index


Message-ID: <41165asstr$1046985002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <RevCottonMather@verywarmpostalservice.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 38 (mf rom)
Date: Thu,  6 Mar 2003 16:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


Ah, some questions answered, some questions asked...

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 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy!  I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------



PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 38 -

AN ASSEMBLY



By the time Kayla and I scrambled off the couch and threw some
clothes on, it was way too late to discover who it might have been
outside looking in.

And, as it turned out, it didn't really matter at all.  The person
outside had bigger problems than the minor threat represented by
Kayla and me.  When nothing came of our mysterious peeper over the
next couple of days, we did our best to put it behind us, and we
quickly fell into the routine of school, practice, and homework that
we had worked out the previous year.  Kayla came over to my house, or
I ended up at hers, and we did our homework together.  Josh joined us
most evenings, and Jaimie came along occasionally, too, when she
wasn't being her sister's jailer.

At soccer practices, Jorge, Eric and I made sure that Weasel
understood his position on the team, and Coach Neville reinforced our
lessons.  Weasel was being observed at his new starting position, and
we would not put up with any dissension from him on anything.  If
Jorge signaled him to shift to the left, he shifted, no questions
asked.  He might not have liked it, or he might have disagreed about
why Jorge was telling him to shift, but he did it, which was more
than we had really expected from him.  Then again, Jorge or Anthony
or I didn't move him around on whims, either; Weasel understood very
quickly that we were concerned with defense, and not thinking about
making him look bad or play badly.  The game was everything, and once
he figured that out, he was much calmer, and much more cooperative. 
He had the skills to play the game, and to play it to win, and he was
learning the patience it took to help the team to play at the highest
levels to which a high school team might aspire.

Our first game of the season was an away game against one of the
traditionally weaker teams in our conference, and we came home with
an easy win, 2-0.  In watching the tape of the game the next week, I
noticed that the plays we had designed over the past couple of years
for Trent and Eric didn't work very well with our current lineup. 
After we had been dismissed, I knocked on Coach Neville's office door.

As he opened the door, he was looking back toward his desk, staring
at the papers strewn around the desktop.  "Yes, what is it?" he asked
gruffly.

"Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?" I asked.

He looked over to see it was me, and he loosened up and smiled a
little distractedly.  Maybe he had been expecting somebody else.

"Come in, Mr. Porter.  Your timing is excellent."  He crossed back
over to his desk and sat down.  I could see he had field charts
spread out, and it looked like he had different names plugged in to
different positions on each chart.

"Uh... Coach, while we were watching the film, I noticed something
that..."

"Ah, you saw it, too.  Good."  He took his glasses off, and set them
down on his desk and started pinching the bridge of his nose.  "I've
been toying with the idea of switching Mr. Brooks and Mr. Ochoa. 
Paco's speed might serve us better up front as a scoring threat.  But
I'm afraid that might expose our middle too much."

I hadn't considered the possibility of switching Jimmy and Paco, but
the more I thought about it, the less I liked it.  I could tell Coach
wasn't that keen on it, either.

I sat down and rested my chin on my hand, my elbow propped up on his
desk.  "I don't know that it's the guys in their positions, so much
as it is the plays we've got don't work so well without Trent."

He looked up at me.  "Go on," he said.

"Maybe we need new plays... Well, that's not what I mean, either,
exactly..."

Coach was watching me, keeping his face neutral.  "What are you
trying to say, Sean?  I know we need new plays, but I'm still not
happy with the way the entire offense works."

I stood up and began pacing in his small office.  "I understand
that, Coach.  What I mean is that I think we've got good players up
front, and I don't think you should change the lineup.  But instead
of relying on our forwards to provide our scoring, why not take
advantage of the speed we have in our midfield, especially Eric and
Paco, and let them attack the net?  Use your forwards to advance the
ball up the sidelines, and move Eric, Paco, and Hap up as your
scorers."

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck,
his elbow sticking out like wings.  He gazed at me for a moment, and
then he smiled.

"Herb suggested the same thing," he said.

"Coach Simonson?  He said that?"

"Yes," said Coach Neville.  "He thinks I'm just being stubborn about
not wanting to give up on the perfectly good plays we've been using."
He gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh.  "He's probably right."

He stood up suddenly, the springs of his chair complaining with a
squeak.  "Tell you what, Sean.  I want you to get together with Coach
Simonson and design a few offensive plays.  Use your imagination. 
Nothing's too outrageous to at least try in practice, okay?  We'll
plug the best of them into our playbook, and surprise the hell out of
our opponents."  He strode over and clapped me on the back, and
steered me toward the door.  "Can I count on you to come up with
something outlandish?"

I smiled.  "You know you can," I said.

He looked at me affectionately.  "Yes, I can," he said.

I learned two good lessons that day, lessons I try to keep in mind
even today: head coaches are human, too, and subject to fallibility;
and the best coaches are willing to listen to others, even lowly high-
school players.

I found Coach Simonson in the equipment room, putting away the cones
and nets.  I told him about my conversation with Coach Neville, and
then suggested that Eric might be able to help us out, too.

"Okay, let's plan on getting together tomorrow after practice, and
the three of us will work on the problem," he said.

Eric, Coach Simonson and I worked out the bare bones of a few ways
to take advantage of our strengths in the middle, and Coach Neville
worked with us on implementing them during the next couple of
practices.  We didn't have time to perfect them, but no set play
works exactly as planned during a game situation, anyway.  Eric, as
our offensive co-captain, made sure his players on the attacking side
of the field understood the importance of improvisation on the field.

At the same time, since I was defensive co-captain, I let my guys
know that they could feed all the way up to our forwards when the
opportunity presented itself, so they needed to pay attention to the
entire field, and not just their immediate surroundings.

At our game that Friday, our offense still struggled, but we could
all see some improvement in our methods.  We won the game by a score
of 4-1, but the writing was on the wall.  Another week of practice,
and we would be back to being a scoring machine.





During the first week of school, Jake and I roamed the halls and the
lunchroom until we found Stephen's friends.  Since freshmen weren't
allowed to leave the building during the day, we concentrated on
checking out the lunchroom during the lunch periods, and almost right
away we found Tommy Allenton and Carlos Abbinante sitting next to
each other, with Stephen across from them, eating together at a
crowded table.  We walked up to them, and I moved to stand behind
Stephen, while Jake moved over to the other side.  Jake stared
silently over at the kids sitting next to Carlos.  Everybody at the
table had stopped eating, and was watching either Jake or me, their
eyes darting from us to the boys and back again.

Jake growled and shoved the kid who was sitting by Carlos, and he
scrambled to get out of the way, pushing against the kid next to him,
until, in a chain-reaction, the kids on the end of the bench stood up
and moved away.  The kids on Stephen's side of the table all gathered
up the remains of their lunches in a panic, slid down the bench and
found different places to sit, their lunches forgotten as they
watched us avidly.

As Jake swung his leg over the bench to straddle it, Carlos decided
that flight was the better option, and he started to stand up,
pushing himself up with his arms.  Jake put one big hand on Carlos'
shoulder, and pushed him back down.  I saw Carlos try to strain
against Jake, thinking he could use his legs to power himself out of
Jake's grasp, but it just wasn't going to happen.  Jake's years of
football and weight training allowed him to easily keep Carlos pinned
to the seat.

Stephen watched the whole proceedings nervously, not knowing what
was happening, but sure it was tied to the conversation he had shared
with me.  He glanced over at me a little fearfully, and then looked
over at Tommy, who looked like he was ready to fly out of there, too.
Stephen gave him a little shake of his head, and Tommy stared at him
for before resigning himself to whatever fate held in store at that
moment.

Jake glared at Carlos and Tommy, and spoke to them through clenched
teeth, just loud enough for them to hear.

"I hear you two faggots think you know something about some friends
of ours," he grated.

"What do you..." started Carlos.  Jake's paw tightened its grip on
his shoulder, and he shut up.

"I'll let you know when it's your turn to talk, pinhead.  Right now,
your job is to listen.  Your continued good health depends on it. 
Okay?"

No response from Carlos, who was staring straight ahead.  Jake
squeezed his shoulder again, and a spasm of pain rippled through
Carlos' face.

"Okay?" Jake asked again.  Carlos nodded tightly.

"Good.  Now, this information you think you know, it's about a
couple of girls.  Information you might have gotten from your good
friend Tara Jacks.  As of this moment, you no longer know that
information.  Am I clear?"

Carlos hesitated only a second before nodding again.  Jake squeezed.

"I can't hear you, faggot," he said.

"Yes," said Carlos.

"Yes what?" asked Jake.

"Yes, sir, I understand," gritted Carlos.

Jake glanced around Carlos, looking at Tommy.

Tommy sounded almost panicky.  "Who, me?" he asked stupidly.

Stephen must have kicked him under the table, because he jerked, and
quickly stammered, "Yeah, okay, I understand, I don't know nothin'."

I turned to Stephen.  "Here's the deal," I informed him.  "Either
Jake and I can find your buddy Richie, or you can talk to him about
this.  What's it going to be?"

He didn't look happy about it.  "I'll talk to him," he said sullenly.

Jake and I stood up.  "Big brother Mike is going to be talking to
Tracy," I said, looking down at each of them.  "A word of advice for
you all.  Don't let him see you hanging around his sister.  He's a
little... how would you describe it, Jake?"

"I'd say he's angry, Sean."

"Yeah, that's about right.  He's angry right about now."

The three of them sat there with their heads hanging down, unwilling
to look up at us.  Meanwhile, the entire cafeteria had gotten very
quiet, with everybody watching what was going on at their table. 
Jake and I walked away and out of the lunchroom, and we could hear
the sudden buzz of speculation rise up like a dome of steam from a
suddenly uncovered boiling pot of water.

I didn't like bracing them like that, especially in such a public
place, but I hoped the embarrassment would help them to keep their
mouths shut.  Freshmen, especially during the first few weeks of
school, were easily cowed.  I was trusting that it would be enough.





The next week, for our Wednesday practice session, Eric, Coach
Simonson and I devised a new practice drill.  On a full field, we
pitted the starting offensive lineup, the three forwards and three
midfielders, against the five starting defensive players.  We also
divided the bench players according to their typical offensive or
defensive assignments, and Coach Neville subbed one player every five
minutes on both sides, so that everybody got a chance to be worked
and a chance to rest.

We had rearranged our offensive priorities, trying to take advantage
of our speed in the middle.  During games, Eric, Paco and Hap would
have to cover both offensive and defensive assignments, but for this
scrimmage, we were concentrating on getting their scoring potential
going.

It was 6-on-5, and it turned into a vicious and brutal workout.  The
offensive side always had at least one player open, and usually two,
since the defensive side had one player, the keeper, who couldn't
roam and mark an opponent.

The drill was designed to work on two things simultaneously.  First,
it gave the offensive team an opportunity to practice using the speed
of the midfielders, working the ball into open space and letting Eric
and Paco run it down.  On the other side of the field, we had to find
a way to keep them out of the net while playing a man short.

The first few attempts to bring the ball up, the defense was able to
nullify the man shortage by concentrating on blocking up the passing
lanes, taking away their opportunities to move the ball in toward the
goal.  It didn't take them long to figure out how to pass around to
the open man, and work to create opportunities by utilizing the open
spaces.  Defense had to pick up on their thoughts, anticipate the
passes, work angles, and run harder to try to minimize spaces big
enough to allow the speedsters to gain steps on us.  We managed to
stop them six out of the first 10 attempts, but then, as they got
better at moving the ball around us, our stopping percentage dropped,
until it leveled out at somewhere between 20 and 30 percent. 
Considering the competition, we were happy we were able to stop them
at all.

After 90 minutes, you could have wrung us out and hung us up to dry.
Everybody was fatigued and dehydrated, and most of the defensive
players, me included, were stretched out on the ground, feeling like
we'd been beaten up and left for dead.  The guys working the offense
didn't look much better, which was small consolation.  Coach Neville
and Coach Simonson stood off to the side, watching us and looking
pleased as punch.  We were too tired to care much.

On Thursday, I was still tired and sore.  All my teammates that I
saw in school looked the same as me, walking gingerly and dragging
our sorry selves from class to class.  Practice was going to be
miserable.

Coach surprised us, however, and we had a light workout.  We jogged
a couple of miles on the track, and then did some ball-handling
drills before being released early.

"You guys worked hard enough yesterday," announced Coach Neville
when he called off practice a half-hour early.

That Wednesday torture session proved its merit at our game on
Friday.  We felt strong, fit and confident, and the hapless Lakewood
Huskies probably felt fortunate to be able to limp back home, licking
their wounds, and taking small solace that they managed to score one
goal against us, losing 8-1.  Eric, Paco and Hap had found their
rhythm, and our defensive unit stopped everything cold, aside from
one penalty kick that was awarded the Huskies on a hand-ball
infraction that was called on Brett inside the box, when the ball
popped up on him and inadvertently brushed against his arm.

The next week, we were to travel to Lincoln Valley to play one of my
favorite opponents.  I was looking forward to renewing my
acquaintance with Bozo One and Bozo Two.  I sincerely hoped they
hadn't been seniors last year.

Before the end of school that day, however, there was a last-minute
assembly called.  The team was scheduled to leave school before the
last class, as Lincoln Valley was over an hour away by bus, and the
assembly was gathered in the hour before we were to leave.  The
entire school population filed into the gymnasium and squeezed into
the bleachers.  Teachers, administrators, and a few students had to
stand, and they gathered at the ends, by the sets of doors.  Coach
Neville and Coach Simonson stationed themselves by the doors and
grabbed members of the soccer team as we entered with our classes,
until the entire team was standing to the side of the podium, where
Dr. Osgood was waiting patiently for everybody to come in and find a
place to either sit or stand.

Finally, looking around at the packed stands, he tapped on the
microphone to make sure the sound system was working.  The thumps
that reverberated through the room also had the effect of quieting
down the noise, as everybody turned toward him, wondering why this
assembly was called on such short notice.

"May I have your attention please?"  Dr. Osgood paused, and most of
the chatter stopped as his voice echoed off the concrete walls of the
gym.

"I have three items of interest to the school," he continued. 
"First of all, I want to congratulate the football team on their
season.  In today's Metro Times, we are ranked at twelfth in the
state."

The football players whooped and yelled, and the student body
followed suit.  Football was the money sport, and when they did well,
everybody felt good.

"Thank you, thank you," said Dr. Osgood as a way to get the crowd
back to order.  When the noise level had dropped sufficiently, he
continued.  "I also have it on good authority that one of our
players, who has already accepted a scholarship to Ohio State
University, is slated for All-State honors.  Stanford Harrison, would
you please come down here?"

Tiny stood up, looking a little surprised, and worked his way down
from the bleachers to stand at Dr. Osgood's side.  He towered over
our principal, and his huge hand completely engulfed Dr. Osgood's.

"Let's hear it for Tiny Harrison!" cried Dr. Osgood, caught up in
the moment.

Tiny waved to everybody, clearly embarrassed to be singled out, but
enduring the cheers anyway.  As he walked by me and my teammates, we
all held out our hands, and he slapped them all in good-natured
acknowledgment on his way back to his seat.

"The next order of business is to introduce our soccer team to you. 
Coach Neville?  Would you come up and do the honors?"  Dr. Osgood
stepped aside, and Coach stepped up to the microphone.

He cleared his throat as he leaned in toward the microphone, and the
rumble bounced off the walls.  He stepped back quickly, and turned
his head and smiled sheepishly at us.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he moved back within the microphone's range. 
"Anyway, the Metro Times has come out with their statewide rankings
today, and I'd like to introduce our starters on the team ranked
number one in the state."

Another cheer went up.  He went on to the team introductions,
starting with the forwards.  "Starting in left forward, we have a
junior, Alex Spivak.  At center forward, a senior, Javier Perez.  Our
right forward is a junior, Jimmy Brooks."

As each player was named, they stepped forward and stood behind
Coach.  There were pockets of cheering from friends of each player
scattered around the gymnasium, and polite but relatively
unenthusiastic applause from the rest of the students.

"At left midfield, we have a senior, who was an All-Conference
selection and a second-team All-State player last year, Eric
Johnson."  There was considerably more applause for Eric.  He was due
the respect, and the kids knew it.  His game was good.

"I'd also like to take this opportunity to announce that Eric has
accepted an offer of a full scholarship from the University of
Maryland," said Dr. Osgood, stepping up and leaning in toward the
microphone.  "Congratulations, Eric."  Eric had a big smile on his
face.  I knew he was relieved that his college decisions had been
finally reached.

Coach Neville continued his introductions.  "At offensive center
midfield, we have a sophomore, Hap Olson.  On the right, we have
another junior, Paco Ochoa.  Our sweeper, otherwise known as our
defensive center midfielder, is sophomore Adam Prince."

Somebody in the crowd called out, "Weasel!" and there was a lot of
laughing and clapping.  I could see Prince flush, but he controlled
it.  Eric leaned over and whispered something to him, and I saw
Weasel nod tersely.

Coach continued, "On defense on the left side, I would like to
introduce a senior, Anthony Rogers.  Our stopper, the man in the
middle, is also a senior, Brett Oldman.  In the net, our starting
goalkeeper is a junior, and also was an All-Conference selection last
year, Jorge Mendoza."

There was a lot of yipping and high, wavering ululations from
Jorge's friends as he joined his teammates, giving each of them a
high-five.  I was the only starter left standing with the reserves.

Coach looked over at me, leaning in sideways to talk into the
microphone.  "I have one player yet to announce.  Most of you know
him by now, but let me introduce him, just the same.  Playing right
defense for us is a senior who was chosen last year as an All-
Conference player, and as a first-team All-State selection.  He was
also chosen by the American High School Soccer Association as one of
the top players in the country last year, and I'm proud to announce,
today, that, for this year, this player has been awarded the AHSSA
first-team All-American honors.  Mr. Sean Porter!"

The room erupted, but I hardly heard it.  I was stunned; did I hear
him correctly?  Me?  Couldn't be.  But there Coach was, stepping over
to me with his hand held out.  I automatically shook it, and he
pulled me over to the podium, and we stood there, waiting for the
noise level to subside enough so that he could continue.

Finally, he was able to carry on, his amplified voice overriding the
noise in the gym.  "Congratulations, Sean.  I take it we pulled off
our little surprise."

He pulled the microphone out of the stand and thrust it under my nose.

"Uh, yeah," was all I could stammer.  I was completely unprepared
for this, and a sudden case of nerves made me clamp my mouth shut
before I said something really dumb.

Coach pulled out a fancy framed certificate, verifying his
outlandish statement.  I looked at it, seeing my name written there
in fancy calligraphy, and still believed it was some sort of
elaborate test to see how gullible I really was.

I don't really remember much else about the assembly, other than my
teammates gathering around and congratulating me.  I remember that
Molly and Tessa came up and gave me a hug, and Kayla jumped up into
my arms, wrapping her legs around me as she gave me a big, sloppy
kiss on my cheek.  Coach Neville and Dr. Osgood both watched us, and
they were trying to hide their grins as Kayla dropped back to her
feet and went running back to rejoin her class.  Even Kristina came
up to me and solemnly congratulated me.  Paco's arm was around her
shoulder protectively, perhaps lending her strength, as she shook my
hand.  Finally, the gymnasium emptied out, until it was just Dr.
Osgood, the two coaches, and my teammates left.

"Congratulations, Sean, it's a well-deserved honor," said Dr. Osgood.

"It should go to the whole team," I said.  "This isn't an individual
sport at all.  I couldn't do what I do on the field without the other
ten guys, or the coaches, or the players coming in off the bench with
fresh legs, or anything."

"Well, that's true, son," said Coach Neville.  "But the converse is
also true.  If you weren't the player you are, this team wouldn't be
as good as it is.  Sure, there are some very talented kids on this
team, Sean, and you all play very well together.  But it's your team.
You are its leader.  Where you go, everybody on this team follows."

"That's not how it's supposed to..."

"Oh, I know all that, Sean," Coach interrupted.  "That's all great
in theory, but theory doesn't win many matches.  Collectively, this
team is playing better than they should, given the individual
strengths and weaknesses of the players in each and every position. 
And yet, here we are, ranked first in the state, fifth in the nation.
Why?  Because players like Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Mendoza, and you, Mr.
Porter, make everybody else play better.  In fact, Eric Johnson and
Jorge Mendoza play better because of you, and you play better because
of them."

"Well, okay, but..."

"And that's what makes it a team sport, Mr. Porter.  And that's what
individual honors try to recognize."  He smiled, and put his arm
around my shoulder.  "Now, I have just one more piece of advice for
you, Sean."

"Okay," I said.  "What is that?"

"Shut up and enjoy it.  Glory days don't last forever."





The bus ride over to Lincoln Valley was raucous, and the coaches
just let us go.  They weren't too worried about Lincoln Valley's
chances, and everybody was in such a great mood, it was bound to
carry over to the game.

We tumbled out of the bus, gear bags slung over our shoulders, and
walked onto the field and over to the visitor's benches.  Eric and I
dropped our bags and began our ritual jog, only this time, the entire
team followed us, still talking and laughing as we warmed up.

Eric and I quickly moved ahead of the pack, and Paco and Jorge moved
up to join us.

"Sean, I got to apologize to you, man," said Paco.

I glanced over to him, surprised.  "Apologize?  What for?"

"Earlier, at the assembly," he said.  "Kristina didn't want to go up
to you by herself, you know?  But she wanted to let you know she was
happy for you."

"Yeah, that's okay, but what are you apologizing for?"

"I might have give you the impression that I was treating her like
she was my property or somethin', you know?  But it ain't like that,
man."

"Hey, Paco, that's between you and her.  I don't have anything to do
with it."

"I know, man, but you two got a little bit of history, and... I just
feel better if I know that you know that I didn't mean nothin'
against you, see?"

"It ain't nothing, Paco.  It was a long time ago.  You've been going
out with her for a year, man, you got nothing to apologize to me
about."

He shrugged.  "I just wanted you to know," he finished.

He and Jorge dropped back a little.  I glanced at Eric, and he just
smiled.

"He young, he in love, he truly fucked up," he said.  "She got him
so fucking whipped, it's a wonder he can wipe his own ass without her
okay."

"As opposed to us?" I asked, looking at him out of the corner of my
eye.

He shrugged.  "I can wipe my own butt.  I may be whipped, too, but
the biggest difference is Keisha makes sure I am well compensated.  I
bet you are, too, Porter.  But Paco?"

He let the rest of that thought dangle out there.

We passed by the Lincoln Valley team, but they studiously ignored
us.  I was pleased to see both Bozo Brothers there, stretching and
getting ready to play.

The next lap around, as we passed them, I heard one of them shout.

"Hey, you!  Vanilla!"

Eric and I slowed down.  I glanced over and saw Bozo One pointing at
me.

"Yeah, you.  I know you, don't I?"

"You prob'ly don't know him," said Eric.  "I don't think his story's
made it down to the comic book level yet."

That made most of the rest of their team look up at us.

"Nice going," I murmured as we slowed to a walk.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get them interested in you, that's all," he
answered quietly.

Somebody said something to Bozo.  He glanced over at his companion,
and then looked back over at us.

"Who?  Sean Porter?  What the fuck's a Sean Porter?"

By now, the rest of my team had come to a stop around Eric and me. 
Brett stepped out in front.  "I'll tell you who Sean Porter is,
meatball..."

I pulled him back.  "Come on, Brett.  Forget about it.  Let's just
let our game show them who we are," I said.  "It's just trash talk."

We walked off amid jeers and comments from the Lincoln Valley team. 
Quite a few of my teammates were grumbling.  I tried to keep them
calmed down, without losing their edge.

"Take it out onto the field, guys," I warned them.  "They aren't
that good.  Let's keep them scoreless, and show them what fast
midfielders can do to their defenders."

We got ready to play, and we took up our positions on the field.  As
visitors, we got the opening kickoff, and the first thing we did was
pass back to Weasel.  Our forwards headed up the sidelines, and our
midfielders spread out behind them as Lincoln Valley's forwards
advanced to try to take away the ball.  Weasel lofted a pass up to
Eric, who headed the ball up to Alex.  Alex moved a few steps with
the ball, until he was only about 20 meters off the end line.  As
soon as Eric got rid of the ball, both he and Hap charged toward the
net.  Alex juked his flat-footed defender, and crossed a high pass
about 10 meters out from the net.  Eric knew he didn't have a chance
at it, but he leapt up anyway, which created a diversion for both the
stopper and the keeper, who halted to defend against Eric's feint. 
The ball sailed just over Eric's head, and Hap, about 10 feet away,
let it hit his chest.  The ball dropped down to his right foot, and
he rocketed a shot past the startled keeper's diving body, and into
the back of the net.  One minute into the game, and Lincoln Valley
was already playing from behind.

By the 25th minute, we were up 7-0.  Eric had scored three, Hap had
two, and Paco and Jimmy each had one goal.  The ball barely had a
chance to get down into our end of the field.  All their attacks had
been to our left side, and all had been easily rebuffed.  The only
touches that Jorge had on the ball were when one of us passed it over
to him, so he could kick it back upfield.  The Lincoln Valley
defenders were blowing hard, having been overworked already, but
their forwards still looked pretty fresh.  Of course, they hadn't
done much, including helping out their defense by trying to plug up
our passing lanes in a bunkering maneuver.

Even so, every time they ventured down into my territory, both Bozo
One and Bozo Two had something to say to me.  I ignored them as best
I could, content to let them vent.  After all, trash talk seemed to
be the best part of their game.

Near the end of the first half, Bozo One was jogging back and forth
along the sidelines as the ball was being worked by our midfielders
on their side of the midfield stripe.  He looked over at me.

"You ain't so special, Mr. All-State," he jeered.

I stopped and put my hands on my hips, shaking my head at him.  "No,
I'm not," I agreed.  "But at least I'm not pacing the sidelines
because I don't know what to do."

"What?  I know what to do," he retorted.

"Sure you do, sport.  You're doing your team a favor by staying the
fuck out of the way."

"Hey, asshole, what's that supposed to mean?"

I sighed.  "Here, I'll show you."

Our midfielders were still playing keep-away, biding time until the
halftime whistle.  I called up to Hap and Weasel, and told them to
pass the ball back to me at their next opportunity.  A few minutes
later, the ball came back to me.  I trapped it, and tapped it over to
Bozo One.  I heard Weasel behind me.

"What are you doing, Porter?"

I just waved at him, indicating that he should hold his ground and
keep their centers out of the play.

"Do something with it," I said to Bozo One.

"What?"

"Show me your game, Bozo.  You got a game?  You know what to do? 
Let's see it."  I was balanced on the balls of my feet, about 4
meters from him, giving him a little bit of space to make some sort
of move.

His face hardened, and he started moving down the sideline.  I paced
him, and stayed even with him all the way down.  In the meantime,
Bozo Two had moved down, but Paco was harrying him, staying between
him and the ball, not letting him make a move toward the net, and
Weasel and Brett kept their assignments well covered.  Bozo One kept
on moving down the field along the sideline, until he was penned into
the corner.

"That's it?" I asked.  "That's your game?"

"I ain't done," he growled.

"Yes, you are," I said, and I took three strides in and took the
ball away from him before he could even react, knocking it between
his legs and picking it up behind him when I stepped around him.  I
started running up the field with the ball, picking up steam as I
went, feeling good about finally getting the chance to run all out as
I dribbled.  Bozo Two stepped back and away from Paco to try to
challenge me, so I tapped the ball over to the wide-open Paco, and
kept going at full speed.  Paco passed me the give-and-go as I blew
past Bozo Two, and headed for their defenders.  Hap was pacing me
down the middle, and as their right defender and their sweeper
converged on me, I used the outside of my left foot to move the ball
over to him.  The two defenders skidded to a stop and tried to switch
direction, and I ran right past them.  Hap gave me a hard pass, and
their stopper came out to try to stop me.  He was caught by surprise
when I let the ball go past me, over to Jimmy Brooks, who scooped it
up and moved in toward the goal.  The keeper moved out to cut off his
small angle, but by then both Hap and I were inside the stopper, so
it was very easy for Jimmy to knock the ball over toward us.  I took
his pass and powered a shot off my shoelaces into the top left corner
of the net.  It was only my second goal of the season, but I never
considered myself to be a scoring threat, except to Lincoln Valley. 
Even Jorge was a scoring threat to them.

As we trotted back for the restart, Bozo One was walking the other
way.  "All-State piece of shit," he growled.

"Hey!" I said.  "That's MISTER All-State piece of shit to you, Bozo."

Paco came up just then and looked at Bozo One disgustedly.  "You got
that wrong, anyway, dick breath," he said to Bozo.  "That's Mister
All-American piece of shit to you, bruddah."  We started laughing,
and my teammates around me who happened to hear the exchange started
laughing, too.  By the time we got reset, everybody on our side of
the ball had heard about the exchange, and we couldn't stop laughing.
The referee, instead of restarting, blew his whistle to signal the
end of the half, giving poor Lincoln Valley a brief respite from the
bloodbath.

Coach took pity on them for the second half, and he sat Eric, Paco,
and me for the entire half.  Even so, we walked away with a 12-0 win,
our most lopsided victory ever.  It was fun to play in, it was fun to
watch.  I didn't feel sorry for them at all.

After the game, the Lincoln Valley head coach, John Caruthers, came
over to shake my hand.  I remembered him from last year, and greeted
him by name.  He just laughed, shook his head, and thanked me for the
show.

"It's too bad you couldn't do something about that kid," I said.

"He's the best I've got for that position, Sean," he replied.  "I'm
just sorry I didn't have anyone to give you a little competition."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Coach," I said.  "Kids are
picking up the game younger now, and by the time the 10 and 12 year
olds get to high school, they'll play well for you."

He just smiled.  "Playing well for me is one thing," he said. 
"Playing well against a defender like you is something else entirely."

"Don't believe it," I told him.  "Kids coming up can run rings
around me."

"Now, that frightens me," he said.  "Congratulations, Sean."

"Thanks, Coach.  See you in the playoffs."

He laughed.  "You trying to give me indigestion?" he asked.  He
waved as he walked back toward his bench.





The rest of the regular season went pretty much the same way.  When
everything's clicking, it all seems so easy.  Our average margin of
victory from that game on was 5 goals, and we never had more than one
goal scored on us in a game during the regular season.  We were
waltzing into the playoffs as the team to beat, and we felt we were
ready for any challenge.  Coach Neville was also very pleased with
our progress.  He continually had to look to the future, and what he
saw with our team and the prospects beyond this season were good. 
After this season, he would lose five starters to graduation, but the
flip side of that was that six of his starters, including an All-
Conference keeper, would be returning.  From his perspective, it was
a great foundation upon which he could build.

We prepared for the playoffs as confident as a team could be, but
our success on the field, nor the success of our playoff-bound
football team, didn't rate as the hot news of the fall at our school.
Someone else was grabbing the attention of just about everybody,
attention that was very much unwanted.

One of the kids from the freshman class was in trouble, and it was
striking close to home.  As soon as I heard about it, I knew whose
shadowed face I had seen outside the window that first day of school,
watching avidly as Kayla and I made love on the couch.





(Continued in Chapter 39)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+