and his sister Anna, Spencer Goldman from South High, and
Harlan Corwin from Rock Falls.

"Jesse!" I jogged over to them as they were getting out of their
car.  "Anna!  It's great to see you!"

"Porter!"  Jesse dropped his gear bag and extended his hand.  "Good
to see you, man.  I thought you'd probably be here."

I glanced over at his sister.

"Hi, Sean," she said shyly.  She smiled at me, a smile I remembered
very well.

"Hey," I said, "you got your braces off.  You look great, Anna."
And she did look great.  In the eight or nine months since I had last
seen her, she had filled out very nicely.  She had been a tall, thin
girl with dark hair and braces, seemingly a little awkward, even
though she was a respectable soccer player.  Now, she was even more
attractive, having grown up a little more.  She had been very self-
conscious of her braces, but now, without them, she smiled much more
easily, and when she smiled, her whole face lit up.

We started hauling their gear over by the fields.  "I thought you'd
be at school by now," I said to Jesse.  Jesse had been the only All-
American selection from our state in soccer, and he had a full
scholarship to the University of Florida.

"I leave in three weeks," he said.  "We've got conditioning
workouts, skills drills, and scrimmages the first two weeks, and then
formal tryouts after that.  Our first game is only a week after that,
so there's not that much time."

"Tryouts?" I asked.  "I thought you were on the team."

"Nah," he replied.  "Just because I've got a scholarship doesn't
mean I'm automatically on the team.  It just means that they think
I'll be able to make the team, and even contribute eventually.  But
if I don't make the team, you know that the free ride will be yanked
for the next year, so it's a true motivator.  Besides," he added, "I
don't think I'll have a problem making the team.  Making a starting
position will be a lot more difficult."

There were about 70 soccer players all told at the clinic.  Most of
the players were sitting in the bleachers, and a few kids were
passing a ball around on the field.  I introduced Jesse, Anna,
Spencer, and Harlan to the kids I knew.  Everybody knew who Jesse
was, of course, so he immediately became the center of attention,
until Duane Olchick and his assistants walked over and stood in front
of the bleachers.  One of the assistants blew a whistle, while a
second one brought the kids who had been on the field over to the
bleachers.

When everybody had quieted down and found seats, he began with
introductions.  He spoke with a slight accent that was quickly
forgotten.

"Hello, everybody, and welcome.  My name is Duane Olchick, and I am
happy to be with you for these next two weeks.  These are my
assistants."  As he named each one, they stepped forward and raised
their hands.  "Nicholas Arpente, Yuri Olchick, Anik Olchick, James
Bricker, Katrina Sorenno, and Tasha Wallace.  Yes, before you ask,
Yuri and Anik are my brothers, very good players in Europe.  James
comes to us from Connecticut, where he is their starting keeper, and
he will be working with all the goalkeepers here.  Katrina plays for
UCLA, and Tasha is a coach for the University of Arizona, after
starting for that team for the past four years."

He did a quick head count, and nodded to himself.  "Good.  We are
well represented here.  Now, some of you who have attended clinics in
the past might be wondering why there are both men and women players
here.  After all, most instructors at this level prefer to separate
men and women, because of the differences in the speed of their
games.  My own philosophy about the game of soccer is that the same
skill sets are used by all players, so there is no reason not to
teach all players these skills.  When it comes time to play as teams,
most of the time we will conduct separate men's and women's games,
though we will occasionally play combined, coed if you will, games.
And, you may have noticed that I said 'men and women', not 'boys and
girls'.  Despite how you may think of yourselves, or how your parents
or teachers or other adults think of you, here you truly are men and
women, not little children.  I will expect you to behave as adults,
work like adults, for the next two weeks.  Does this meet with the
approval of everyone?"

There was no dissention from any of us.

"Ya.  Good.  Now, I have seen film of some of the athletes here.
Please raise your hand when I call you, yes?  Jesse Wilhoit."  Jesse,
sitting next to me, raised his hand.  "Ah, yes," continued Duane,
"please stand, if you will.  All-American forward from Planey, going
to the University of Florida in the fall.  A very good player, no
real weaknesses in your game, except perhaps for a tendency to hold
the ball too long.  We will fix that.  Thank you, please sit.  Harlan
Corwin?  All-Stater from Rock Falls.  Also a forward, from the team
that won the state championship last fall.  Good ball handler, but
your shots on goal can tend to be soft.  We will work on that.  Thank
you.  Erica Yost?"  A girl I didn't know raised her hand.  "All-
Stater from North, likes to play sweeper, co-captain of your team,
excellent at anticipating passes and blocking lanes, but your
clearing kicks are sometimes errant.  By the end of the clinic, you
will be rocketing the ball exactly where you want it to go, Erica.
Thank you.  Sean Porter?"  I raised my hand.  "Ah, yes, a classic
defenseman, playing beyond your years, but with a tendency to pass a
little too quickly, whether the situation calls for it or not.  We
can teach selfishness, no?"  He looked around at his assistants with
a smile.  "Yes, I think we can.  Thank you."

And he continued with his performance, calling on every player who
had been chosen for All-Sectional or better honors, giving each a
compliment on their game and pointing out an area for improvement,
impressing us all that he had actually watched so much game film
before the clinic that he could make these points right from the
beginning.  If nothing else, the astounding feat reinforced our
resolve to do our best over the next two weeks.

During the next two days, Olchick and his crew mixed us around with
conditioning drills and ball-handling drills, shifting partners or
groups every 15 or 20 minutes, keeping us moving around the four
fields.  Sometimes we were running sprints without soccer balls,
sometimes we were doing circular relay races with balls, other times
we were doing three-person weaves down the length of each field,
running from one field to the next to the next.

By the third day, we were all fighting through complaining muscles,
but they kept at us, only giving us a couple of quick breaks for
water, until lunchtime.  I had thought I was in shape, from all the
running I had been doing, but Olchick and his assistants quickly did
away with that conceit.  At the end of the morning session, we all
limped toward our cars, panting and sweating, anxious to get to some
air-conditioned restaurant to cool down for a bit.

When we had straggled back to the fields for the afternoon session,
Duane had us sit in the bleachers.

"Good news," he said with a smile.  "You have survived the first two
and a half days of my torture session.  Now, the fun begins."  He
outlined his plans for the rest of the week, which included brief
classroom sessions, watching game films, and playing all-out games.

By the end of Friday's session, I had played more quality soccer
than I had practically all season long the previous fall.  All these
players were better than good, both the guys and the girls.  When
Olchick and his team divided us up into two men's teams, we were so
evenly matched that the scrimmages got more and more intense, until
all of us were playing way beyond our abilities as individuals.  We
played two full 90-minute games every day, one in the morning and one
in the afternoon, and when we weren't playing, we were either
stretching, dribbling, juggling, or watching film, and sometimes we
were doing two of these activities simultaneously.

The film that Duane chose each day was either a tape of one of our
own games, taped by his brothers, or it was a game from the European
Leagues, or a World Cup classic match-up.  He had a tent set up for
us to watch the film, and he put a film of plastic over the
television screen so he could stop the tape and sketch a play or
point out a pattern with chalk.  He showed us how particular plays
developed, and even threw in some bloopers for us, just to see if we
were paying attention.

On Friday afternoon, he had a play that had occurred in our men's
game the day before frozen on the screen.

"Do you see this?" he asked, tapping the image of Jesse Wilhoit on
the television.  "What happens here?"

Jesse answered.  "I took a pass from Hap Stanford, there in the
middle, and I tried to one-touch it back to him on a give-and-go, but
Porter here," and he gave me a shove, practically pushing me over,
"was all over me like white on rice, and I couldn't complete the
pass."

"And why couldn't you finish the pass?" Duane persisted.

"Well, the pass came in front of me, and Porter was dogging me.  It
was all I could do to keep him from taking the ball away from me, so
I couldn't control the ball well enough to touch it back to Stanford."

"Ah," said Duane with satisfaction.  "Exactly.  Now, what would have
happened if you had sped up just a little, so that the pass ended up
behind you?"

"I'd probably have tripped over Porter's big feet," said Jesse,
eliciting a laugh from everybody.  "Aside from that, I would have had
to turn around to get to the ball."

"Really?" asked Duane, a look of pleased surprise on his face.  "But
perhaps not.  I think Nicholas and Katrina can show you something
new, yes?"

With that, he led us all back out onto the field.  He set up Katrina
as passer, Nicholas as receiver, about 20 meters apart.  "Mr. Porter?
If you would be so kind as to be our defender?"  He gestured for me
to join his coaches on the field, while the rest of the students
gathered along the sidelines.  "Now, Sean, defend against the pass
just as you did the other day, please."

Finally, he was satisfied with the preparations, and he blew his
whistle.  Katrina started dribbling down the field, and Nicholas
paced her along the sideline.  I stayed close to him, trying to block
the passing lane to stop the give-and-go.  I saw Katrina pass the
ball behind Nicholas, and I stopped, certain the pass was going to
miss us completely, when Nicholas planted his left foot, swept his
right foot behind his left, and neatly used his heel to redirect the
ball back toward the middle of the field, practically placing it on
Katrina's foot as she ran by us.  It was the slickest move I had ever
seen, and the reaction from the sideline was similar to what I was
feeling.  Duane stood there, a smile on his face, his arms crossed,
as he surveyed the murmuring crowd.

"Ah, I see I show you something new, yes?  Good.  But it takes
practice.  The pass must be good, the timing of the leg sweep is
crucial, the angle of the ball will determine where it ends up after
the pass.  All must go well for it to work, but when it is done
correctly, it is very difficult to stop, no?"  He clapped his hands,
and began breaking us into groups of three to practice the move.
Everybody rotated from spot to spot, so that every player could
experience the angle needed on the initial pass; then the timing
needed on the sweep; and the defensive position that made the back
pass necessary.  Duane was right: it took a lot of practice, and the
opportunities to use it were limited.  When the time was right,
however, there was a group of us who would be ready to try it.

Jesse and Anna had made plans to stay later on Friday, so they could
go out to dinner with Eric, Ashley, Trent and me.  I brought them over
to my house so they could take showers before we went out.  My
parents, along with my younger brother Stephen and my older brother
Michael, were home, and happy to see Jesse and Anna again, having met
them previously at the year-end banquet.

Ashley and Anna, being two of the youngest girls at the clinic, had
naturally found each other, and had become good friends during the
week.  At dinner, they kept up a running commentary on the physical
attributes of many of the boys from the clinic, keeping us amused,
right up until they started in on the four of us boys.

"And Sean's got bony knees, don't you think?" asked Ashley, looking
askance at me to see if I had heard her, as she had planned.

"Very bony," agreed Anna, a twinkle in her eye.  "Bony and angular.
It's a wonder he can run at all, with those legs.  What about Trent?"

"A little old for me, but very hunky," said Ashley, looking over at
Trent as if she was examining an interesting, if flawed, drawing.

"I don't know," said Anna.  "His chin is a little too prominent for
my taste."

Ashley grabbed Trent's chin and turned his face to examine it
critically.  "You might be right.  Too big and clunky.  Now that you
mention it, it's so big it probably weighs him down and gets in the
way.  Now Eric, on the other hand..."

"Mmmm, yes, Eric.  Great buns," observed Anna.

"Thass what Keisha think, too," murmured Eric.  Both Ashley and Anna
blushed a bright red as the rest of us laughed out loud.

"Be very careful, ladies, or we just might start our own comparisons
here," warned Trent with a chuckle.

"You know," began Jesse, steering the conversation to a different
topic, "that heel pass that Duane showed us today got me thinking."

"At least something has finally got you thinking," said his sister
teasingly.

"Oh, don't worry, little sister, I get thoughts," he shot back.
Again, Anna blushed as Jesse continued, "But these thoughts are about
soccer.  I'll bet..."  He paused.

"You'll bet what?" I asked.

He wouldn't answer me.  I had the feeling that he was planning a
surprise for us for next week, and he didn't want to spoil it by
talking about it now.  His idea was soon forgotten by the rest of us
as the conversation veered off once again, until it was time for
Jesse and Anna to start their long drive back home.  We said our
goodbyes outside the restaurant.  I gave Anna a clumsy hug, and shook
Jesse's hand.  Ashley and Anna gave each other a fierce, sisterly
hug, vowing to each other that they would call several times over the
weekend.  The rest of us just stood there, shaking our heads at the
silly things girls thought were important.

What did we know?  Nothing, of course: we were boys.




On Monday morning, we were all back at the fields, ready for another
week of intense drills and scrimmages.  Our schedule called for the
coed teams to play in the morning, and the men's teams to battle in
the afternoon.  When we played coed, the men's goalies played in the
net the first half, and the women's goalies played the second half.
Both Jorge and Tessa were on my coed team, so they alternated in goal
for the first game.  Jesse and I were always on opposite teams, and
usually played near each other on the field, Jesse on offense and me
on defense.  The previous week, he had tallied the most goals of any
of the guys, at 6, but was far short of the top women's scorer, a
girl from downstate named Posey Smith, who had scored 11 goals for
her team, including two goals for her coed team.  She was quick to
the ball, deadly accurate from within 18 meters, and unconcerned if
she was stopped on a particular shot, knowing full well she would get
lots of opportunities to score.  I was glad she was on my coed team,
so I didn't have to try to defend her.  On the other hand, Kristina
was on Jesse's team, and had tallied 8 goals herself, though all
except for one goal were scored during the women's games.  Still, she
was the second-leading scorer of all the players, and I was proud of
her.  We sat together whenever we could, eating lunch together most
days, and choosing seats near each other during Duane's lectures.  I
couldn't call her at her house, but at least we were able to spend a
few minutes together during the clinic.

In the afternoon game on Monday, we were playing at 1-1, and the
clock was ticking down to the last 10 minutes, when Harlan Corwin
passed the ball over toward Jesse.  He trapped the ball and dribbled
up a couple of steps as I closed toward him.  He slowed, almost as if
he wanted to wait for me to get right up to him, when I saw him sweep
the ball with his trailing toe, lifting the ball up behind him.  He
cocked his leg, and whipped it up in back, making contact on the ball
with his heel.  He managed to direct the ball up, in a sweeping arc
over his head, and over mine.  I kind of stood there in shock, not
sure I could believe that he did that on purpose, when he stepped
around me, gathered up the ball as it bounced behind me, and raced
toward the goal, leaving me in the dust.  Jorge came out at Jesse
when he saw what happened, and managed to deflect the ball in a panic
dive, just as Jesse took his shot, saving a goal.  But Jesse's point
was made: he had figured out how to give himself what he subsequently
called an Alley-Oop One-Man Give-And-Go, and he had saved it for an
opportunity to teach me, the youngster, that there were tricks yet to
be discovered.

After the game, we were lined up at the coolers, refilling our water
cups.

"Let me guess," I said.  "Is that what you were dreaming up at
dinner on Friday?"

He gave me a big grin.  "Yep," he acknowledged.  "Anna and I worked
on it at home over the weekend.  I wanted to wait to hit you with it
as a surprise, and I think Anna was going to try it in her game
today, too, if the opportunity presented itself."

"How the hell am I supposed to defend against that move?" I asked.

"I can show you how," said Duane from behind us.  He had apparently
been listening to our conversation with interest.  "I am glad to see
you came up with that move on your own, Jesse.  It is a difficult
maneuver to perfect.  Come over here, men, and I will explain it to
you."  We all followed him into the tent.  "Sean, anytime a pass goes
behind your player, one of three things will happen."  He moved to
the chalkboard next to the television.  "Either a heel give-and-go,
or one of Jesse's Alley-Oops, as he calls it, will be highly
technical moves you could expect.  In either case, a good defense is
to back off a little.  If you think a give-and-go will occur, move
toward the passer to try to intercept."  He drew lines and squiggles
to illustrate his point.  "If you think an Alley-Oop is a
possibility, by backing off a little, you have a chance at a header,
taking away the ball."  He dropped the chalk back into the tray and
looked at me, wanting to make sure I understood his points.

"Okay," I said.  "I understand those defensive positions.  But you
mentioned three possibilities, and you've only described defenses for
two of them.  What's the third?"

"Very good," he said with satisfaction, looking quite pleased.  "The
third possibility is that it truly was an errant pass, or your
opponent is not skilled enough to perform the maneuver, in which case
the ball will go behind the person you are defending, and you will be
in a better position in any case to recover the ball.  Simple, no?"

"Simple for you, I think.  Difficult for me," I said with a smile.

He looked at me shrewdly.  "If you say so, Mr. Porter.  But I do not
think that is so true."





On Wednesday, at the end of the session for the day, Nicholas
Arpente came up to me and touched my arm.

"Excuse me, Sean?  Duane would like to see you for a moment."

He pointed me toward the tent, and turned away to help the other
coaches take down the nets and corner flags.  I walked over to the
tent, and drew back the flap.  Duane was watching a videotape of one
of our games from earlier in the day.

"You wanted to see me, Duane?" I asked.

He whirled around.  "Oh, sorry, I was engrossed in watching this
game."  He paused the tape, leaving an image of the women's teams
frozen on the screen.  "Sit down a moment, Sean."  He indicated a
chair.  "My brothers must return to Europe to rejoin their own teams
this weekend," he continued.  "And yet we have made a commitment to
continue here with another clinic, for the younger players, yes?  So,
I seem to have a couple of openings for assistants for next week.  I
understand you have been working with some of the boys who will be
attending our clinic, yes?"

I nodded.  Davey and Kip were both enrolled, I knew.

"Good.  I have been observing your play.  You have made some
remarkable improvements these past days, and I have conferred with
Nicholas and James, as well as Katrina and Tasha.  They all agree
that you would be a fine addition to our staff for the next week.
Are you interested?"

Was I interested?  Working with Duane Olchick and his crack
assistants?  Teaching soccer and getting paid to do it?  Was I
interested?

"Absolutely," I exclaimed.  "What an opportunity!  Thank you very
much, Mr. Olchick!  Wow!"

"Please," he said with a smile, "I am Duane, not Mr. Olchick.  Next
week, for the children, I can be Mr. Olchick.  But this week, with
the players we have here, I am merely Duane."






- 10 -

A WHOLE LOTTA WORTHWHILE



By the end of the following week, I was falling-down exhausted, both
physically and mentally.  Riding herd over 60 kids between the ages
of 7 and 12 wasn't the fun and games I had thought it would be when I
accepted Duane's invitation to join his staff.  But, on the other
hand, I got to watch Duane, Nicholas, James, Katrina and Tasha in
action, and even provide a little help as they lectured, cajoled,
whistled, directed, pointed, stopped, persuaded, maneuvered, and
otherwise controlled the swarm, and actually taught some soccer in
those moments in between.  Davey and Kip were lost to me in the
shuffle, even though they tended to try to hang around me the first
day.  By the end, they had assimilated into the group so well, that I
hardly got to say anything to them all week long.

On Friday, Duane took all of his assistants out for a nice dinner
after the clinic had finished.  I borrowed my brother Mike's car, and
met them downtown at The Great Midwest Steakhouse, one of the most
expensive restaurants in town.  The others were already there,
looking at their menus, when I arrived.

"Ah, Sean, welcome," said Duane.  "No date tonight?  I thought you
would bring a girlfriend."

I shrugged as I sat down at one of the two empty seats at the table.
"I'm not really dating anyone right now," I said.

"Really?"  Nicholas queried in surprise.  "Sorry, I just thought..."
He let it drop.  I wondered what he had heard over the past three
weeks.

"Don't mind him, Sean," interjected Tasha.  "Nick sometimes lets his
mouth do his thinking for him."  She looked over at Nick
affectionately, and patted his hand to lessen the sting of her
comment.  "But he's a loveable old bear, and he means well," she
added.

So, I thought to myself, Nicholas and Tasha are an item, it seems.
But I didn't say anything.

The waiter took our orders for drinks and appetizers, and when the
drinks arrived, Duane asked for our attention.

"If I may, I would like to propose a toast.  To my friends, here at
table, you have made these weeks fly by effortlessly.  I could never
have run these clinics without your help.  Nicholas, my trusted
assistant, who has been a part of my support staff for so long, and
will be returning with me to Germany; Katrina, the lovely midfielder,
returning to UCLA for her senior year; James, an extraordinary
goalkeeper, who, I am certain, will enjoy a very successful
professional career; Tasha, who is due to return to her duties at
Arizona, I hope you discovered some new talent for your future teams,
my dear; to my brothers, Yuri and Anik, who, even though they are not
here with us tonight, still have been an intregal part of the success
of these past weeks; and, of course, to the newest member of our
staff, the young defensive specialist, Sean, who has so many
wonderful games yet to play over the next several years.  You are,
each and every one, special to me.  Salud!"

We all clinked our glasses together, thanking Duane for his kindness.

"Ah, but I am not through yet, my friends."  He reached into his
jacket pocket and brought out several envelopes.  As he passed them
out to each of us, he continued, "Here is a small token of my
gratitude for the help you have provided.  And, of course, if you are
ever in Bremen," he added with a smile, "My wife Francesca and I
would be honored if you would stay with us."

The conversation around the table broke down into reminiscences
about the clinics they had run, both here and in other locales.  I
sat and listened, mostly, content to sit and enjoy hearing the
stories.  Even though I was, by several years, the youngest person at
the table, and even, in soccer terms, the least experienced person at
the table, I wasn't uncomfortable, since everybody effortlessly
included me in their circle of conversation.  I really felt as if I
were a comrade, a fellow player of the game.




Jake Lehigh had been working out at the YMCA gym a lot, trying to
muscle up for football, and the time he spent with free weights was
making a difference.  He played tackle, on both sides of the ball, so
he felt that he needed to work on his strength conditioning to be a
better player.  He had grown quite a bit over the past couple of
years, and had bulked up from his workouts, and he now was a very big
guy, for a kid who was just past his sophomore year of high school,
nearly six feet tall, and weighing over 200 pounds.  All summer, he
had been bugging me to join him at the gym, and I had been trying to
get him to go running with me, but he hated to run, and I wasn't a
weightlifting kind of guy, so we didn't get together much for a
workout.

We finally made a deal, and decided that I would work out with him
at the gym, so I could work on my upper-body strength, and then we
would go for a run, so we could work on his wind and his stamina.

He showed me how to use the machines in the exercise room, moving
with me from machine to machine.  He figured out a good rotation, and
followed me around, explaining each machine's functions and the
muscle groups they were designed to strengthen.  We did two rotations
around the room, and by the time I was done, my arms were shaking and
sweat was running down my back.  Jake still looked like he had barely
started his workout, even though he usually doubled the amount of
weight when he used the machines.  When we were done with the
machines, we went back into the locker room to change into fresh
socks and running shoes, and then we headed outside to pound the
pavement.  I had mapped out an easy three mile loop, staying on
relatively flat ground, to ease him into it, and we headed out at an
easy jog.

By the time we were back in sight of the YMCA parking lot, Jake was
laboring, his weight shifting side to side and his strides shortened
up, and he was gasping for breath.  I was feeling like my legs were
warmed up and ready for a workout, while my shoulders, chest, and
arms were starting to tighten up from our previous workout.  We
slowed to a walk, using the last couple of blocks to cool down.  We
got to the front door, and headed slowly toward the locker room.
Jake staggered to a bench by our lockers, and sat down heavily, head
bowed, his arms resting on his knees as he caught his breath.  I
opened my locker, and pulled out a towel.  I sat next to him on the
bench, and began unlacing my shoes, the towel draped around my neck.

He glanced over at me tiredly and said, "You do that all the time?
That's harder than I thought."

I shrugged.  I could sympathize, since even shrugging was painful
for me after the workout with the weights.  "It's all in what you're
used to doing," I said.

He just grunted.  Talking hurt when you were that tired.

We stumbled to the showers and let the stinging spray do what it
could to revive us.  Wrapping towels around our waists, we shuffled
back to our lockers to get dressed.

"Hey, Sean, remember that picnic in the field behind my house last
year?"

Did I ever.  Jake's little sister Kayla and I, hiding in the
basement during the scavenger hunt, and the way the dim light played
on her skin, creating alluring shadows in interesting places.  I
remembered.  "Sure," I said.

"They're gonna do it again," he said.  "Next weekend.  You want to
come over?"

Kayla.  Basement.  Dark.

"Sure," I said.

Damn, something to look forward to.  I couldn't remember the last
time I had that experience, that wasn't connected to soccer.  Even if
Kayla had a boyfriend, a guy can dream, can't he?

"How's Jaimie?" I asked.

He was pulling on a fresh t-shirt.  "She's okay.  We have to do a
lot of sneaking around to get together, though.  It's kind of tough
on her, going around her folks the way we have.  And her sister's
still irritating her."

"Oh, yeah," I said.  "I remember last year, Tara had a bug up her
butt about something."

"That bug is still there.  Jaimie thinks she might know about us,
and she's afraid Tara is going to start blackmailing her or
something.  There's a lot of sibling rivalry shit going on there, I
guess.  Anyway, it creates some tension between Jaimie and me, on top
of it all."

"I can see how it would," I commiserated.

"Almost makes you wonder if this boy-girl thing is worth it
sometimes."  He hesitated, and then confessed, "But then she kisses
me, and we're hanging out together, and..."

"Kinda makes it all worthwhile, huh?" I asked with a grin.

He smiled sheepishly.  "Yup.  A whole lotta worthwhile."  He laughed
out loud.

We walked out to the parking lot, toward Jake's car, when we saw
Josh O'Toole pulling into the lot.  He parked a few spots away from
Jake's car, and was just getting out of the car and reaching back in
for his gym bag when we came up to him.

"Hey, Josh," said Jake.  "You going in for a workout?"

He backed out of his car and slammed the door.

"Yeah, I gotta work off some of this bullshit I've been
accumulating," he said.  He looked disgusted and upset about
something.

"Why?  What's going on?" I asked.

He gave me a sour look.

"Ah, it's nothing, Sean.  Nothing that should concern you, anyway."
He turned his head and spat at his front tire.  "It's my delinquent
sister and her hophead boyfriend.  He gives me the jitters.  I just
don't like him, and I don't like the direction Molly's going, and I
don't know if I can do anything about it."

"What are they doing?" asked Jake.  He knew all about my last
episode with Molly, including the pregnancy scare, but I didn't know
how much Josh knew.  And I certainly wasn't going to tell him.

"Ah, it's nothing specific, you know?  It's just that she's getting
home later and later, and a lot of the time she's a little wasted by
the time she gets home.  She's not real interested in spending any
time with her own friends, she just hangs out with Joey's pals."  He
sighed.  "You know, I really don't want my twin sister to be a Bulls
bitch, but I'm afraid that's where she's headed.  Only she can't see
it."

Molly a Bulls bitch?  That would be a stretch.  We had all heard
stories about the girls who liked to hang around Richie Del Toro and
the Bulls.  I'm sure most of the stories were gross exaggerations,
but even so, some of the tamer rumors included things like slapping
them around to keep them in line, strange initiations, certain
tattoos indicating ownership, and even passing the girls around to
all the guys in the gang after their boyfriends got tired of them.  I
couldn't see Molly O'Toole putting up with any of that from anybody,
much less from a social load like Joey Amonte.

Besides, we all thought the Bulls were kind of directionless, since
Richie, their founder and Fearless Leader, was still in the pokey.

Jake and I walked over to Jake's car, and tossed our gym bags into
the back seat.  Josh was trudging toward the front door as we pulled
out of the lot.  We were both quiet, thinking our own ugly thoughts
about Joey Amonte and his friends.

Maybe we were wrong about the Bulls.  I hoped not, but we had been
wrong about them before.






- 11 -

LUSCIOUS GIRL DILEMMA



I knew that there was no way that Kristina's parents would allow her
to go to the block party with  me, and I wouldn't ask her to sneak
around against her father's wishes, so I decided to give Becky
Steinman a call.  After all, why should I be the only kid there
without a girl to hang out with?

"Hi, Becky," I said when she got on the phone.  "It's Sean."

"Sean?  Sean who?" she asked teasingly.  "Not Sean Porter, is it?  I
thought he dropped off the face  of the earth."

"Nope," I replied.  "Just been busy, that's all."

"Oh," she said.  "And no telephones anywhere to be found, I suppose."

"Hey, you could have called me, you know," I said defensively.

"And what would you have thought of me if I had called?  That's not
my style, to be so forward."

"So," I said, "let me get this straight.  You'd rather do nothing
than risk having someone think you  are too forward?"

There was a pause from the other end of the line.  "I guess it
doesn't make a lot of sense when you  put it like that, does it?" she
said.  "Okay, next time I'll call.  Do you want me to sigh and swoon
for your benefit, too?"

I laughed.  "Sure," I said.  "You'd better practice first, though.
I get the feeling you're not very  good at sighing and swooning."

"I don't have anything worth sighing and swooning over.  Not yet,
anyway," she added coquettishly.   "I'm afraid that, even with
practice, I wouldn't be very convincing in the swooning department."

"I think you're right, Becks.  You're just not the swooning type,
I'm afraid."

I told her about the block party on Saturday, and asked her if she
would like to go there with me.

"Be still my heart," she sighed.  "I think I might swoon."

It was almost too much to take, and we both started laughing.





The next day, I was working with Davey, Kip and Justin at the park.
We did some passing warm-ups and  some stretching, and then I took
them over by the baseball fields.  We jogged around to the outfield
fence, a wire fence about five feet high.

"Okay, men, here's the drill," I instructed.  I took them out so
they were about 15 feet away.  "I'm  going to go to the other side of
the fence, and I want you to kick the ball over the fence to me."

"Why, Sean?" asked Kip.

"Because, stupid," retorted his brother, "the fence is in the way.
You can't kick it to him without  going over the fence."

"Don't call me stupid!" cried Kip.

"That's right, don't call him stupid," I admonished Davey.  "He's
asking a good question."

"Okay, then, why?" asked Justin.

I lofted my ball over the fence, and then leapt up, grabbing the top
bar, and hoisted myself over the  top, dropping to the other side.  I
ran over to retrieve my ball, and tossed it back over the fence  to
the boys.

"I want you to learn how to pass the ball through the air, not just
on the ground," I said.  "There  will be times in a game when you
might want to pass the ball over an opponent's head, for instance."

"Or hit him in the head!" laughed Davey.

"Nope," I said.  "Never deliberately kick the ball so that somebody
nearby might get hurt, Davey.   Okay?"

"I was just kidding, Sean," said Davey, by way of apology.

"I know you were, buddy," I said.  "Anyway, can you think of any
other reason why you might want to  kick the ball into the air,
instead of on the ground?"

"I know!" yelled Kip.  "To kick it really far!"

"That's right," I said.  "The ball goes further in the air than it
does on the ground."

We were at the limit of instruction by talking, so I got them going
on booting the ball over the  fence.  The three boys started out just
kicking at the ball, with no sense of where it was going, and  only
about half the time the ball made it over the fence.

"Okay, hold up a minute," I said.  I had three of the four balls on
my side of the fence, so they  couldn't continue, anyway.  "The
object of the game is not only to get the ball over the fence, but
to make it a pass to me.  Everybody got it?"

"Okay!"  "Yep-sirree!"  "I got it, Sean."

With a little more practice, and a little more concentration, they
started being much more accurate  about their drill.  Most of the
balls were making it over the fence, and quite a few were in my
vicinity, as much or more than I could have hoped for on our first
try at this drill.

After about 15 minutes of lofting the ball, I called a stop to it.
I tossed the balls back over the  fence to the boys, and hopped back
over to their side.  We started dribbling back over to our gear.

"There's one more time when you might want to get the ball off the
ground a little," I said.   "Anybody care to take a guess at when
that might be?"

They thought about it for a few moments, and then Justin said, "When
you're shooting?"

"Right you are, buddy-boy," I said.  "The best places to shoot for
when you're attacking the goal are  the four corners.  Most keepers
your age can't defend a shot aimed at the high corners.  If you can
practice lofting the ball accurately, you'll score more goals."

"All right!" shouted Davey enthusiastically.  "Score more goals!"

"But," I admonished, "it has to be an accurate shot, otherwise it's
just another wasted opportunity,  and you've ended up giving the ball
back to your opponents.

"Okay, Sean," said Davey.

I informed them that practice was just about over.  "Okay, guys, I
want two laps around the outside  of the soccer field.  First lap use
just your right foot, second lap just your left foot.  Ready?   Go!"
And off they went.  I trailed behind them, also using only one foot
to dribble the ball.  If it  was good enough of a drill for them, it
was good enough for me.  I never wanted to be the kind of  coach who
wouldn't do the exercises that I assigned to my players.

As we were finishing up the last lap, I saw Wendy pull up to the
curb and park her car.  She walked  over toward our gear as we jogged
up to her, each of us dribbling the ball with just our left foot.

"Hi, Mom," called out Justin.

"Hi, Champ," said Wendy.  "Davey and Kip, your mom asked if I could
give you a ride home.  Okay?"

"Sure, Mrs. Marcus."

"If Mom says so, it's okay with me, I guess," said Kip.

"And you're okay with that?" she asked, turning to me with a smile.

"Sure," I replied.  "I guess you and Lori know each other well
enough, how could I object?"  I  rummaged around in my gear bag for a
towel to wipe my face with.

Wendy sent the boys off to the car.  She stepped up a little closer
to me.

"Careful," I said.  "I'm pretty sweaty and smelly."

"I like the smell of healthy sweat," she said.  There was a little
trace of hunger in her voice.   "It's kind of sexy."

"Sexy?  I don't think so," I said nervously.

"Arthur's working late tonight," she said quietly.  "Lori would be
glad to keep the boys for dinner.   I'd be home, all alone.  I might
enjoy some... company," she continued.

"Uh," I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.  "Look, Wendy, I..."

She glanced around quickly.  There was nobody else nearby, and the
boys were involved in choosing who  got to ride in the front seat of
the car, paying no attention to us at all.  Wendy stepped up to me,
her large breasts pressing lightly against my chest, and reached down
and ran her hand smoothly up my  thigh, letting her fingernails
lightly scratch me under the leg of my shorts.  I could feel my cock
beginning to rise, and the recognition of that fact was clear in her
eyes.  I stepped hurriedly away  from her, and crouched down by my
gear bag, pretending to look for something that wasn't going to be
found there.

"Look, Wendy... it's not that I don't appreciate the offer... or the
attention, you understand... but  I don't think..."

"I'm not asking you to think, Sean."  There was an edge to her
voice.  I glanced up at her.  She was  standing there, hands balled
into fists, fists perched on her hips, staring at me.  "A simple yes
or  no will do.  Do you want to fuck tonight, or not?"

Hearing her talk like that made up my mind for me.

"Nah," I said.  "I guess not."  I went back to packing my bag.  She
stood there a moment, no doubt  shooting daggers at me, and then she
turned and, without a word, strode back to her car.





On Saturday afternoon, Becky and I got to the field behind the
Lehigh's house fashionably late.  The  softball diamond had once
again been set up, and a tee was standing in front of home plate.
The  little kids were playing tee-ball, encouraged by their parents.
We walked over to the tub that  contained the sodas in ice, and each
grabbed something to drink.  Most of the teenagers were sitting  or
lying down on the grass in the outfield, waiting for the tee-ball
game to end.  Jake waved to us  as we wandered over toward them.
Jaimie was also there, in the crowd and not too close to Jake, in
deference to her parents, I was sure.  I also saw Kayla, and the kid
who I supposed was her  boyfriend, a stick figure of a boy with spiky
hair and acne on his chin.  There were a few of Jake's  football
friends there, some with girls I knew from school, and there was a
whole gang of younger  teens, apparently led by Jaimie's younger
sister Tara, who moved as a herd.  I was surprised to see  my younger
brother Stephen among the group, following Tara around like a wounded
puppy.

And it was no wonder he was panting after her.  If I had been his
age, I might have been on her  scent, myself.  For a girl who had
just recently turned thirteen, Tara was acting and dressing way
beyond her years.  She had on denim cutoffs that were cut short, so
that her ass cheeks were peeking  out, making her slim legs look very
long.  She also wore a tube top that was tight enough to mash her
small boobs together, giving her some cleavage showing from the
strapless top.  The clingy material  molded itself to her, her
nipples evident through the cloth.  Her brown hair had grown out, and
she  had put some blonde streaks in it, but it was still an unruly
mop, and she wore too much makeup.  She  looked hot and ready for
action.  I wondered at the disparity of Mr. and Mrs. Jacks allowing
their  younger daughter to run around looking like she did, while
keeping such a tight rein on Jaimie.  It  didn't make a lot of sense
to me.

"Hey, Sean," said Jake, by way of greeting.  "Hey, Becky."

"Hey yourself," I answered.  "When's the softball game start?"

"Pretty soon," he said.  "Just waiting for the kids to finish their
game.  Dad's cooking up hot dogs  for them, so they'll eat while
we're playing.  Gonna be kind of an assembly line meal today, what
with all the people here."

And there were a lot of people in the back yards and in the field.
It was a much bigger gathering  than last year's.  It looked like it
had expanded beyond the houses on this block.  As I was looking
around, I saw Mr. and Mrs. O'Toole come around the corner of a house.
Heather and Josh were with  them, and so was Josh's girlfriend,
Andrea.  They spotted us immediately, and headed over toward our
group.  Becky walked over to meet them, and she, Heather, and Andrea
went off to join another group  of girls over closer to the woods.

"What's up, Josh?" I asked.

"Nothin' much," he replied.  "My parents wanted to make this some
sort of family outing, but Molly  took off this morning with that
asshole Joey, and nobody knows where they are.  Mom and Dad are
really pissed off over her disappearing act."  He spotted Tara and
her group as they sped by us.   "Whoa, who's that?" he asked, giving
a low whistle.

"That's Jaimie's sister," said Jake.  "I think she's a Molly-in-
training."

Josh whipped around to stare at Jake.  I thought it was an
unfortunate remark, too, and so,  apparently, did Jake.

"Sorry, man, I didn't mean anything by it," he offered by way of
apology.

Josh just shook his head, as if he had gnats flying around his ears.
"Aw, shit, that's okay, Jake.   I'm just a little uncomfortable
knowing others are seeing the same thing in my sister that I'm seeing
lately, that's all.  It's not the kind of confirmation I was looking
for, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know, but I'm sorry my big mouth got going before my brain
dropped into gear anyway," said  Jake.

The tee-ball game broke up, and the parents guided the younger kids
toward the grill, where Mr.  Lehigh and Mr. Jacks were busy setting
up plates of hot dogs.  Us older kids, along with some of the  other
parents, started extending out the bases, collecting bats, and
discussing team rosters.  The  girls came over, and the team captains
were chosen.  In the interest of fairness, the husbands and  wives,
boyfriends and girlfriends were going to play on the same teams as
couples.  Becky and I were  on Jake's team, and we walked out to
center field to play the position together.

By about the third inning, most of the girls had gotten bored with
the game, and they sauntered off  the field to look for other
amusements.  The softball game got more serious, now that it was
mostly  the jocks and would-be jocks playing.

During the sixth inning, one of Jake's friends from the football
team stepped up to the plate.  His  name was Stanford Harrison, but
everybody called him Tiny, because he was anything but.  Tiny was
about 6-5, and had to weigh over 300 pounds.  He anchored our
school's front line, and was nearly  impossible to move off his
position by less than two opponents.  All the outfielders moved way
back  when Tiny crowded over the plate, the softball bat looking very
twig-like in his meaty hands.  He  swung at the first pitch, and
there was a funny, soft sound as the ball ricocheted off the bat.
The  ball blooped over the shortstop's head, and landed with a plop
in short right field.  As Tiny  lumbered around the bases, the right
fielder raced up to pick up the ball.  He reached down, but what  he
picked up didn't resemble a softball very much any more.  Tiny had
crushed the ball so hard the  seams had split, and the stuffing was
leaking out of the ball so badly, it couldn't be thrown.   Everybody
gathered around to stare at the ball in amazement, and Tiny kept on
running around the  bases until he reached home plate.  He wanted to
make sure he got the home run before jogging out to  see what
everybody was looking at.

"Well," said Josh, "I guess that's the game."  He handed the ruined
softball to Tiny.  "Here you go,  Tiny.  Another trophy for your
mantel."

Tiny bowed low, as everybody broke out in applause at the feat they
had witnessed.

Josh and I walked over to where Andrea and Becky were sitting, and
the four of us headed over to fill  our plates.  We took our food and
drinks over to one of the tables set up across the back yards.

By dusk, the smaller kids were running around, trying to catch
fireflies, and Mrs. Lehigh was getting  the supplies for the
scavenger hunt ready.  Floodlights came on in the backyards,
illuminating the  tables and patios, and leaving the field and woods
behind seeming nearly impenetrable in the deeper  shadows.

"Scavenger hunt time!" called out Mrs. Lehigh.  She gathered all the
participants around to explain  the rules.  "I have a list of items
you must collect," she said.  "Everybody take one of these paper
bags to hold your items.  The Lehigh Drug logo on the bag will help
identify you to the neighbors.   No going beyond the neighborhood.
There's a map on the back of the items list showing the  boundaries.
Everybody has to go out with at least one other person, so nobody
wanders around all  alone.  Does everybody understand?"

"How long do we have?" asked a voice from the back.

"One hour," answered Mrs. Lehigh.  "There will be prizes awarded, so
do your best and hurry back.   Any other questions?  No?  Okay, on
your mark, get set, go!"

And the race was on, but I had other plans.  I figured that I would
probably find the front door of  Jake's house unlocked, so I took
Becky's hand and quietly told her to wait for a few minutes, until
the teams had left the immediate area.  She looked a little puzzled
as I led her away from the lights  in the back yards, and peeked
around the corner of the house.  It looked to be all clear.  I could
see a few kids a few houses away, running down the sidewalk, but they
were moving away from us.  I  pulled her around the corner.

"What are we doing, Sean?" she whispered.

"Ducking out of the scavenger hunt," I replied quietly.  I led her
up the stoop to Jake's front door.   Sure enough, it was unlocked.
There was light spilling from the kitchen, but the front of the house
was dark.  Putting a finger to my lips to indicate we needed to be
silent, we tiptoed through the  house to the basement door.  We
slipped down the stairs.  Becky was moving hesitantly behind me,
unsure about the steps, but I had been here hundreds of times, and
knew the basement almost like I  knew my own.  I guided her
confidently across the room to the corner furthest from the stairs,
and we  slid down the wall to the floor, sitting next to each other.
Faintly, somewhere in the basement, I  heard a faint ticking, but I
couldn't identify what it was, or even where it was coming from.  I
ignored it.  Probably the furnace, or something, I thought.  It was
pitch dark, Becky's presence felt  through warmth, rather than sight.

"What..." she whispered.  She wasn't able to finish her sentence,
because I put my arm around her  shoulder, and pulled her over and
kissed her.  As our lips pressed together for our first kiss, she
squealed in surprise into my mouth, but then relaxed and kissed me
back with enthusiasm.  We stayed  just like that for a few moments,
our lips moving slightly against each other, getting accustomed to
each other's ways.  I felt her lips parting slightly, a clue that she
was enjoying it, so I brushed  my tongue very softly around her lips,
letting just the tip gently caress her.  She moaned, and her  tongue
darted out to meet mine, hesitant at first, but getting a little
bolder as she welcomed the  contact.  She broke the kiss so she could
plant little kisses around my mouth, her hand slipping up  to grasp
me around my neck to hold me close to her.  We heated up, our lips
finding each other again,  and our mouths opened wider, and the kiss
got hotter and wetter.  As our tongues writhed together,  she pressed
herself closer to me, bending her knee and resting her leg on top of
mine as we sat  there, and twisting her body for more contact.  With
one arm around her shoulder, my other arm  slipped around her waist,
and she put her hand on my shoulder, pulling me around toward her.

We stayed like that for a long time, letting our mouths and tongues
learn of each other, kissing  actively and holding each other fairly
passively.  I felt her upper body twist just a little, and my  hand
on her waist slid to her tummy.  She was wearing a sleeveless shirt
with lace at the hem, and I  could feel the filigree of the lace
against my palm.  She began rubbing my upper arm, up and down,  elbow
to shoulder, as we kissed and sucked on each other's tongues.  I was
breathing heavily, and  Becky would occasionally whimper or moan,
especially if I unexpectedly thrust my tongue deeply into  her mouth
for a moment.  Before long, she was rhythmically rubbing my arm from
my shoulder down my  forearm, and back again, sometimes in concert
with the jabbing of her tongue against my mouth as we  kissed.

I must have been dense in picking up on her signals, because,
finally, she ran her hand down my arm,  grasped my wrist, and slowly
pulled my hand up from her stomach to her covered breast.  She held
my  hand there, pressing it against her, and moaned into my mouth,
her desire evident.

I had learned from my past mistakes.  I accepted her cue, and let my
hand squeeze her breast, feeling  the spongy firmness through the
layers of cloth, detecting the nipple as it filled and expanded with
my manipulation.  She continued to press my hand against her, wanting
firmer contact.

My own desire was painfully evident, standing up there in my shorts,
as I explored the shape of her  breast through her clothes.  I could
feel her nipple hardening as I kneaded her flesh, pressing  through
the layers of her clothes and announcing itself against the palm of
my hand.  I slipped over  to her other breast, squeezing and pinching
that distended nipple, as she passively allowed her hand  to rest on
my flexing wrist.  I reveled in the shape of her, the way her body
sloped from her chest  to the swells of her breast.  I hefted the
small weight of each breast, nesting them in the palm of  my hand.
Even through her shirt and her bra, it was an extremely erotic moment.

I tried brushing my hand back down to the lacy hem, so I could feel
the soft skin of her middle and  get closer to her, but she pulled my
wrist back up to her boob, wanting nothing more than the contact  we
had already established, so I continued to manipulate the soft flesh
of her breast, capped by the  rubbery hard point of her distended
nipple, through her clothes, happy for even that much liberty.

Becky still had her hand on my wrist, in a tacit approval of my
actions, as I fondled her boobs over  her shirt.  Our kiss was now
very hot and wet, no subtlety at all in the movement of our tongues
in  each other's mouth.  Even with all these sensory pleasures,
though, I could still detect, just at the  periphery of my hearing,
that annoying ticking sound.

Becky was sliding down the wall, and I was laying over her, still
pressing my mouth over hers,  tongues dancing, and still clutching
her boob through her clothes, when, jarringly, a high-pitched  chime
rang three times.  It broke our concentration, and we both sat up
quickly.  It took a moment  for the sound to register, and by the
time I recognized it as one of those wind-up kitchen timers, I  could
hear other rustlings and sounds of movement from two other directions
in the dark basement.

A light clicked on, over by the stairwell.  It was indirect enough
to cast only a dim light around  the room, but compared to the total
darkness it was banishing, it seemed harsh.  I glanced over  toward
the light, and saw Kayla there, her long white-blonde hair tousled,
holding her boyfriend's  hand as they moved quietly toward the
stairs, apparently unaware that Becky and I were in the far  corner.
As I heard them go up the stairs, I saw Jake's head peek up from
behind the couch.  He  jerked in surprise when he saw us sitting on
the floor, looking at him.  He shrugged sheepishly, and  stood up.
His shirt was off, and his cutoffs were unbuttoned.  He reached down,
and helped his  companion to stand up.  Jaimie was trying to
straighten out her tee shirt and refasten her bra strap  as she
struggled to stand.

"How long have you guys been down here?" asked Jake.  "I didn't even
hear you come down the stairs."

I chuckled.  "I think you were probably a little busy, and not
paying any attention to us," I said.

Even in the dim light, I could tell Jaimie was blushing a bright red.

"Ah, hell," said Jake.  "We're all friends here, anyway, right?"

Becky and I stood up.  Fortunately, considering the circumstances,
we didn't have a lot of clothing  to readjust, having a much milder
make-out session than Jake and Jaimie had.

"Yup," I agreed.  "Nothing but pals here in this room."

"Who set the timer?" Becky asked.

"I saw Kayla come down here with it earlier this afternoon," replied
Jake.  "I kind of figured what  it might be for, so I made sure we
were down here and behind the couch before she and her boyfriend  got
down here."

"We'd better get back out to the party," said Jaimie.  "We don't
want them missing us, and wondering  where we've been."

"You're right, sweetie," agreed Jake.  "Besides," he continued with
a smile, "we've scavenged all we  could for tonight, anyway, haven't
we?"

Jaimie hit him hard on the arm as Becky and I laughed.

As Becky and I headed up the stairs, hand in hand behind Jake and
Jaimie, some troubling thoughts  were starting to rumble around in my
otherwise empty head.  I really liked Becky, and obviously she  liked
me.  But I was still powerfully attracted to Kristina.

Just because it's a luscious girl dilemma, doesn't mean it's any
easier to solve.





- 12 -


HAZING THE FRESHMEN



A couple of weeks before Labor Day, our school was holding team
tryouts for the fall sports,  including football and boy's soccer.
Coach Neville already had several positions filled, from  returning
starters and reserves.  Kevin Soranno, Trent Abbott and Mike Evanson
were returning as  seniors, and Eric Johnson, Anthony Rogers and I
were returning juniors from the starting lineup of a  year ago.  In
addition, Jorge Mendoza, a sophomore, was taking over the starting
keeper duties from  John Pennington, who had graduated in the spring,
and there were a number of kids who had either sat  on the Varsity
bench, or had played as freshmen or sophomores on the JV team, who
were ready to take  the step up to be a starter on the Varsity team.
I could tell that Coach felt really good about the  team, starting
out with so many returning players.  Since we had won the conference
title last year,  and we were fielding quite a few veterans, we would
be the team to beat this year.  The seven of us  were there first
thing, the first day of tryouts, helping take the other hopefuls
through their  paces.  We did a lot of running, so that Coach Neville
and his two assistants could evaluate fitness  and conditioning, and
we helped run the dribbling and passing tests that they were using.

There were about 50 guys who were trying out for the Junior Varsity
and the Varsity teams, and we  would need about 20 players for each
team.  The first cut, after the second day of tryouts, took the
hopefuls down to 40.  Now, Coach had to decide which players would
most benefit the Varsity team, and  which would play better on JV.

There was one kid in particular, a freshman named Adam Prince, who
managed to really get on my  nerves, in less than a week at tryouts.
He dogged me at every opportunity, during every drill he  could.  It
was almost as if he wanted me to blow up at him.  But I kept my cool,
and kept my distance  from him whenever I could.

By the end of the week, the rosters for both teams had been set, and
we could start learning each  other's strengths and weaknesses on the
field.  The only sour note was that Adam was assigned as the  nominal
freshman to the Varsity team.  He was good, perhaps even good enough
to play on the Varsity  team, but I didn't like him.

On Saturday, our club team played, and Eric, Jorge and I got another
couple of hours of soccer  played.  By Sunday, I had had about 4
straight weeks of soccer, and I was looking forward to a  soccer-free
day.  I slept in late, fixed myself pancakes for breakfast, mowed the
lawn, took a nap,  washed Michael's car for him (I was building up
favors for when I wanted to borrow it), and Mom fixed  an actual sit-
down family dinner, since all of us were home, for a change.  Jake
came over after  dinner, and we sent out to my driveway and shot
baskets for awhile, before deciding that was way too  much like work.
We grabbed some sodas and chips, and flopped down on the floor of the
family room  and watched the tube for the rest of the night.

Monday afternoon, the day before school was scheduled to start,
Coach Neville called an early stop to  practice.  We all walked off
the field and back to the school, where he led us into an empty
classroom next to the gymnasium.

When we were all seated, he walked up to the chalkboard and quickly
sketched half of a soccer field.

"Okay, boys, listen up here," he called.  "Here are the starting
lineups.  Forward on the left, Trent  Abbott.  In the middle, Javier
Perez.  On the right, Jimmy Brooks.  Midfielders will be Eric Johnson
on the left, Robert Anderson in the middle, and Kevin Soranno on the
right.  Sweeper is Mike Evanson,  defenders are Anthony Rogers on the
left, Brett Oldman in the stopper position, and Sean Porter will  be
on the right.  In goal will be keeper Jorge Mendoza."

"Coach?" came a voice from the back.  Adam Prince stood up.  "Can we
challenge for a position?"

"After the first game, you can challenge for any position, Adam.
We'll set up a two-on-two challenge  ladder.  The challenger will
pick a teammate, and the man in the position being contested will
pick a  teammate, and they will play a two-on-two game.  The first
team to score five points will acquire the  position."

"When can we start planning challenges"?  The kid was persistent.

Coach sighed.  "After the first game, Adam.  Let's concentrate on
starting the season on a winning  note first, okay?"  Coach still had
the chalk in his hand, and now he tapped it against the desk to
drive home the importance of his message.  "This challenge ladder
will not be used to divide this  team, gentlemen.  If I don't think
the challenge has merit, I will not approve it.  Understood, Mr.
Prince?"

Adam sat back down.  He didn't look the least bit admonished.
"Understood, sir," he said.

He dropped the chalk back in the tray, anxious to get the meeting
back on track.  "Everybody will be  expected to work hard this week,"
he continued.  "Our first game is this Friday, against Oak Grove.
They will play us hard; in fact, I don't anticipate we will have any
easy games this year, but they  still are one of the weaker teams in
the conference, so I'm confident that we will be able to control  the
pace of the game.  All of you know how to play soccer, but our
conditioning worries me a little,  so we will concentrate more on
strength and wind this week, and less on practicing set plays."
There  was a collective groan throughout the room at that news.  It
meant there would be a lot of running  laps around the track that
circled the football field.  It was boring, but necessary.

"Quiet, now, please," he admonished.  "The next order of business is
to elect team captains.  Last  year," he continued, "we had some
success using two captains, a defensive captain and an offensive
captain.  I think we should use the same configuration this year.
Any comments?"

"Yeah," piped up Eric.  "Kevin can be pretty offensive, I nominate
him for captain."

After the laughter died down, Coach Neville said, "That's not quite
what I had in mind, but I will  accept the nomination, just the
same."  He wrote Kevin's name down on the board.  "Any other
nominations?"

Jorge said, "How about Sean for defensive captain?"

Before I had a chance to react, Coach Neville said, "Okay, good,"
and he wrote my name down.

I stood up.  "Coach?  As much as I appreciate Jorge's nomination, I
think that the captains should be  chosen from the seniors on the
team.  After all, they will be the real leaders of the team, and this
is their last season.  Because of this, I respectfully request that
my name be withdrawn, and Mike  Evanson's name be placed for
nomination, instead."  I sat back down, not looking around.

There was the murmur of whispered comments throughout the room.
Coach considered my statement for a  moment before commenting.

"Quiet, please," he called out.  "I have always been of the opinion
that the best man for the job  should be considered, despite
questions of age or class ranking.  However, this is a team decision,
and if the rest of you concur with Mr. Porter's suggestion, I would
have no objection.  Shall we have  a show of hands?"

And it was done.  Mikey and Kevin were elected team co-captains, by
acclamation.  Coach Neville  dismissed us, and as we were shuffling
out of the room, he called, "Mr. Porter?  Mr. Mendoza?  May I  see
you both for a moment?"

Jorge and I hung back.  Eric gave me a questioning look, but I just
shrugged.  His guess was as good  as mine.

After everybody had filed out of the room, Coach leaned back against
the teacher's desk in the corner  of the room.

"Sean, that was a magnanimous gesture you made.  On behalf of the
other members of the team, I thank  you."  He removed his glasses,
absent-mindedly polishing them against his shirt.  "However, whether
you like it or not, almost everybody on the team will be looking to
you for leadership.  Your awards  from last season alone make you
stand out, Sean, not only here at this school, but throughout the
conference.  You can expect that every team will be focused on your
area of the field, putting their  best players on you whenever
possible.  You are not the unknown quantity you were last season,
when  you were thrust into a starter's role."  He paused, and put his
glasses back on.  He looked at me,  examining me as if trying to see
inside me, trying to see what I was made of.  I wasn't sure I could
stand up under that kind of examination for long.  "Mr. Evanson and
Mr. Soranno have been elected  captains, but you must plan on taking
on the role of team leader this season, anyway.  Do you agree?"

I just nodded in compliance.  I would try my best.  How good I would
be as a leader remained to be  seen.

"Now, Mr. Mendoza," Coach continued, turning to Jorge, "as our
starting goalkeeper, you be in charge  of our defense during the
game.  It will be up to you to recognize and evaluate the dangers as
teams  test our defense, right from the start.  You must have the
respect of your fellow teammates, or they  will not react in a timely
fashion.  This responsibility supercedes the captaincy bestowed upon
Mr.  Evanson, do you understand?"

Jorge also nodded.

"You, too, because of your position on the field, will be looked
upon as a leader of this team.  It's  a lot of responsibility for a
sophomore to carry, but I know you are more than capable."

He glanced back at me.  "Sean, I expect you to lead by example in
this manner.  Many of our players,  particularly the younger ones,
will be emulating you as much as they can on the field.  Conversely,
some of the upperclassmen might chafe at taking direction from a
sophomore, no matter his position or  ability.  I will leave it to
you, along with Mike and Kevin, to make sure any insecurities within
the  team will be properly addressed."  Coach stood suddenly, and
thrust out his hand to Jorge, who shook  it.  Coach then held his
hand out to me to shake.

"Good.  It's done, then.  Good luck, gentlemen.  Lead your team
well, and I will help all I can."



The next day, we had our first day of school.  Actually, it was only
a half day, each class shortened  to about 20 minutes long, just
enough time for the teachers to pass out books, and let us know what
we were to expect during the coming school year.  It was also a day
we could harass the incoming  freshmen, when they got lost and
couldn't find their classrooms.

I hated it.  It's not that I necessarily hated school, but when
classes started before Labor Day, it  meant, in essence, the end of
summer.  The weather was still warm, the leaves were still green -
hell, it was still August, for God's sake! - but our independence was
a thing of the past once again.

And, of course, there were some teachers who couldn't resist the
temptation to assign homework, even  on the first, abbreviated day of
school, so by the time I got home after soccer practice, I had to
hit the books.

And the telephone lines began humming all around town, right after
the dinner hour.  Kids were  calling each other, comparing class
schedules, catching up on summer gossip, and reconnecting with  pals.
Josh, Eric, and Jorge called me, and I called Becky, Trent, and Jake,
and got their schedules,  and we were ready for a brand new year of
school.

By the end of the week, most of us were bored with misdirecting the
freshmen, and we fell back into  the routines that would carry us
through the year.  Most of my friends were in one or another of my
classes.  Molly was in my math class, and she had probably changed
the most, of all the kids I knew.   She had put a garish yellow
blonde streak in one side of her reddish hair, and she looked pale
and  thin and unhappy.  Curiously, she either skipped out on the math
class, or maybe she had called in  sick for the entire day, for two
out of the four days of that first week.  It was completely unlike
her.

On the other hand, I found a bunch of friends in my study hall,
including both Kayla and Jaimie, new  freshmen this year, along with
Eric and Tiny, and the five of us managed to commandeer a corner,
circling our desks as if they were Conestoga wagons under an Indian
attack.

Our game on Friday was an easy win for us.  My summer spent running
was paying big dividends.  I was  strong and energetic all game, and
felt like I could have played another 90 minutes by the final
whistle.  Coach Neville left me in for the whole game, and we walked
away with a 6-1 victory.  The  stands were more than half full, a
huge turnout for a sport that was perceived to be boring to watch,  a
show of support from our school for a team that had aspirations of a
good showing in the playoffs  in a couple of months.

Because of our success the previous year, our local newspaper was
covering every soccer game, and  writing up an article every week.
Their reporter was a thin, nerdy looking guy with thick glasses,
several pens sticking out of his shirt pocket, and baggy cotton
slacks.  I couldn't help thinking  that they could have chosen a more
athletically inclined reporter to cover local sports, but he was  who
they sent, so he was who I talked to, after the game.  His name was
Matthew Hartigan, and he was  earnest and serious in the presence of
a high-school team riding high on their first win of the  season.  It
almost wasn't fair, and I almost felt sorry for him.  Almost.

Still, I answered his questions, introduced him to our co-captains,
and left him with Coach Neville  before rejoining my comrades in
celebrating our victory.  It was the beginning of our long holiday
weekend, and I was looking forward to it.




(Continued in Chapter 13)















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