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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. 22 (mf rom)
Date: Sun, 15 Dec 2002 11:10:05 -0500
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And the adventure continues...

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
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is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
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(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 22 -

THE FIFTY-CENT BET



"Okay, I'll bite," I replied.  "What can you do for me, Mr. Cropper?"

The gruff voice on the other end of the telephone line said, "Do you
know a young man by the name of Jesse Wilhoit, son?"

"Yes, sir, I do.  Is he okay?"  I didn't think I could take any more
bad news than I'd gotten over the past year or so.

"Oh, yeah, Jesse's just fine," said Cropper.  "In fact, he's the one
suggested I give you a holler."

"Um, okay," I said.  I was still confused.  "And how do you know
Jesse?"

"Ah, I see now where I done went and took the wrong turn down this
particular highway," he said, almost to himself.  "I didn't introduce
myself very proper here, did I?  Son, as I told you a moment ago, my
name's Pickett Cropper, but most folks just call me Pick.  I'm the
head coach of the University of Florida soccer team, down here in
Gainesville, Florida."

"Oh, I get it," I said stupidly.  Hey, my mama always said I should
work on my strengths, and right now, stupid was my main commodity.

"Now, Jesse Wilhoit's been singin' your praises, son, and I would
like to send up one of my assistants to talk to you, maybe watch you
play."

"Uh, sure, that's great, Mr. Cropper.  How's Jesse doing for you?"

"Well, son, I guess soccer news don't spread out quite as fast as
football news across the country, but I've got to tell you, that
Jesse Wilhoit's a fine player for us.  He's been in our starting
lineup right from the get-go, and he's helped us to the Southeastern
Conference championships, and right into the NCAA Tournament.  As a
matter of fact, I believe he'll be the Southeastern Conference
Freshman Player of the Year, I do."

"Wow," I said, impressed.  "Good for him.  I can't wait to talk to
him."

"Now, son, as head coach, I've always got to be lookin' to the
future, as well as herdin' these boys in the here-and-now, and I hear
tell you've got a game that just might fit into our type of play here
at Florida.  But, just to make sure, I'm going to be sending up one
of my best ol' boys, a fella name of Stan Harvard.  He's gonna be up
in your neck of the woods the next couple of weeks, and I'd like for
him to watch your team play this Friday."

Uh-oh.  Ninety seconds into a conversation with a Division 1 school
coach, and I was in trouble already.  There was no way I would be
playing this weekend, and probably not the next, either.

"Coach Cropper, I think I might have a problem.  You see, right now
I'm... injured.  I won't be playing for at least a couple of weeks."

There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line.  "Oh?  Is
that right?  What kind of injury are we talking about here, son?"

"Oh, it's really nothing," I said hurriedly.  "Just some... bruised
ribs... and some... cuts and scrapes."

"You've been to see the sawbones, right?"

I was puzzled.  What the heck was a sawbones?  "Sir?" I asked
inquiringly.

"The doctor, son.  Have you been to see the doctor about them ribs?"

"Oh, I get it.  Sawbones.  Yes, sir, I had x-rays and everything.
No cracks or breaks, but I've got to take it easy for a little while."

"Well, that really shouldn't be a problem then.  After all, you're
only a junior, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, we've got a whole year to figure this one out anyway.
And I know, if half the things Jesse was telling me were true, you're
prolly gonna have recruiting scouts hounding you for some time to
come.  I just wanted to be first in line, is all."

"Thank you, sir."

"Let me leave you my number, Sean.  You give me a call when you're
healed up and playing again, and I'll see where ol' Stan is, and see
if I can get him to drive over yet this year.  That sound all right
with you?"

"That would be great, Coach.  Thank you."

I wrote down the number he gave me, a direct line into the athletic
offices.

Now that was a great call to get, I thought to myself.  I sat back
on the couch smugly, basking in the warmth of the realization that
there was a college out there looking at me for their team.  What a
great feeling!

However, as I replayed the conversation in my mind, I got restless.
It took me a few minutes to realize what was making me uncomfortable.
Here was another situation where I was not very honest with somebody
who was trying to do something for me, and my deceptive description
of my injuries to Pick Cropper seemed like it was another of those
Sean Porter defects, and one that directly confronted how firm my
resolve was going to be in keeping the pledge I had made to myself,
just a couple of days ago.

My bruised ribs hurt like hell, and there was a dull throbbing in my
sliced-up arm, but these pains were minor compared to the self-
inflicted battering my conscience was taking.

I tried to tell myself it was all a fabrication of my own addled
mind as I tried to find a comfortable position on the couch.  The
television was on, but it was just background noise to me.  I turned
the sound up, trying to drown out my own bitter thoughts, but it
didn't help.  I flipped through the stations, hoping for a good
Bogart or Cagney movie to lose myself in, but no luck there, either.

I got up and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, but nothing
sounded good.  What I was looking for wasn't going to be found in a
cabinet or in the refrigerator, but I wasn't ready to accept that
particular truth quite yet.  I stalked through the first floor of the
house, looking for something I knew I wasn't going to find easily.

Jake and Kayla came over again after football practice.  Kay had my
homework assignments, and, as expected, there was a ton of work.  The
three of us spread out in the family room, but I couldn't concentrate.

"Will you sit still?" said Jake, exasperated, after about the
dozenth time I shifted on the couch, trying to find a decent position.

Kayla knelt beside me, leaning on the arm of the sofa.  "What's the
matter, Sean?" she asked, concern in her eyes.

"I got a call today," I began, and I told them about my conversation
with the coach of the Florida Gators soccer team.

"But that's great, Sean," said Jake enthusiastically.  "Maybe you'll
get a scholarship to play soccer."

"Yeah, that part's great," I agreed.  "It's the omissions that I'm
worried about."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I know," said Kayla.  She looked seriously at me.  "You're
afraid he's going to find out you were hurt in a fight, right?"

I slapped the arm of the sofa, making her jump a little.  "That's
just it," I said.  "If he finds out I might be suspended from school
for fighting on school property, I'm afraid he's gonna be really mad.
He's not going to want a troublemaker like me on his team."  I could
feel my eyes burning a little.  Damn it; don't cry like a little kid,
I admonished myself.  You've got to grow up sometime.

And there, right before me, was the answer I had spent the last
several hours searching for, practically tearing the house apart in
my desire for some sort of solution.  I had to be grown-up about it,
stand up and face the music.

Kay had grasped my hand as I confessed my fear, holding it close to
her in support.  I gently disentangled myself and reached beyond her
to the telephone.  Pickett Cropper's number was on a scrap of paper
on the end table, by the telephone.  I picked it up and dialed.  A
female voice answered on the third ring.

"Gator Athletic Office, this is Eunice Adkins speaking."


"Uh, hello, I'd like to speak to Coach Cropper, please," I said.

"Pick is in a meeting right now with his assistants," replied
Florence.  "May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Sean Porter," I said.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Porter, Pick has been expecting your call.  One
moment, please."  And she put me on hold.  I could hear the random
pops of the long-distance connection through the receiver.

He was expecting my call?  Why would he think I would be calling him
back so soon?

After just a couple of minutes, Pick came on the line.

"Sean?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"What can I do for you, son?" he asked.  His attitude seemed to be
one of pleasant surprise to be hearing so soon from me.  I could
almost hear a sense of amusement in his attitude.

"Well, Coach, I feel I need to explain to you just how I got my cuts
and bruises in the first place," I said.  I took a deep breath,
closed my eyes, and leapt off the cliff.  "You see, sir, I was in a
fight over the weekend, with another student.  In the school parking
lot.  And I got my butt stomped, and my arm's kind of cut up from a
knife, and my ribs are bruised because I got kicked.  I've been home
recuperating for the past couple of days, sir, after the doctors
stitched me back up again, but I'm planning on going back to school
either tomorrow or the next day, but I'm expecting to be suspended
for at least a few days because of the fight."  I paused for a moment
to catch my breath, having just spilled out my confession.  I was
expecting him to hang up on me, since I was giving him the
opportunity to tell me to forget about meeting with his scout, but
there was a long silence on the other end of the line.  The silence
was worse than my admissions, so I jumped into the void, and
continued with my explanation.  "I... I was surprised by your earlier
call, sir, and I... I wanted to set the record straight... and...
well, you deserve to know the truth about me, sir..."  I finally
wound down, nothing more to say.

There was a deep chuckle on the other end.  "Son, I can't tell you
how happy I am to hear from you, especially so quick," he said.

I was very confused.  "You're happy?" I asked incredulously.

"Why, shore, son, a course I'm happy."  He laughed again, evidently
taking a great pleasure in my humiliation.

"I don't know why you're so freaking happy," I grumbled.  "Unless
you like humiliating little kids."

He laughed even harder at that.  "Hoo, boy, you are a one, Sean
Porter," he finally managed to eke out.  "I guess I owe you some sort
of apology, son."  His laughter had subsided to an occasional low
chuckle, but by now I was pretty mad, and just about to tell him to
go fuck off.

"I got to tell you, Sean, I been pullin' on your leg jest a little
here.  You see, I already knew about all that stuff."

"What?"  Now I was puzzled, as well as pissed.

"I didn't jest call you up outa the blue, now, boy," explained Pick.
"I've had several long conversations with your coach up there, Mr.
Martin Neville.  And after I got done talking with him, I had another
very pleasant conversation with a Dr. Osgood, who I believe is the
principal of your fine school."

"Uh, yes, sir, he is, but..."

"Anyways, both those fine gentlemen were kind enough to give me some
background on you and your soccer habits, abilities, dedication to
the game, that sort of thing, and in the midst of our conversation,
the troubles of this past weekend just happened to come up."

"Oh.  Well, sir..."

"Now, before you go off and start apologizin' again, son, let me say
a few things, and maybe my amusement will become a little more
apparent to you, okay?"

"Okay, but..."

"Now you just set back and listen up for a moment, son, while I kind
of talk my way through this.  You see, I've talked to Mr. Martin
Neville a few times, Sean.  The first time was, oh, I'd guess maybe a
couple of weeks ago.  Your coach was kind enough to send me some film
of a couple of your games, which, along with what Jesse was telling
me, kind of piqued my interest, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I always listen real close to what a feller's coach has to say
about him before I decide one way or t' other if I'm a gonna pursue
that feller for my team, you understand.  And Mr. Neville, he's the
kind of straight shooter I like to talk to, the kind of coach that,
over the years, I've learned to respect and trust.  And he told me
about the altercation when I called him yesterday, and he explained
all that he knew about it, and made no apologies on your behalf.
Well, I got to tell you, son, that story shook me a little, so that's
why I called up that Dr. Osgood fellow, and talked to him.  Now, he
had the preliminary reports from the police at his disposal, and he
was quite open about sharing his information, let me tell you."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I've got a pretty fair soccer team down here, son, and getting
good players to come to the University of Florida is important to me,
and to the University.  But I got to tell you, son, I always got to
look hard at a boy's underpinnings, if you know what I mean.  If it
comes down to a choice between a hard-nosed, upstanding player, and a
hard-nosed, but ultimately morally questionable player, I will always
take up the cause of getting the upstanding boy down here.
Understand?"

"Yes, sir, but I..."

"Now, that's not to say I won't take a chance on makin' a bad boy
into a good soccer player, now, and I've been known to take a project
like that on a time or two, but my scouts and assistants had better
be right on target with such a boy.  But the ones who have already
proven themselves, Sean, I most always can sniff 'em out myself.  You
know what I mean, son?"

"Not really, sir, but..."

"I already know quite a lot about you, Mr. Sean Porter.  I know what
another group of pretty fine players has to say about you, since I
even went and spent near on half my month's telephone budget calling
trans-Atlantic so I could speak personally to Mr. Duane Olchick, for
instance.  I know about your work with some of the younger kids in
town, and I know how many games you refereed this past summer, all
for the love of the game.  I could probably even name who was
involved in Saturday night's incident, and not be off by more than
two or three people.  I know you got four stitches in your lip, and
near onto 30 in your arm, and I know you was standing up for a young
lady who needed you to be there, standing up for her."

"I... I..."

"You don't have to say nothin' right now, Sean, but let me assure
you of this: I like what I've been told, and I like what I've seen.
And you have shown me that you got some steel in you, son, by callin'
me back the way you done, ready to give up on the University of
Florida, all for the sake of tellin' me your story."

"Coach, I..."

"And that's why I was so amused, Sean.  Made a bet with Eunice that
you would be calling me back within twenty-four hours.  I was tickled
pink when she come barging into my meeting here, and plunked fifty
cents down on my desk.  She didn't have to say a word, because I knew
what it was for."

"Fifty cents?"  That was about the only thing I could make any sense
of, out of all he had talked about.  My head was spinning.

"Fifty cents," he confirmed.  "Best damn can of pop I ever drank.
It always tastes better when it's won fair and square.  Let me tell
you, son, that if you hadn't called, I still would have sent ol'
Stanley Harvard up to see you play, and maybe talk to you some.
Hell, I've seen your game films, and with another season of
experience, you're going to be a helluva player.  But your calling me
now has convinced me, son.  I ain't leaving this here project to one
of my employees.  Eunice is going to have to rearrange my schedule,
because in a month or so, I'm coming up there myself to talk to you
and watch you play.  Is that okay with you, son?"

I gulped.  "Yes, sir, that's okay with me," I said.

"Well, good, then," he said with satisfaction.

We said our goodbyes.  My hands were shaking as I put the phone down.

"What the hell was that all about?" asked Jake.  "We couldn't tell
if it was a good call or a bad call from your stuttering."

"And what was that fifty cents thing?" interjected Kayla.

"Wait, give me a minute," I said, falling back into the couch
cushions.  "I've got to try to absorb all this."

The back door banged open, and Stephen came running through the
kitchen.  As he bounded up the stairs to his room, he called out a
greeting.

"Hi, Sean.  Hi, Jake.  Hi, Kayla."

And, with a crash as his bedroom door rattled on its hinges, he was
gone.

My mom was in the kitchen, having picked up my brother on her way
home from work as usual.

"Hey, Mrs. P.," said Jake loudly.

Mom came out to stand in the doorway.  "Why, hello, Jake.  Hello,
Kayla sweetie.  Did you bring Sean's work home for him?"

"Yes, Mrs. Porter," said Kayla.  "I said I would."

"I know you did, dear, and I thank you for it," said my mother.

"Hey, Mom, maybe you'd better come in here and sit down," I said.
"I might as well tell you all at once about this phone call, so I
don't have to repeat myself."

Mom looked concerned as she stepped into the room and sat down in
the big stuffed chair.  "What phone call, Sean?" she asked.

"Well, I got a call earlier this afternoon from this man named
Pickett Cropper," I began.  And I told them about my brief
conversation with Coach Pick, and just mentioned in passing about my
crisis of conscience, and Kayla's insight, that made me decide to
call him back.  I described my second conversation as best I could.
I tried to emphasize Jesse's and Coach Neville's roles in influencing
Cropper's interest in me, and tried to downplay the things he said
about my moral character.  He didn't really know me, after all.

"Woo hoo!" yelled Jake.  "A scholarship, Sean!  That's fucking
incredible!"  He glanced over at my mother, just as Kayla slapped his
arm.  "Oops, sorry, Mrs. P."

"That is wonderful news, Sean," said my mom, pointedly ignoring
Jake's slip.

"When's he coming to watch you?" asked Kayla excitedly.

"I don't know," I said.  "I don't even know if he'll call ahead.
I'll just have to be prepared all the time."

"Which you were going to do anyway," said Jake.

I glanced over to him.  "Yeah," I admitted.  "I was.  I've got a lot
of work to do once I can get back on the field."

It was hard to buckle down and get back to work on our schoolwork,
but we managed.  Mom headed into the kitchen to get dinner ready, and
by the time Dad and Michael got home, we were almost done.  Jake and
Kayla stayed to eat with us, and we finished our work afterwards.  By
the time we were done, and the story of the telephone call had been
told another couple of times, I was exhausted once again.  I fumbled
around one-handed, trying to help Jake and Kay pick up and pack away
books and papers, but I was just in the way, and I finally gave up
the attempt, flopping down onto the sofa.

After the backpacks were zipped up, Jake hefted two of them onto his
shoulders and headed out to put them in his car.  Kayla stole a
glance at the kitchen door, and slipped next to me on the couch,
putting her arms carefully around my neck.

"I'm so proud of you, Sean," she murmured, her blue eyes sparkling
as she leaned in close to me.  She gently turned my head and gave me
a soft kiss on the side of my mouth, taking great care not to press
against my bandage.  I desperately wanted to kiss her back, but I was
in no shape to do anything except put my good arm around her
shoulder, holding her near to me.

"Thank you, Luscious," I whispered.

She smiled delightedly, and kissed me again, a little harder.  The
tiny flare of pain from my stitches was worth it, matched by the tiny
flare of desire in my solar plexus.



(Continued in Chapter 23)



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