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Message-ID: <39946asstr$1040245805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 23 (mf rom)
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 2002 16:10:05 -0500
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The saga continues.  It's looking like this tale will end up being 35 
chapters and an afterward, a little longer than the original PTG.

Whew.

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
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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




- 23 -

TIME SERVED


I really was tired of sitting at home, so on Wednesday I went back
to school.  My dad dropped me off early, and made sure I got in the
door without incident.  I was still bandaged up, but I was feeling
pretty good.  I got a lot of greetings from kids streaming into
school, good friends and kids I barely knew.

My first stop was to the school office.  I knew I would have to talk
to Dr. Osgood, so I thought I should get it done with early.  I was
hoping that I could talk him into counting the two days I had spent
at home already as part of my expected suspension.  I was also
worried about having this suspension on my school record, for other
colleges and scouts to see.  I hadn't even thought about it before,
but since Pick Cropper had called, I was afraid this incident might
just scare off any other scholarship offers.  My parents were going
to be really upset when they found out I had probably blown my
chances for a free college education with this fight.  Perhaps Pick
Cropper's offer was legitimate, but I had my doubts about any other
schools offering me anything but the door, once the fight and my
anticipated suspension entered the dreaded Permanent Record.  Even
Pick would probably modify his offer to only a partial scholarship,
at best.

Ayesha Ford's mother worked in the school office, and she was
standing at the counter, writing down something on a notepad, when I
walked in the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ford, is Dr. Osgood in?" I asked.

She looked up, saw me, and smiled.  "Good morning, Sean.  How are
you feeling?"  She certainly sounded friendly enough, not all scowly
like she was known to act when she was talking to a troublemaker.

"I'm doing okay," I said.  "It was pretty boring at home, with no
friends to hang out with."

Her eyes crinkled as she smiled.  "Another good reason to come to
school every day, right?"

"Well," I replied, "I guess there had to be one good reason."

She laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook her large frame.  "Just
as long as there's one good reason, Sean."  She was still chuckling
as she opened the gate to usher me into the inner sanctum.  "Dr.
Osgood's in his office.  Just knock on the doorframe and go right in."

I rapped on the frame, and Dr. Osgood's voice floated out of the
office.  "Come in, Mr. Porter."

"How did you know it was me?" I asked as I headed for his desk.

He smiled and took off his reading glasses.  "I heard you talking to
Mrs. Ford," he said.  "Sit down, Sean."  He gestured toward the pair
of chairs in front of his desk.

When we had both settled into our chairs, he steepled his hands, the
tips resting lightly against his moustache, as he gazed at me with an
expressionless face.  I felt fidgety, but I concentrated on sitting
still, wondering why he didn't begin.

Finally, he dropped his hands.  "What can I do for you, Sean?"

Now I was confused.  Certainly he wanted to yell at me, tell me what
a dunderhead I was, a troublemaker who was skating on thin ice, in
danger of being expelled for fighting on school grounds.  Why was he
asking me this?  Was he toying with me before he lowered the boom?

"Well, uh, I'm back, and I... I'm here to apologize... and... Don't
you want to tell me...?"  I stopped, unsure of where to go.

He smiled, just a little.  "I see," he said, almost to himself.
"Let's start like this, shall we?  How are you feeling, Sean?  Tell
me about your injuries, and how your healing is progressing."  He
slipped his glasses back on again, and pulled a piece of paper over
to the center of his blotter.  He picked up a pen in anticipation.

"Oh, okay.  Well, my lip was split open, and I've got four stitches
in it.  But it really doesn't hurt, even though it's still a little
swollen.  I guess you can see that, though, can't you?"  He nodded.
"Anyway, it only hurts when I forget about it and bump it or
something.  My arm, you probably know about.  It's all stitched up,
too, but the doctors say it's all soft tissue damage, no tendons or
anything were cut, so they're pretty sure it will all be okay.  I'm
supposed to get the stitches out early next week."

He wrote something down on the piece of paper.  "Continue," he said.

"My ribs are just bruised," I said.  "They're taped up, but it's
just precautionary, according to the nurse."  I paused, and
considered my various other scrapes and bruises, and decided they
weren't worth mentioning.  "I guess that's all," I concluded.

He wrote some more stuff down.  Without looking up, he said, "Is
there anything you would like to say about how you acquired these
injuries?"

I sat there, silent, until he finally looked up, removing his
glasses once again.

I sighed.  "What don't you know?"

He stared at me for a moment, and then he smiled, and settled back
in his big leather chair.  "And that's the question of the ages,
isn't it?  It's hard to figure out what we don't know.  For instance,
I don't know how the Del Toro family let their sons drift so far
afloat without guidance.  I don't know why Miss Lipshutz is so
attracted to such a dangerous lifestyle, and why her parents can't
see the path she is on.  I don't know if this community could have
stood another tragedy, two years in a row, if Stanford and the others
hadn't been so serendipitously present last Saturday night."

It took me a moment to realize he was speaking of Tiny.  Only school
administrators would call him by his real first name.

Dr. Osgood, gazing off into an alternate future, continued, "I don't
know how this will affect our own school security assessment.  I
don't know if the school board agrees with the actions I have taken
so far, or the actions I intend to carry out, concerning this
incident.  I don't know how safe I can make the school for the
peripheral characters in this drama, without bringing in the army
reserves to march the halls.  I don't know what the psychological
damage among the school population has been.  The principal players
in this drama will be assessed, of course, but the residual ripple
effects are liable to be felt for some time to come, and probably
will manifest themselves in seemingly unrelated forums."

He suddenly focused on me once again.  "You see, Sean?  There are
lots of things I don't know, and the things I don't know are what are
most worrisome.  As to the fight itself, I know, second by second,
pretty much what happened and why, from interviews conducted by our
own counseling staff, by the police, and by my own inquiries.  You,
of course, carry a unique perspective, and I would be interested to
hear your version of the incident.  But will it add to the facts of
the case?  That's another thing I don't know."

So, with no small amount of reluctance, I told him all that I could
recall about the dance and the fight.  I could tell I was only
confirming what he already either knew or suspected.  The only time I
surprised him, I think, was when I told him about seeing Joey Amonte
snorting that shit up his nose.

"I see we're going to have to monitor the restrooms at these
functions," he said, making another note on his paper.

After I had finally run out of story, he took his glasses off and
rubbed his eyes.

"Thank you, Sean.  I appreciate hearing your version.  Since the
first period classes are well underway, stop by the outer office, and
Mrs. Ford will write out a permission slip for you."  He stood, and
leaned over his desk and held out his hand.

Puzzled, I stood and automatically shook it.

I made a pretense of gathering up my coat, and then broached the
subject I had been dreading the most.

"Dr. Osgood?  About my suspension.  Is it possible to credit me,
maybe, for the two days I've been gone?  Call it time served or
something?"

He looked at me, startled.  "Suspension?  What suspension?"

It was my turn to be startled.  "Well, I just figured... I mean, I
was involved in a fight on school grounds, and I..."

He chuckled, shaking his head.  "Ah, now I see why you seemed a
little too nervous, Sean."  He smiled at me.  "Okay, it's a deal.
Two days suspension, time served is credited, and, since it's still
under investigation, I'll withhold the suspension from your records
until further notice.  Deal?"

Who could refuse?  "Deal," I said.  I headed toward the door.

"Sean?"

I turned back.  "Sir?"

"I am anticipating that this investigation will take a long time.
Several years, at least.  In fact, it may never be closed, so there's
no point in even noting anything on your records.  Innocent until
proven guilty, and all that.  So don't be afraid to let any colleges
ask for anything they want in the way of school recommendations and
transcripts, okay?"

I couldn't help but grin.  "Thank you, sir," I said.  And I meant it.

"Oh, and one more thing, Sean," he added.  "Our counseling staff has
brought in some trauma psychologists this week.  I want you to stop
by and make an appointment to speak to one of them."

You had to take the good with the bitter, I thought.  "Yes, sir,"
was all I said, though, and I left his office.

Mrs. Ford already had my pass written out, and she handed it to me
as I came out, a big grin on her face.

I smiled at her sheepishly.  "Thanks, Mrs. Ford," I said.

"Welcome back, Sean," she said, a genuine and open smile affirming
her statement.  She opened the gate for me, and waved as I headed out
into the empty hallway.

Since I had my hall pass, and first period was more than half over,
I decided to go to the counseling office, and I made arrangements to
talk to a psychologist during my study hall.

During the scramble in the halls between first and second periods, I
learned of my folly in thinking I was ready to come back to school.
I was jostled by well-wishers, and my arm got bumped pretty hard,
sending me into outer space from the sharp lightning bolts of pain
that shot up into my brain.  Fortunately, Eric spotted me, and he ran
interference for me, protecting my left side as we made our way
through the crowd.  After that, I had so many friends surrounding me
from class to class, I was pretty well insulated.  I saw Molly at our
third period class, in math class, but we didn't have time to do much
except say hello.  She looked great, and looked a lot happier than
she had in a long time.

After class, she waited with me, until the room had cleared out, and
she joined Tiny, Jake, and Tessa as my bodyguard detail through the
halls.  I felt foolish, but it kept my various injuries protected, so
I accepted it, however grudgingly.

At midday, Josh and Andrea accompanied me to the lunchroom, and sat
me down at one of the long tables, instructing me to sit still and
not move while they gathered food for me.  While they were in line,
Kayla found me, and sat down on my left.  She decided that the best
way she could protect my arm was to hold my left hand with her right,
and we sat there, all through lunch, chatting with Josh and Andrea
and dozens of others who stopped by to say hello, my hand resting
comfortably in Kayla's warm grip, nestled in her lap.

After school, I took my time going down to the locker rooms.  Both
the football players and the soccer players were changing out of
their school clothes into their practice gear, and as I walked
through on my way to Coach Neville's office, the crescendo of
greetings and shouts followed me.  It embarrassed the hell out of me,
but I still felt the need to acknowledge the support they were
offering, and I turned and waved, shouting out my thanks to everyone,
before turning and opening the door to the coaching offices.

Coach Neville and Coach Simonson were both leaning against their
desks when I walked in.  Mr. Simonson had a big grin on his face.

"Welcome back, Sean," he said.  He stood, patted me softly on my
right shoulder, and strolled out to begin organizing the day's
practice.

Coach Neville held out his hand, and I stepped over and shook it.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Porter?" he asked.

"Right now, I'm exhausted," I said.  "This school stuff is harder to
do than I remembered."

He laughed.  "It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"No," I admitted.  "It just seems like it was months ago."

His smile faltered just a little.  "Yes, it does, doesn't it?"  He
brightened back up.  "But I hear you've been getting good reports
from the doctors."

"Yep.  No breaks or cracks in the ribs, no major damage in the arm.
I hope I can start working out again next week."

"Well, don't rush it, Sean.  I would much rather have you back and
ready for the playoffs than I would want to rush you, just to play in
the last couple of conference games."

"Are you going to put Weasel into my spot in the lineup?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so," he replied.  I think I would rather start
Rich Ingrams, instead.  After all, he's a junior, and Mr. Prince is
still a freshman."

"That'll work okay," I said.

"It makes our right side considerably weaker," he said, more to
himself.  "But Mr. Soranno and Mr. Evanson can patrol a little more
into that area to shore it up."

"Weasel's a stronger player," I said.  "You'd have fewer worries if
you played him, instead."

He looked a little startled.  "I'm surprised you're recommending Mr.
Prince, Sean.  I didn't think you liked him very much."

"I don't," I replied.  "But he's a talented player, and putting him
on the right side is a smart move, from a defensive standpoint."

"Yes, it would be," agreed Coach.  "However, Mr. Prince needs quite
a bit of seasoning before he's ready to be a starter on this team.
You were thrust into the role last year, Sean, but I knew you would
rise to the occasion, and play your game well.  I'm not so certain
about Adam Prince in the same role, as it stands right now."  He
rubbed his chin worriedly.

"He's not going to take the news well," I warned.

Coach's eyes flashed in anger.  "It's not for him to decide," he said.

I thought about how Weasel would about have a coronary when he found
out he wouldn't start.  I really, really wanted to see that, I decided.

"Come on, Mr. Porter," said Coach.  "You can at least set cones for
me today."

I stuck around for practice, but I thought maybe Coach was
regretting asking for my assistance.  A one-armed helper can't carry
many plastic cones.  Besides, nearly everybody on the team wanted to
hear my version of the Saturday night festivities, so nobody was
paying too much attention to anything except gossip.

Even so, things got done.  Drills designed to work against our
Friday opponent were run, passing and shooting practices were held,
and laps were run.  At the end of the day's session, Coach Neville
announced to the team that Rich Ingrams would be starting in my
place.  I nudged Eric and Trent, and pointed over to Weasel when
Coach start talking, and the three of us nearly cracked up, watching
poor Prince swallowing the news that he wouldn't be starting.  His
face turned a bright red, and his eyes bugged out, but he wisely kept
his mouth shut.  He must have heard us tittering, however, because he
looked around to see where the laughter was coming from, and he saw
us looking at him, which made him even madder.  I couldn't help
myself when I saw that, and I started laughing hard enough to make my
ribs creak and ache, and I sank to my knees, tears streaming out of
my eyes, unable to stop laughing.  Eric, and then finally Trent,
knelt down next to me, laughing uncontrollably, and it was
contagious.  Before long, nearly all the players were laughing out
loud, even though many of them didn't even know why they were
laughing, and even Coach Simonson was trying to hold back a chuckle.
Coach Neville just stood there, waiting for us to regain our
composure, knowing full well what was going on, but unwilling to give
us any indication that he approved or disapproved of the humor we
found in the situation.

And poor Adam Prince was left standing there, hatred and
embarrassment seething and oozing out of every pore, watching us
laugh at him.

It was cruel, but hey, this was high school.  Cruelty has always
been a special ability of teenagers.



(Continued in Chapter 24)





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