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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 20 (mf rom)
Date: Sun,  8 Dec 2002 11:10:05 -0500
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Welcome to the world of Sean Porter.  We're a little more than halfway home, 
folks.

Enjoy.






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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.

(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 20 -

MAD DREAMS AND VISIONS



We were at the hospital for a long time.  Sometime after midnight,
my parents showed up, with both my brothers in tow.  Eric had called
them from a pay phone in the vestibule, and a few minutes later, the
admitting staff also called them.  My mother was hysterical, and my
dad was furious.  By that point, I had been wheeled into surgery, but
I heard about it from my friends later.  Almost everybody I knew
showed up in the waiting room that night, including Coach Neville and
Coach Simonson, all waiting to hear how my surgery went.

Shortly after Eric had brought me into the emergency room, Joey and
Vinnie brought Jilly Del Toro in.  Coach Neville and Coach Simonson
had to walk next to them as they wheeled Del Toro through the double
doors in a wheelchair.  If they hadn't, the three of them would have
been jumped and beaten on by the dozens of kids who had heard about
the fight, and had showed up at the hospital.

After the surgery, my parents and my brothers were allowed to come
in to the recovery room and see me.  My arm was bandaged up until it
was twice its normal size, and I had a bandage on my mouth covering
the four stitches they put in my lip.  Barely noticed among the cuts
and scrapes was the tight wrap around my chest, protecting my bruised
ribs.  I was tired, uncomfortable, and in pain, and in no mood for
company.  But, considering it was my family, I accepted it, and even
tried not to complain too much about it.

My mom was crying as she bent over me, examining my face closely,
trying to determine the extent of my injuries by looking into my
eyes.  I was sure all she could see was the painkiller-induced
dilated pupils, but she was not to be deterred.  Even through the
drugs, my eyes felt like they were dried out and resting somewhere on
my cheeks.  My dad kept on asking me what happened, and I thought I
kept answering him, but maybe I only thought I did, because he would
come back a few minutes later, after pacing the length of the small
room, and repeat his questions.  Michael looked bored, and Stephen
looked excited.  He kept on asking me if I would end up with any neat
scars, a question that would invariably send my mother off into new
freshets of tears.

The doctors conferred with my parents about my injuries, my
prognosis, and my immediate care, and the police came in to interview
me.  The hospital had called them to report a knife injury, and they
were investigating reports of a fight in the school parking lot.
They were able to fit the two events together, and, since nearly
everybody was at the hospital anyway, they sent over a detail to
conduct interviews.  Finally, around three in the morning, I was
released, and I was helped into a wheelchair, and a nurse rolled me
out, through the swinging doors, and into the packed waiting room,
where I was nearly overrun by the crowds of kids.  The only ones I
really wanted to see were the O'Toole twins, and Jake, and Kayla, and
Andrea, and Eric, and, most importantly, Tiny, the man-mountain who
saved my bacon.  I was too groggy and doped up to pick them out of
the crowd of faces and voices, though, and my mother was not about to
let anything or anybody stop her from getting me home and into her
care, as she parted the sea of bodies so that the nurse could wheel
me out into the parking lot.

Michael and my dad carefully put me in the front seat and buckled me
in, taking care not to jostle my ribs and my arm as they wound the
seatbelt around me and snapped it in place.  I laid my head back on
the headrest and closed my eyes, exhausted down to my toenails.  I
wanted nothing more than to just crawl between the cool sheets of my
own comfy bed.

As tired as I was, and as drugged as I was, it was still
surprisingly difficult to fall asleep.  Part of the problem was that
I kept on replaying the scene in the parking lot over and over, like
a video loop in my head, seeing again and again Jilly's open hand
whizzing toward me, making contact with my ear; feeling the creak of
my ribcage as his foot made contact with my side; watching the knife
blade flash as it streaked across space toward Molly's face and my
arm; and looking through a reddish haze of pain and shock as Jilly's
body was lifted up off the ground by the force of Tiny's kick.  I
also couldn't get very comfortable, throwing around the extra weight
and bulk of the bandages all over my body.  Finally, though, I fell
into a fitful, exhausted sleep, full of mad dreams and visions.  I
didn't feel rested at all when I awoke at last on Sunday afternoon,
even though the clock indicated that I had been sleeping for over 10
hours.

I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and limped to the bathroom.  The
reflection looking back at me out of the mirror, bleary-eyed and
sleep-swollen, was not a pretty sight.  I ran my good hand through my
hair in a haphazard attempt at establishing order among the
follicles, and finally gave up, and proceeded to gingerly brush the
cobwebs off my teeth, moving the toothbrush carefully around the
bandage on my lower lip.

My mom heard me stumbling around upstairs, and came up from the
family room to offer some assistance.  She insisted on helping me in
getting a flannel shirt on, the left sleeve unbuttoned to accommodate
the bandage, and she knelt down on the floor of my bedroom to help me
get a pair of sweatpants on my feet so I didn't have to struggle one-
handed.

As she was pulling the sweats on over my feet, she said, "The
telephone's been ringing off the hook, Sean.  You have about a
hundred messages downstairs."

I just grunted.  There wasn't anybody in this world that I wanted to
see, especially now, with my mother on her knees, helping me get
dressed.  For a sixteen-year-old jock, I didn't think anything could
be more embarrassing.

I have since learned differently, of course.

A few minutes later, Michael came up to help get me down the stairs.

I gave my mother a baleful stare.  "I can walk on my own, you know,"
I grumbled.

"Yes, I know, dear," she replied, unperturbed and relentless.  "But
there's no sense in taking chances, now, are there?"

Mom logic.  There was no argument, and no cure.  I could rail and
protest, but it would be like complaining that the sun was making the
world too bright.  I accepted, with very little good grace, and they
helped me slowly walk down the stairs.

Later that afternoon, I was sprawled in my dad's easy chair,
watching a boring football game on television with my family.  Dad
had volunteered the chair, thinking that it would be more comfortable
for me than the couch.  I didn't want to uproot him from his favorite
spot, but he insisted, so I lounged in it, squirming around until I
found the least irritating position.

The back doorbell rang, and before anybody could get up to see who
was there, the door opened, and we heard two sets of feet on the
linoleum in the kitchen.

"Hey, Porter, where are you?" I heard Jake yell.

"Hello, Jake, we're in the family room," called out my mother.

Jake and his sister Kayla appeared in the doorway.  "How you
feeling, Seanster?" asked Jake.

"Like I've been run over by a tank," I grumpily replied.

"Yeah, well, just think how Jilly feels today," he said
unthinkingly.  He suddenly looked abashed, glancing at my parents,
but they did their best to ignore his comment.

Me, I had to laugh, which hurt my swollen mouth and my battered
ribs, but it felt good, nonetheless.  Yeah, I thought to myself, I'll
bet he's in some pain today, too.

"How does your arm feel, Sean?" asked Kayla softly.

"Not too bad," I said, "considering there's about 30 stitches
holding the whole thing together."

Kayla's blue eyes got big and round.  "Thirty?" she said, a little
breathlessly.

"Something like that," I said, as if it was no big deal.

"Yeah," piped up my little brother Stephen, "he's gonna have an
awesome scar, I'll bet."

"Stephen!" cried my mother.  "That's a terrible thing to say."

"Oh, that's just boys talking," admonished my dad.  "He didn't mean
anything by it, I'm sure."

"What about your mouth?" asked Kayla, moving a little closer to look
at the various bandages.  Her hand came out, as if she wanted to
touch the bandage on my mouth with her fingertips.

"Oh, I might be stuck with a permanent Elvis Presley sneer," I said
jokingly, "but I'll get used to it."

"Hey, I might like one of those, myself," said Jake.  "Be a good
chick magnet.  What do you say, Kayla?  Would I look good with an
Elvis Presley sneer?"

"Not as good as Sean," she said.  She started blushing, and turned
away, embarrassed.  My mother gave her an appraising look, as if
suddenly seeing Kayla as something other than the little kid she had
known, practically since she was born.

"So, Porter, I suppose you're going to ditch school tomorrow, aren't
you?" asked Jake.

Mom jumped in, before I could answer.  "Sean has a doctor's
appointment tomorrow morning," she said.  "He has to have his
bandages changed, and the doctor wants another x-ray of his ribs."

"In other words," I said, "you're right.  I'm ditching school
tomorrow."

"Ah, you're just a lazy slob," said Jake laughingly.  "Just because
you got slapped upside the head, got your ribs stove in, and got your
arm skewered, you're going to take it easy for a couple of days?
You're a slacker, Porter."

"He is not!" Kayla turned on her brother and slapped his arm.  She
turned back to me, stepping a little closer to my chair so she could
lightly touch my good arm.  "You don't listen to this big dummy,
Sean.  You should take the week off."

"Take the week off?  I'd go stir-crazy, sitting around here by
myself," I said.

"I'll come over after school to keep you company," she said softly.
"In fact, if you want, I can go to each of your classes after school,
and pick up your homework assignments, if you'd like."

"No, Kay, you don't have to..."

"That's not a bad idea," interjected my mom.  "You are going to have
to keep up with your schoolwork, Sean, even if you are only out of
school for a couple of days."

"Too bad, Sean," said Stephen scornfully.  "For a minute there, I
was envying you, not being able to go to school.  But it sounds like
school's going to come to you, instead."  He laughed out loud at his
own jest.

"I'll call in to the school office in the morning," said Mom.  "I'll
try to get them to collect Sean's work together.  Then, if you could,
Kayla, perhaps you might stop by the office after school and bring
his work home with you."

"Of course," agreed Kayla.

"Either Michael or I will stop by your house to pick up Sean's
work," Mom continued.

"No, you don't need to do that," said Kayla.  "I'll bring it over in
the afternoon."

"I'm not sure I..."

"No, really, Mrs. Porter, I don't mind," interrupted Kayla.  "Jake
can drive us over, when he gets done with football practice."

Mom looked at her speculatively, but could find no objection to
Kayla's brother accompanying her over to our house.  Besides, I knew
she was thinking that, with this arrangement, she wouldn't have to
take off the whole day from work, if she knew I was going to be
helped in the afternoon.

"Well," she said, a little reluctantly, "I suppose that would be all
right..."

"Okay, then, that's what we'll do," exclaimed Kayla.  She suddenly
was very animated, now that she had a job to do to help me out.

Jake and Kayla left a few minutes later, with Kayla promising my
mother that she would stop at the school office as soon as school was
over the next day.

A little while later, the drone of the television, along with the
painkillers, made my eyelids droop, and I dozed in the easy chair,
warm and comfortable in my home.





I hadn't known it, but Mrs. O'Toole and my mother had been on the
telephone with each other a couple of times that morning, and around
6:00, there was a knock at the front door.  My dad got up from the
couch, walked over, and opened the door to admit the O'Toole family.
Mr. and Mrs. O'Toole came in, each carrying a covered dish, followed
by Josh, Molly, and even their older sister Heather, apparently home
from college for the weekend.  Mrs. O'Toole and my mom did that funny
kissing-the-air-near-the-cheek thing that had never made any sense to
me, and my dad and Mr. O'Toole shook hands warmly.

"Hello, Bill," said my dad in welcome.

"Jim," acknowledged Mr. O'Toole.  "How's the patient?"

They both looked over in my direction.  "He's pretty darn grumpy,"
admitted my father.

Mrs. O'Toole came bustling over, ready to fuss over me.  "Well,
you'd be grumpy, too, if you had stitches in your lip like Sean," she
cooed.  She gingerly touched the bandage on my lip, and I flinched
away.  She "tsked" at me, reached over and firmly grasped my chin,
and turned my face back and forth, gently pressing the edges of the
bandage down.  "Relax, dear, I'm just making sure the bandage is on
there well enough," she said.

Satisfied that the doctors and nurses probably did a decent enough
job, she stood, and headed into the kitchen to help my mother get
dinner ready.  Meanwhile, Heather, Josh, and Molly came in and sat
down.  Josh had a big smile on his face.

"What are you so happy about?" I complained.

"I'm glad to see that she doesn't just mother her own family," he
said with a grin.

Heather laughed out loud, and even Molly had to smile at my
discomfort.

"How come you're home from college?" I asked Heather.

She glanced over at Molly, and then looked at her brother fondly.
"Josh has been calling me almost every day, since last week, letting
me know what's been going on.  He called me again last night, and I
knew I had to come home to see what I could do to help out my sister,
so I took the train home.  It wasn't until I got home this morning
that I got the whole story about last night."

"I'm not sure I know the whole story about what happened last night,
either, and I was there," I said.

"Well, for one thing, Del Toro's going to be walking funny and
talking with a squeaky voice for a long time," said Josh.

It hurt my mouth and my ribs to laugh, but I couldn't help but join
in as Heather and Molly started laughing out loud, with Josh's guffaw
the loudest of all.  The insanity of it all was just too much.

Both sets of parents were bustling around between the kitchen and
the dining room, leaving us to ourselves, until, finally, my mom
called out, "Dinner's ready!"

Josh hopped up and moved to help me up out of the chair, but I waved
him off, and slowly, painfully stood up.  Josh and Heather walked
into the dining room, but Molly hung back and waited for me.

"Sean?" she said softly.  She moved to my right side, taking my good
elbow to support me.  "I wanted to thank you for what you did last
night," she continued.

"Molly, I..."

"No, Sean, let me finish.  Please?  You stood up for me, when almost
everybody else was writing me off.  And I know that Jilly would have
cut my face up if you hadn't gotten in his way."

"Molly..."

"And you're hurt because you were protecting me."

"It wasn't just me, Moll..."

"I know, it was Josh, and Tessa, and Andrea, and that whole group,
and I owe them a lot, but it was really you who saved me, Sean, and I
love you for it."

"Molly, I can't..."

"I will always love you for what you've done, Sean.  Promise me
you'll always be my friend?"

"I promise, Molly, but..."

"And I promise I'll always be your friend, Sean."  She reached up
and kissed me on my cheek, a surprisingly sisterly kiss.  "I'm
swearing off boys for awhile," she said quietly, as she began
steering me toward the dining room.  I could hear the murmur of
voices through the doorway, but Molly was speaking too quietly for
them to hear her.  "I don't think I could stand the tension of not
knowing... knowing if they're going to turn on me..."  There was a
sadness in her voice, a note of disappointment that I was sorry to
hear.

"Listen, Molly, you know that not all boys are as intent on doing
damage as Jilly, or even Joey."

"I know, but even so, I've got some trust issues I need to work on,
so no dating for me for now.  You, though, are another story.  So,
pal, you want me to help you try to get Kristina Mendoza back?" she
asked.

I stopped and stared at her.  The defeated look that she had had for
the past week or more was gone, and the old Molly was reasserting
herself.  Her healing processes were well underway, and yet I was
thinking that my own healing had barely started.  I had the feeling I
had a long, long road ahead of me.

She smiled sweetly at me.  I thought she was secretly glad she could
still surprise me into speechlessness.  She gently tugged at my arm
to get me moving again, her arm looped inside mine as we stepped into
the dining room and found our seats.

The dinner conversation stayed carefully away from the events of the
previous night, and nobody even mentioned what had precipitated it
all.  Both the O'Tooles and the Porters were trying to recapture a
previous existence, one in which there was no hint of Jilly Del Toro,
no acknowledgement of Joey Amonte, no evidence of any troubles with
the Bulls, or Molly, at all.  I wasn't sure that world had ever
really existed for us, but I left it to better imaginations than mine
to fabricate a happier time for all of us that evening.  In fact, it
wasn't until Mrs. O'Toole produced a gigantic apple pie, and had cut
wedges of pie and topped each piece with a slice of fresh cheddar
cheese for us all, that any troubling subject at all was broached.

Molly's father stood up.  "Sean," began Mr. O'Toole, "I just wanted
to personally thank you for all you did for us over this past week."

"Sir, I..." I wanted to relay to him my own feelings, including how
I had just played a very minor role in helping Molly.  In fact, I
really wanted to let everyone know that it was my own stupidity that
got me beat up and put Molly directly in the path of Jilly's
psychotic rage, and that it was Tessa and Austin, Josh and Andrea who
did most of the work, and all of the planning.  It was my own lack of
common sense that jeopardized everything.  If anybody sitting at our
table that night should have been the recipient of his thanks, it
should have been Josh, for his hard work and planning and his
selfless dedication to his sister, and even Molly, for helping
herself to the best of her abilities.  There was so much I needed to
say, to correct his erroneous information, before he embarrassed us
both by praising the wrong party, but before I could continue, and
even before I could collect my thoughts well enough to speak of where
thanks should be directed and where blame should rest, Mr. O'Toole
just steamrolled right over my objections.

"Let me finish, Sean, please," he continued.  "I know that there
have been others who were involved in this whole mess.  In fact, I
owe a big debt of gratitude to my own son, and I publicly acknowledge
it, right here and now."  He gazed at Josh fondly, and patted him on
the back.  "However, there was only one person who put himself
directly into harm's way for my daughter, and for that selfless act,
I can only begin to express the gratitude that both Rhonda and I
feel."

Mrs. O'Toole had tears in her eyes, and so did my mom.

"Uh, can I say something now?" I asked.  I really felt like I had to
set the record straight.

"Not yet, son," said Mr. O'Toole.  He turned to my father.  "Jim, I
know you have been concerned about Sean and his injuries, as well as
his involvement in this... problem, and I suspect he has not been
very... forthcoming about how he got hurt.  In fact, I don't know the
whole story, either, and I probably never will.  Suffice it to say,
however, that your son has done something exceptional.  You should be
proud.  Both of you, Jim and Dolly, should know that you have raised
an extraordinary young man."

With that, he reached across the table, extending his hand.  I
didn't want to cause him any further embarrassment, beyond his
ridiculous praise, so I pushed myself up so I could reach over and
shake his hand with my good hand.  In the meantime, Rhonda O'Toole
came around the table and gently put her arm across my shoulders,
taking care not to bump my bandaged left arm.

"Thank you so much, Sean," she whispered tearfully.

This was all getting to be too much.  As I sat back down again, I
began, "You know, everyone has gotten entirely the wrong impression
about what I did..."

"Sean?" interrupted Josh.

I looked over to him.  "What?" I asked, unhappy with the way he
jumped in on what I needed to say.  All these interruptions were
beginning to really piss me off.

"Just shut up," he said.  He tried to give me a hard look to back it
up, but then he smiled at me, a toothy, goofy grin.

What could I do?  I took his advice and just shut up.  I made a
mental vow to myself, though, in that moment.  I knew one of my many
great failings was my tendency to not follow through in sticky
situations.  I could easily think of lots of times when I made things
worse by not acting.  I should have called Kristina that long-ago
Sunday.  I should have called Becky that Sunday not so long ago.  I
was an idiot.  Worse, I was an asshole, and I hurt myself and too
many others by not doing the right thing at the right time.  I needed
to change, and that's what I vowed to do.






(Continued in Chapter 21)




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