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Subject: {ASSM} -RP- Playing the Game II, Playing to Win, Ch. 6-10 by Rev. Cotton Mather
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Just a little something for those of you who are just catching up with the adventures of my good friend Sean Porter...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.
(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 6 -
SMALL THREATS AND INVITATIONS
All the recreational leagues were finished, and my soccer club
wouldn't start for a couple of weeks, so I was a free bird the last
part of June. I slept in a lot, until my parents noticed that I was
unoccupied, and put a crimp in my plans on being lazy. They left me
a list each week of chores they wanted done around the house, such as
painting the garage, weeding the flowerbeds, and mowing the lawn. It
still left me plenty of time to keep up with my running and working
with the ball. In addition, I was still working with the three boys
twice a week at the park.
I was very nervous about seeing Wendy the first time after the
tournament that she dropped Justin off at the park for our practice,
but she was acting perfectly normal.
"Uh, Mrs. Marcus..." I stammered.
She whirled around, looking behind her and to the sides, a humorous
glint in her eye.
"Is Arthur's mother here?" she asked teasingly. "She's the only
person who fits the description of 'Mrs. Marcus' that I know."
I could feel myself blushing. "Okay, then, Wendy," I reluctantly
agreed. "The other day, at your house..."
"Oh, my, Sean, are you embarrassed? How cute!" She reached up,
placing her palm against my cheek. "I could just eat you up!" She
patted my cheek. "In fact, if the boys weren't here..."
I backed up nervously, not wanting her touching my face. "Look,
Mrs. Marcus," I began, but i wasn't given an opportunity to continue.
"Seriously, Sean, don't trouble yourself over anything," she
interrupted. At least she didn't try to move closer to me again.
"It's just me, you know? I just like to relive my youth
occasionally."
"But..."
"Besides," she continued, "I really enjoy the... attentions... of
younger guys. Their ability to just keep on going is, um, enjoyable,
to say the least. And, if I remember correctly, you enjoyed
yourself, too, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"Enjoyed yourself twice, if I recall."
"Uh..."
"And I don't remember any protests at the time. Do you?"
"No, but it was all so..."
"And I wouldn't mind an encore sometime," she steamrolled. "That
is, if you enjoyed yourself enough to consider paying a visit on an
'older' woman," she continued with a mischievous smile.
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Ta, Sean," she said, turning back to her car with a swish of her
well-remembered backside, leaving me standing there, speechless and
practically breathless. "Lori will pick the boys up in an hour."
She waved gaily as she drove off.
Hoo boy, what a ride on a rocket this was turning out to be.
I turned back to the boys, trying to regain a little control over
the moment, and over myself. I had to admit it, Wendy rattled me.
During those first few weeks, Jake Lehigh and I would go out in
search of a pickup baseball game, or maybe meet up with some of our
other buddies and just goof off, riding bikes through some empty lots
across town, or hanging out at the DQ, during the early part of that
summer. He had girl problems of his own, so it was easy for us to
fall back into our old habits together. Oddly, I didn't see his
sister, the lovely blonde Kayla, she of the "I Dream of Jeannie"
costume, hardly at all at the time.
When I asked him about it, he looked at me kind of funny.
"I thought you knew," he said. "Kayla's got a boyfriend."
Damn. Another prospect down the tubes.
"Yeah," Jake continued, "he's just a pimply-faced little punk she
knows from school. I think she's been hanging around with him and
his friends, just to have something to do this summer. I already
told him that if I hear any whisper about him getting too familiar
with her, I'd take him out into the woods behind our house and break
both his legs." He laughed out loud at the memory. "Kid nearly shit
his pants when I got in his face. He got all sweaty and blubbery,
promising me on his grandmother's grave that he would treat her nice,
which was pretty funny, considering his grandmother's not dead. I
think I scared him into actually keeping his word."
"Hell, Jake," I said, "I'll even be glad to help you out if it comes
to that." I punched him on the arm companionably.
We were walking down the sidewalk, headed for Josh O'Toole's house
to see if he wanted to go with us to the arcade, when we heard the
throaty growl of a powerful car engine coming up from behind us. We
turned and watched as Joey Amonte roared by us, one hand draped
insolently over the steering wheel, the other arm across Molly
O'Toole's shoulder, holding her close to him on the bench seat. The
windows were open, and the radio was turned up loud. Molly's long,
strawberry-blonde hair was blowing around her face, and she was just
reaching up to brush it off her forehead when she turned and saw Jake
and me. She stared blankly at us, then turned and said something to
Joey. He glanced at us, and we could just see him shaking his head
as they roared out of sight up the street and around a corner, tires
squealing.
"One of the oddest couples I've ever seen," mumbled Jake.
"Yeah," I agreed. "You know what, Jake? Let's forget about Josh.
I don't want to run into Molly or her boyfriend today. Let's just go
to the arcade, maybe we can call him from there."
"Okay," he said. "The less I see of Joey Amonte, the more I like
it, anyway."
We spent the rest of the afternoon throwing dimes into the pinball
machines at the arcade, enjoying the clang and clatter of steel balls
hitting bumpers and ramps and dropping down into the wells of the
tables.
(Continued in Chapter 7)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.
(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 7 -
FIREFLOWERS AND SCREAMERS
Every year, the town we live in throws a big party for the 4th of
July. When the holiday falls on a weekend, like it did in 1981, the
community puts together enough events to fill the entire weekend. A
traveling amusement park sets up, the firehouses have water hose
fights, there is live music and a food fest, and, of course,
fireworks. Almost everybody in town attends something in the park by
the lake over the weekend, and the place is always packed for the
fireworks.
That year, walking around the park, I could see that all the little
kids were being carted around by their parents, riding the merry-go-
round and the kiddie cars, watching the magicians and the clowns, and
eating gallons of ice cream. The teenagers tended to clump together
at the faster rides, sometimes hanging around the beer tent, hoping
for a chance to sneak inside.
On Friday, Jake and I were supposed to meet a bunch of our friends
at the carnival. Jake's parents had been kind of lulled into
thinking that Jake and Jaimie were no longer meeting up, even though,
as determined and sneaky kids will tend to do, they had managed to
get together occasionally over the past several months. Jaimie was
going to the carnival with Kayla and a bunch of their friends, too,
so I fully expected to see her there, looking for Jake. It was a hot
day, and the principal of our school, Dr. Osgood, was going to be
sitting in the dunk tank, part of a fundraiser for the foundation
that Skip Horvath's family had set up in his memory. So, of course,
about half the school was there, taking a turn at trying to dunk Dr.
Osgood, at a dollar a throw.
We got bored watching, and the line was way too long for a chance at
the booth, so we all just started hitting the other rides. Jake,
Jaimie, Josh, Andrea, Becky Steinman, and I kind of stayed together
as a group. Others joined us for a ride or two, then split off;
sometimes, there were as many as 15 friends of ours in line,
particularly for the Gravity Drop. This was a ride where everybody
stood up inside a big cylinder. Once the ride was full, the cylinder
started spinning you around, acting like a centrifuge, until you were
pinned to the metal wall. At that point, the floor dropped out, and
you were literally stuck to the wall. It was a fun ride, especially
when I got to be opposite a cute girl, because their tops would be
plastered to their bodies, and sometimes would even creep up,
revealing a wonderful width of bare skin at their stomachs. One
lucky time, a girl's t-shirt literally flew up into her face, showing
her pink bra to everyone on the ride. It was half the thrill of the
ride, wondering what would be revealed, each time you rode on it.
Just before dark, we headed toward the food concession stands, and
pigged out on corn on the cob dipped in a big vat of melted butter,
and hot dogs, and cheeseburgers, and pizza, and french fries, and
onion rings, and sodas, and ice cream bars for dessert. We all
moaned and groaned, too full to move from the picnic tables we had
commandeered for our feast. Finally, we tired of doing nothing, so
we wandered off again, in search of more carnie thrills.
One time, we were waiting for the Ferris Wheel, and Jorge and
Kristina came over by us. They were taking their four younger
brothers and sisters around the carnival, so they all got in line
with us. Since the Ferris Wheel could sit two adults and one child,
Kristina divvied up her younger siblings among us, so all of them
would be accompanied by someone they knew. As we were getting ready
to board the ride, Jorge suddenly stepped aside, effectively
positioning me in line to get in the seat with Kristina and her
younger sister, Lina. I was a little embarrassed by Jorge's
maneuvering, and Kristina looked a little uncomfortable, but she
accepted graciously when I gestured for her to get on ahead of me.
We sat down, Lina between us, our hands in our laps, as the wheel
lurched and moved so that the next seat could be loaded.
By the time we had stuttered our way to the top of the Ferris Wheel,
Lina had broken the ice for us. She was so excited, to be so far
above the rest of the carnival and the park, that she could hardly
contain herself. She started pointing out landmarks to us,
screeching and waving to friends she spotted far down on the ground,
and turning around to laugh with Jorge, Becky, and Emilio, another of
the Mendoza kids, in the bench behind us. As the ride launched for
its prescribed time, Kristina finally smiled, and we took turns
searching for other people and places throughout the park to point
out to Lina, chatting and laughing like friends once again. Kristina
even spotted my younger brother Stephen, running in a pack with a
bunch of his buddies, as they raced toward the Tilt-A-Whirl. It was
an easy pattern to fall into, and I remembered with a rush just how
much fun Kristina and I had been having, just a few short weeks
prior. Maybe our friendship could be salvaged, I thought. I hoped
so.
The carnival stopped the rides at 11:00 PM, and by then, there were
just the high-school kids left. The younger kids had all gone home,
and the older ones found someplace else to have their fun. I was
pretty tired from being outside all day, eating junk and sloshing it
all around in my stomach from so many rides. Jake was ready to pack
it in, as well, and Jaimie had already left to meet up with the
friends she came to the park with, so we waved goodbye to our friends
and headed back toward our neighborhood.
The next day, it was more of the same. Most of us were pretty much
burned out on the rides at the carnival. Besides, Saturday afternoon
the entire place was going to be overrun by all the little kids and
their parents, so a bunch of us decided to hit the beach at the park,
instead. I met up with Eric, Keisha, Becky, Trent Abbott, and
Danielle Nickerson, who was Trent's new girlfriend, and we spent the
afternoon being slothful in the sand and in the water. Keisha, of
course, looked sensational and exotic, with her glistening dark skin
and bright red bikini. Danielle was kind of plain-looking, with
mousy brown hair she kept cut fairly short, and hips that were a
little wide, but she was one of the nicest people I knew, and I was
glad to see that she and Trent had found each other.
Becky and I had known each other since about the second grade. She
was slender, with shoulder-length dark blonde hair that she nearly
always tied back. She played recreational soccer, but wasn't
confident enough in her abilities to try out for the school team.
She normally dressed pretty conservatively, but I guess that didn't
carry over to beachwear, since she was wearing a very small purple
bikini today. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. This was a brand-new
Becky to me, and she was happy to hang out with me at the beach,
which was just fine with me.
After spending a couple of hours on the beach, we all grabbed t-
shirts and strolled up to the concession stand to get something to
eat. We ordered greasy cheeseburgers and fries, all except for
Danielle, who got a limp and sorry-looking salad with a virulent
orange dressing. We crowded in around a wooden picnic table in the
shade, and dug in.
"What IS that stuff?" asked Keisha, eyeing Danielle's salad warily
as she gingerly picked up a wilted shred of lettuce and dipped it
into the paper cup of dressing.
"It is disgusting, isn't it?" replied Danielle. "It's really good
for my diet, though. One look at it, and my appetite disappears."
"Well," said Trent between mouthfuls, "this burger hits the spot."
"Thass 'cause you never met a hamburger you didn't like," retorted
Eric.
"Hey, I can't help it if I'm a carnivore," replied Trent.
"Carnivore?" asked Danielle. "How about omnivore?"
"Yeah, there's very few things I won't eat," said Trent, giving
Danielle his best Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle.
He had to duck as Danielle threw a shriveled radish at him.
"Pervert!" she said. Meanwhile, Keisha, sitting next to him, started
pummeling him on his arm for the remark.
"Do you kiss your mama with that mouth?" derided Keisha as she
pounded him.
Ducking his head and tucking his elbows to his sides to cover up
against the assault, Trent replied, "Yeah, and she really likes it
when I do."
"Ewww. That's completely disgusting!" cried Keisha as she renewed
her attack. Trent had to finally slip down off the seat and slide
under the table to get away from the two girls, laughingly
apologizing from his hideaway.
Becky and I just watched the exchange with amusement. Her bare
thigh was resting against mine, a warm and smooth, surprising
connection between us.
After lunch, we wandered back down to the beach, feeling full and
lazy. Trent and Danielle decided to walk around the lake, so they
slipped their sandals on and strolled along the shoreline. Eric and
Keisha sat down at the water's edge and drew doodles in the sand,
watching the waves lap up and erase their lines and drawings as they
lazily talked.
Becky and I flopped back down on our towels spread out on the hot
sand. She had her sunglasses propped up in her hair as she rolled
over to lie on her stomach. She reached up and flipped her
sunglasses down onto her nose as she turned to me.
"Put some lotion on my back, Sean?"
"Sure," I said, reaching for the sun block. I squirted a dollop
across her shoulders. The skin pebbled a little as she squirmed.
"Oh, that's cold," she complained.
"Sorry," I mumbled. I started spreading the lotion across her
shoulders and down her back. I slipped my hand under the strap of
her bikini top, but she apparently decided that wasn't sufficient,
since she reached back with both hands and undid the strap, pulling
the ends out and off her back wordlessly. I was now faced with an
expanse of naked skin that I was supposed to rub lotion into. Didn't
she realize what the sight of so much skin did to a teenaged boy? I
could feel blood being diverted into my crotch, making my trunks a
little tighter, but there was nothing to be done about that. I bent
back to the task at hand, squirting a little more lotion out into my
palm, and rubbing it into her back and sides, trying to keep my
fingers from noticing the supple feel of her skin, the ridges of her
backbone from her neck all the way to where her bikini bottom covered
her, and the softer flesh of her squashed breasts as she lay there.
I finished by brushing my fingertips along the waistband of her
bikini bottoms, wanting to slip under the elastic a bit further, but
unwilling to take the chance. I took my time replacing the cap on
the tube of sun block, kneeling on the towel and waiting for my
erection to subside before standing.
I thought her eyes might have been closed. It was hard to tell
through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. She seemed to know,
though, when I was getting ready to move over to my own towel.
"You didn't get the backs of my legs yet," she said softly.
Uh-oh. Legs. I knelt beside her knees, and reopened the lotion. I
squeezed lotion into my hand and started on the left leg, at her
ankle. Yeah, I was a chicken, but so what? I was working my way up
that long length of smooth leg, making sure I got every square
millimeter protected with sun block. Up her calf, to the crease of
her knee, and even further, feeling the big muscles of her thigh at
rest, smoothing the lotion into her skin. I made it all the way up
to where her bathing suit covered her butt, and then started again at
the ankle of her right leg, trying to ignore the way her legs had
parted just slightly as I had worked on her thigh.
By the time I had worked my way up her right leg, I could just
detect a slight quiver in her muscles, and her legs had definitely
spread out a little more, allowing my fingers to work the lotion
along her inner thigh. I made sure she was well covered, going over
and over the area, from her knee to just below her covered crotch.
Finally, breathing heavily, I collapsed down next to her. My painful
erection was pushed into the sand, where it wouldn't be noticed, I
hoped.
Becky sighed and turned her head toward me. "Want me to do you
now?" she asked.
My first reaction was probably what you would expect from the mind
of a hormonally charged teenaged male. What, do I want you to do me,
right here and now? Absolutely, do me now, and do me often. But
then, I realized that she was talking about putting lotion on me. I
looked over at her, and she had an uncharacteristic, knowing grin on
her face, seeming to be waiting for my reaction. I was sure she had
read my mind, and found what little I keep in there to be
inconsequentially amusing. I just nodded, afraid to open my mouth,
for fear I would only be able to croak something goofy. Without
lifting her body up, she reached back and refastened her top, and
then knelt beside me and reached for the tube of suntan lotion, still
in my hand. She tugged at it, trying to get me to let it go, but I
was unconsciously gripping it tightly.
"Sean? The lotion?" she laughingly inquired as she finally pulled
it from my grasp. She propped her sunglasses up onto the top of her
head again, so she could properly concentrate.
She squirted a dollop onto the middle of my back. She was right.
It was temporarily cold on my skin. But it warmed up fast, once she
started rubbing it into my skin. She rubbed slowly, using a circular
motion that felt really good. When I was a kid, my mom would just
slather the stuff on me, wiping me down in big, fast strokes to get
as much coverage as quickly as possible, leaving me covered with
white streaks of lotion. This was much better, more like what I
thought a massage would feel like, as Becky methodically rubbed the
sun block into my skin. I liked it a lot. I liked it so much, in
fact, that if I hadn't been lying on my stomach, I probably would
have caused a sensation, there on a public beach and all.
It was even better, and even worse, when she got to my legs. I had
no qualms at all about having my legs spread out a little, and Becky
took full advantage, making sure I was well covered by lotion, going
over and over my legs, from my ankles to the hem of my swim trunks.
By the time she finished, I was having trouble focusing, and I was
breathing hard, as if I had just run a sprint. Finally, she flopped
down next to me on her towel, smiled at me, reached behind her to
once again unfasten her bikini top, and then nonchalantly closed her
eyes so she could feel the full effects of the sunshine beating down
on her, flipping her sunglasses back down onto her nose. I couldn't
close my eyes. I just lay there, watching her relax. It was a
fascinating view.
Finally, Trent and Danielle returned from their walk, dropping down
to sit beside us. Eric and Keisha came up from the water's edge to
see what was going on. Becky reattached her top, and we sat up to
join in.
Everybody was tired of being in the sand, so we headed for the
changing booths up near the concession stand. Both the men's and the
women's sides had shower stalls, and we all had brought a change of
clothes, so we took turns washing the sand off and getting into
clean, dry t-shirts and shorts.
The six of us headed back to the park, and spent the rest of the
afternoon and evening tossing balls at stacks of bowling pins,
shooting targets with b-b guns, munching on popcorn and letting
cotton candy disintegrate in our mouths, and listening to the live
music coming from the beer garden as we stood around outside the
fence.
By dusk, the entire town was starting to gather in the park,
families staking out their spots on the grass in anticipation of the
fireworks display. We wandered around, looking for clumps of kids we
knew, stopping to shoot the breeze with friends. We found Theo
Jameson among the crowd, a fellow soccer teammate who was involved in
a horrible car accident the previous fall, an accident that killed
his best friend and our star player, Skip Horvath, an accident caused
by Richie Del Toro, the leader of the gang of toughs at school known
as the Bulls. Richie was still being held in the county jail, having
been convicted of vehicular manslaughter, but his lawyers were
attempting an appeal. Theo survived the accident, but spent several
months in a wheelchair, and then underwent a grueling set of therapy
sessions, just so he could walk under his own power to receive his
high-school diploma in June. He still walked very slowly, but I
could see he had made a lot of progress, even in just the last month
or so.
"Trent! Sean! Eric! Man, it's good to see you guys!" he called
out. He shuffled over in our direction as we veered over toward him.
He gave each of us a fierce hug in greeting. "What are you guys up
to?"
"We're just cruising the park," said Trent. "How about you?"
"I'm staying put right here," he said with a smile. He indicated
his family, on blankets behind him, as he continued, "My folks wanted
us to watch the fireworks together, like we used to do when my
brothers and sisters and I were little. Besides, I think they're
still nervous about how well I can move around, even though I'm back
on two feet again."
"You'll be back on the soccer field by the fall," said Trent
encouragingly.
He looked a little sad. "I don't think so, Trent. My playing days
might be over." He brightened up then. "But, I did get some pretty
good news this week. Seems that the soccer coach over at Western had
been watching us play early in the season last year, and had been
considering offering me at least a partial scholarship, until I got
hurt. Anyway, when he found out that's where I was going to go to
college anyway, he called me up the other day, and asked if I wanted
to work on the sidelines with him and his coaching staff. He said he
could offer me part-time employment as a coaches' aide, if I wanted
it. At least it's a way for me to stay in the game, you know?"
"That's really great," I said. "You know, coaching just might be
the right fit for you, Theo."
"Yeah," he agreed, "if I can't play, maybe I can at least teach the
game to others. It's worth a shot, anyway."
We chatted for a few minutes more, congratulating him about the
opportunity, and then headed off, so that Theo could spend this
evening with his family. Trent and Danielle split off and went in
search of some of their other friends, and Eric, Keisha, Becky and I
continued strolling through the crowd, until just before the
fireworks were scheduled to begin. We hooked up with Josh and
Andrea, Jorge, Kristina, Toby Mueller, and Ashley Horvath, and
plopped onto the ground beside them, just as the opening salvos were
set off.
I was watching the fireflowers and screamers flying into the dark
sky, leaning back on my hands as I oohhhed and ahhhed over the
colorful, fantastic display in the sky, when I felt Becky, on my
left, put her hand over mine as she leaned back, next to me, to enjoy
the fireworks. It was not entirely unexpected, nor was it unwelcome,
especially after our afternoon on the sand. It was a warm and quiet
invitation from a very good friend.
What was unexpected, however, was the warm body on my right, not
merely resting her hand on mine, but actually leaning on me, pressing
her side into my arm. I could feel the warmth of Kristina's body up
and down my arm, her unspoken signal stabbing straight to my
midsection.
(Continued in Chapter 8)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.
(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 8 -
HE SAID/SHE SAID
"You know she likes you a lot, Sean."
"Yeah, I know, I've been working with her kids for awhile now."
"Not like that, stupid," she said. She was propped up on one elbow,
doodling in the small line of hair that ran from my belly button to
my crotch. It sort of tickled, in a squirmy way. "I mean, she LIKES
you."
"Nah." I dismissed the thought. I had too many complications right
now to be thinking of Lori like that.
"What?" She was persistent. "You don't think of her in that manner?"
"No. Yes. I mean... Well, she's really pretty and all." I
sighed. This was an uncomfortable conversation to be having,
especially when I was lying here, both of us naked atop the rumpled
and sweat-slicked sheets. Why did she insist on talking about
someone else while I was in bed with her?
"And lonely," she added. "Her husband has been gone for almost two
years. She's got to have a lot of pent-up emotions ready to come
flooding out. Wouldn't you like to be the right man in the right
place at the right time?"
"Are you kidding me? She wouldn't think... I couldn't... she
doesn't look at me like... Nah."
"What is the matter with you?" she asked, a little frustrated at my
thick-headedness. "If she found you in her bed, you think she'd kick
you out?"
Now I was starting to get a little irritated, as well as
embarrassed. "Yes, of course she would. Not that I would be jumping
in her bed so she would find me there, anyway. Come on, Wendy, can't
we talk about something else?"
Her doodling brought her fingers within range of my more sensitive
spots. She had already gotten me off twice, once with her mouth and
once as she worked me from on top, while I suckled and squeezed her
big breasts as they swayed over my face. Now she was very lightly
running her fingertips along the skin between my legs and my balls,
teasing and tickling, but never touching either my scrotum or my hard
cock. The anticipation was making coherent thought, particularly
about Lori Wilkinson, difficult. I decided that a decent defense was
a good offense, so I reciprocated by lightly running my fingertips
over her sensitive boobs, circling but never touching her ruby
nipples.
"Is that what you want to do? Talk?" she teased. She blew at my
ear. "You know, there's something else two people can do with their
lips besides talk..." She leaned toward me, never stopping her
teasing fingers, and kissed me softly on the lips. The soft kiss
turned heated as she opened her mouth and invited my tongue in. Both
of our hands relented at the same time, as I pinched a distended
nipple, just as she grasped my rigid cock. She stroked me as she
kissed me, until she finally grabbed on and pulled me by my cock over
onto her, spreading her legs and guiding my head toward her heated
opening. As I sank into her soft and pliant pussy, she wrapped her
short legs around mine, pulling me tighter into her.
She was very wet and slick as I pumped in and out of her in a
rhythm, drawing almost all the way out of her as her legs relaxed,
and then slamming back into her hard when I felt her flexing against
the backs of my thighs. The air conditioning in her house couldn't
keep up with our efforts, and we both were breathing very hard into
each other's mouths, and sweat was running down my back. Her chest
had a sheen of perspiration, her breasts mashed against me as she
held me close.
Finally, she could take no more, and she broke the kiss and panted
as she was pushed over the edge. I had already come twice that
afternoon, and had started out feeling like I could ride her for
hours, so I was pistoning in and out of her energetically. But when
I felt her vaginal muscles contracting as she came, it triggered my
own orgasm, and I clenched and pushed as far into her as I could as I
pumped and spurted once again.
That was the end of the road for me. I was wrung out, exhausted as
I collapsed down on top of her. I could feel her oils coating my
cock and balls, and our combined juices leaked out and soaked the
sheet beneath us again. I rolled off her, my shrinking dick slipping
from her slippery passage, and landed on my back next to her again.
"Mmmm, that was a good one," she said, mostly to herself. She
indulged herself for a few more minutes, enjoying the aftereffects,
and then she bounded up out of the bed.
"Get up," she commanded as she slipped into her robe.
I curled up into a ball, wanting to just slide into an easy slumber
for just a little while. "No," I said, a little petulantly.
She started pulling the sheets out from under me, being none too
gentle as she rolled me out of the way. "Get up, you lazy boy. I
have to get these sheets in the wash and the bed changed before
Arthur gets home."
I rolled over, propped my hands behind my head, and looked at her.
"Why do you do it, anyway?" I asked.
She knew what I meant. She stood there a moment, arms full of
soiled sheets, and I could see her about to give my question a
flippant reply, and then changing her mind. "I love Arthur, Sean.
Let's not forget that. I would never want to hurt him. But he can't
provide certain... excitements... that I choose not to be without."
Her face took on a harder look. "Don't get all dewy-eyed on me,
Sean. You know it's just fun and games. You get to get your rocks
off, I get to remember what it's like to go at it two or three times
in succession."
That was my cue. I stood up and looked around for my clothes.
"Yeah, well, I'm not so sure I like it very much." Who was I
kidding? I liked getting my ashes hauled, especially by someone as
energetic and experienced as Wendy. But I still walked away feeling
pretty slimy, a feeling that no shower in the world could wash away.
Her eyes got a little reptilian. "So? I'm not forcing you, Sean.
If you don't like it, don't come back. See how simple it is?"
"Simple for you, maybe. You've got it all figured out. I don't
have a clue about any of this shit, I'm just a kid. What do I know
about love and relationships and behavior? I can't seem to keep it
in my pants well enough to hang on to a girlfriend. I... ah, fuck,
never mind," I trailed off.
"Love? Relationships?" Her eyes were flashing with anger. "Let me
help you out here, kiddo. This ain't love, it ain't a relationship.
It's sex. Boffing. Getting it on, getting your rocks off, lighting
your candle, setting off your pocket rocket, it's the ol' in-and-out.
It's fucking at its finest. Enjoy it for what it is, and don't try
to read anything else into it, okay?"
Her look softened, and she dropped the sheets and walked over to me
and reached up to take my face in her hands. "Sometimes I forget how
young you are. You look grown-up, but there's still a lot of little
boy in you, and I need to remember that." She pecked me on the lips,
then grasped my shoulders and turned me toward the bathroom. She
smacked me on my bare ass to propel me toward the shower. "Now go
get cleaned up quickly, please? I'm running late."
She bustled back around to the pile of laundry as I shuffled off to
the bathroom.
I leaned in and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
I looked grown-up? When did that happen?
(Continued in Chapter 9)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.
(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 9 -
NEW TRICKS AND OPPORTUNITIES
My club team had started up again by mid-summer. Eric and I were
joined by Jorge, who made the team as keeper. We had practices four
evenings a week, and played either one or two games on the weekends.
At about the same time, the Duane Olchick clinic began. Olchick was
a Czech player who had been playing for three years in the U.S. and
was scheduled to go back to Europe in the fall to play. He had a
couple of months of down time before he left, so he was running
clinics in several cities in the Midwest. He had two weeks scheduled
here for college and high-school players, and the organizers had
announced that he would stay for one more week to work with a select
group of younger players.
Trent, Eric, Mike Evanson, Jorge, Kristina, John Bennington, Tessa
Navarrone, Ashley Horvath, and I were joined by a whole bunch of
players from other schools. I didn't know most of them, but I was
surprised to see that some of the kids from the All-State team that I
had met at the banquet last winter were attending, including Jesse
Wilhoit and his sister Anna, Spencer Goldman from South High, and
Harlan Corwin from Rock Falls.
"Jesse!" I jogged over to them as they were getting out of their
car. "Anna! It's great to see you!"
"Porter!" Jesse dropped his gear bag and extended his hand. "Good
to see you, man. I thought you'd probably be here."
I glanced over at his sister.
"Hi, Sean," she said shyly. She smiled at me, a smile I remembered
very well.
"Hey," I said, "you got your braces off. You look great, Anna."
And she did look great. In the eight or nine months since I had last
seen her, she had filled out very nicely. She had been a tall, thin
girl with dark hair and braces, seemingly a little awkward, even
though she was a respectable soccer player. Now, she was even more
attractive, having grown up a little more. She had been very self-
conscious of her braces, but now, without them, she smiled much more
easily, and when she smiled, her whole face lit up.
We started hauling their gear over by the fields. "I thought you'd
be at school by now," I said to Jesse. Jesse had been the only All-
American selection from our state in soccer, and he had a full
scholarship to the University of Florida.
"I leave in three weeks," he said. "We've got conditioning
workouts, skills drills, and scrimmages the first two weeks, and then
formal tryouts after that. Our first game is only a week after that,
so there's not that much time."
"Tryouts?" I asked. "I thought you were on the team."
"Nah," he replied. "Just because I've got a scholarship doesn't
mean I'm automatically on the team. It just means that they think
I'll be able to make the team, and even contribute eventually. But
if I don't make the team, you know that the free ride will be yanked
for the next year, so it's a true motivator. Besides," he added, "I
don't think I'll have a problem making the team. Making a starting
position will be a lot more difficult."
There were about 70 soccer players all told at the clinic. Most of
the players were sitting in the bleachers, and a few kids were
passing a ball around on the field. I introduced Jesse, Anna,
Spencer, and Harlan to the kids I knew. Everybody knew who Jesse
was, of course, so he immediately became the center of attention,
until Duane Olchick and his assistants walked over and stood in front
of the bleachers. One of the assistants blew a whistle, while a
second one brought the kids who had been on the field over to the
bleachers.
When everybody had quieted down and found seats, he began with
introductions. He spoke with a slight accent that was quickly
forgotten.
"Hello, everybody, and welcome. My name is Duane Olchick, and I am
happy to be with you for these next two weeks. These are my
assistants." As he named each one, they stepped forward and raised
their hands. "Nicholas Arpente, Yuri Olchick, Anik Olchick, James
Bricker, Katrina Sorenno, and Tasha Wallace. Yes, before you ask,
Yuri and Anik are my brothers, very good players in Europe. James
comes to us from Connecticut, where he is their starting keeper, and
he will be working with all the goalkeepers here. Katrina plays for
UCLA, and Tasha is a coach for the University of Arizona, after
starting for that team for the past four years."
He did a quick head count, and nodded to himself. "Good. We are
well represented here. Now, some of you who have attended clinics in
the past might be wondering why there are both men and women players
here. After all, most instructors at this level prefer to separate
men and women, because of the differences in the speed of their
games. My own philosophy about the game of soccer is that the same
skill sets are used by all players, so there is no reason not to
teach all players these skills. When it comes time to play as teams,
most of the time we will conduct separate men's and women's games,
though we will occasionally play combined, coed if you will, games.
And, you may have noticed that I said 'men and women', not 'boys and
girls'. Despite how you may think of yourselves, or how your parents
or teachers or other adults think of you, here you truly are men and
women, not little children. I will expect you to behave as adults,
work like adults, for the next two weeks. Does this meet with the
approval of everyone?"
There was no dissention from any of us.
"Ya. Good. Now, I have seen film of some of the athletes here.
Please raise your hand when I call you, yes? Jesse Wilhoit." Jesse,
sitting next to me, raised his hand. "Ah, yes," continued Duane,
"please stand, if you will. All-American forward from Planey, going
to the University of Florida in the fall. A very good player, no
real weaknesses in your game, except perhaps for a tendency to hold
the ball too long. We will fix that. Thank you, please sit. Harlan
Corwin? All-Stater from Rock Falls. Also a forward, from the team
that won the state championship last fall. Good ball handler, but
your shots on goal can tend to be soft. We will work on that. Thank
you. Erica Yost?" A girl I didn't know raised her hand. "All-
Stater from North, likes to play sweeper, co-captain of your team,
excellent at anticipating passes and blocking lanes, but your
clearing kicks are sometimes errant. By the end of the clinic, you
will be rocketing the ball exactly where you want it to go, Erica.
Thank you. Sean Porter?" I raised my hand. "Ah, yes, a classic
defenseman, playing beyond your years, but with a tendency to pass a
little too quickly, whether the situation calls for it or not. We
can teach selfishness, no?" He looked around at his assistants with
a smile. "Yes, I think we can. Thank you."
And he continued with his performance, calling on every player who
had been chosen for All-Sectional or better honors, giving each a
compliment on their game and pointing out an area for improvement,
impressing us all that he had actually watched so much game film
before the clinic that he could make these points right from the
beginning. If nothing else, the astounding feat reinforced our
resolve to do our best over the next two weeks.
During the next two days, Olchick and his crew mixed us around with
conditioning drills and ball-handling drills, shifting partners or
groups every 15 or 20 minutes, keeping us moving around the four
fields. Sometimes we were running sprints without soccer balls,
sometimes we were doing circular relay races with balls, other times
we were doing three-person weaves down the length of each field,
running from one field to the next to the next.
By the third day, we were all fighting through complaining muscles,
but they kept at us, only giving us a couple of quick breaks for
water, until lunchtime. I had thought I was in shape, from all the
running I had been doing, but Olchick and his assistants quickly did
away with that conceit. At the end of the morning session, we all
limped toward our cars, panting and sweating, anxious to get to some
air-conditioned restaurant to cool down for a bit.
When we had straggled back to the fields for the afternoon session,
Duane had us sit in the bleachers.
"Good news," he said with a smile. "You have survived the first two
and a half days of my torture session. Now, the fun begins." He
outlined his plans for the rest of the week, which included brief
classroom sessions, watching game films, and playing all-out games.
By the end of Friday's session, I had played more quality soccer
than I had practically all season long the previous fall. All these
players were better than good, both the guys and the girls. When
Olchick and his team divided us up into two men's teams, we were so
evenly matched that the scrimmages got more and more intense, until
all of us were playing way beyond our abilities as individuals. We
played two full 90-minute games every day, one in the morning and one
in the afternoon, and when we weren't playing, we were either
stretching, dribbling, juggling, or watching film, and sometimes we
were doing two of these activities simultaneously.
The film that Duane chose each day was either a tape of one of our
own games, taped by his brothers, or it was a game from the European
Leagues, or a World Cup classic match-up. He had a tent set up for
us to watch the film, and he put a film of plastic over the
television screen so he could stop the tape and sketch a play or
point out a pattern with chalk. He showed us how particular plays
developed, and even threw in some bloopers for us, just to see if we
were paying attention.
On Friday afternoon, he had a play that had occurred in our men's
game the day before frozen on the screen.
"Do you see this?" he asked, tapping the image of Jesse Wilhoit on
the television. "What happens here?"
Jesse answered. "I took a pass from Hap Stanford, there in the
middle, and I tried to one-touch it back to him on a give-and-go, but
Porter here," and he gave me a shove, practically pushing me over,
"was all over me like white on rice, and I couldn't complete the
pass."
"And why couldn't you finish the pass?" Duane persisted.
"Well, the pass came in front of me, and Porter was dogging me. It
was all I could do to keep him from taking the ball away from me, so
I couldn't control the ball well enough to touch it back to Stanford."
"Ah," said Duane with satisfaction. "Exactly. Now, what would have
happened if you had sped up just a little, so that the pass ended up
behind you?"
"I'd probably have tripped over Porter's big feet," said Jesse,
eliciting a laugh from everybody. "Aside from that, I would have had
to turn around to get to the ball."
"Really?" asked Duane, a look of pleased surprise on his face. "But
perhaps not. I think Nicholas and Katrina can show you something
new, yes?"
With that, he led us all back out onto the field. He set up Katrina
as passer, Nicholas as receiver, about 20 meters apart. "Mr. Porter?
If you would be so kind as to be our defender?" He gestured for me
to join his coaches on the field, while the rest of the students
gathered along the sidelines. "Now, Sean, defend against the pass
just as you did the other day, please."
Finally, he was satisfied with the preparations, and he blew his
whistle. Katrina started dribbling down the field, and Nicholas
paced her along the sideline. I stayed close to him, trying to block
the passing lane to stop the give-and-go. I saw Katrina pass the
ball behind Nicholas, and I stopped, certain the pass was going to
miss us completely, when Nicholas planted his left foot, swept his
right foot behind his left, and neatly used his heel to redirect the
ball back toward the middle of the field, practically placing it on
Katrina's foot as she ran by us. It was the slickest move I had ever
seen, and the reaction from the sideline was similar to what I was
feeling. Duane stood there, a smile on his face, his arms crossed,
as he surveyed the murmuring crowd.
"Ah, I see I show you something new, yes? Good. But it takes
practice. The pass must be good, the timing of the leg sweep is
crucial, the angle of the ball will determine where it ends up after
the pass. All must go well for it to work, but when it is done
correctly, it is very difficult to stop, no?" He clapped his hands,
and began breaking us into groups of three to practice the move.
Everybody rotated from spot to spot, so that every player could
experience the angle needed on the initial pass; then the timing
needed on the sweep; and the defensive position that made the back
pass necessary. Duane was right: it took a lot of practice, and the
opportunities to use it were limited. When the time was right,
however, there was a group of us who would be ready to try it.
Jesse and Anna had made plans to stay later on Friday, so they could
go out to dinner with Eric, Ashley, Trent and me. I brought them over
to my house so they could take showers before we went out. My
parents, along with my younger brother Stephen and my older brother
Michael, were home, and happy to see Jesse and Anna again, having met
them previously at the year-end banquet.
Ashley and Anna, being two of the youngest girls at the clinic, had
naturally found each other, and had become good friends during the
week. At dinner, they kept up a running commentary on the physical
attributes of many of the boys from the clinic, keeping us amused,
right up until they started in on the four of us boys.
"And Sean's got bony knees, don't you think?" asked Ashley, looking
askance at me to see if I had heard her, as she had planned.
"Very bony," agreed Anna, a twinkle in her eye. "Bony and angular.
It's a wonder he can run at all, with those legs. What about Trent?"
"A little old for me, but very hunky," said Ashley, looking over at
Trent as if she was examining an interesting, if flawed, drawing.
"I don't know," said Anna. "His chin is a little too prominent for
my taste."
Ashley grabbed Trent's chin and turned his face to examine it
critically. "You might be right. Too big and clunky. Now that you
mention it, it's so big it probably weighs him down and gets in the
way. Now Eric, on the other hand..."
"Mmmm, yes, Eric. Great buns," observed Anna.
"Thass what Keisha think, too," murmured Eric. Both Ashley and Anna
blushed a bright red as the rest of us laughed out loud.
"Be very careful, ladies, or we just might start our own comparisons
here," warned Trent with a chuckle.
"You know," began Jesse, steering the conversation to a different
topic, "that heel pass that Duane showed us today got me thinking."
"At least something has finally got you thinking," said his sister
teasingly.
"Oh, don't worry, little sister, I get thoughts," he shot back.
Again, Anna blushed as Jesse continued, "But these thoughts are about
soccer. I'll bet..." He paused.
"You'll bet what?" I asked.
He wouldn't answer me. I had the feeling that he was planning a
surprise for us for next week, and he didn't want to spoil it by
talking about it now. His idea was soon forgotten by the rest of us
as the conversation veered off once again, until it was time for
Jesse and Anna to start their long drive back home. We said our
goodbyes outside the restaurant. I gave Anna a clumsy hug, and shook
Jesse's hand. Ashley and Anna gave each other a fierce, sisterly
hug, vowing to each other that they would call several times over the
weekend. The rest of us just stood there, shaking our heads at the
silly things girls thought were important.
What did we know? Nothing, of course: we were boys.
On Monday morning, we were all back at the fields, ready for another
week of intense drills and scrimmages. Our schedule called for the
coed teams to play in the morning, and the men's teams to battle in
the afternoon. When we played coed, the men's goalies played in the
net the first half, and the women's goalies played the second half.
Both Jorge and Tessa were on my coed team, so they alternated in goal
for the first game. Jesse and I were always on opposite teams, and
usually played near each other on the field, Jesse on offense and me
on defense. The previous week, he had tallied the most goals of any
of the guys, at 6, but was far short of the top women's scorer, a
girl from downstate named Posey Smith, who had scored 11 goals for
her team, including two goals for her coed team. She was quick to
the ball, deadly accurate from within 18 meters, and unconcerned if
she was stopped on a particular shot, knowing full well she would get
lots of opportunities to score. I was glad she was on my coed team,
so I didn't have to try to defend her. On the other hand, Kristina
was on Jesse's team, and had tallied 8 goals herself, though all
except for one goal were scored during the women's games. Still, she
was the second-leading scorer of all the players, and I was proud of
her. We sat together whenever we could, eating lunch together most
days, and choosing seats near each other during Duane's lectures. I
couldn't call her at her house, but at least we were able to spend a
few minutes together during the clinic.
In the afternoon game on Monday, we were playing at 1-1, and the
clock was ticking down to the last 10 minutes, when Harlan Corwin
passed the ball over toward Jesse. He trapped the ball and dribbled
up a couple of steps as I closed toward him. He slowed, almost as if
he wanted to wait for me to get right up to him, when I saw him sweep
the ball with his trailing toe, lifting the ball up behind him. He
cocked his leg, and whipped it up in back, making contact on the ball
with his heel. He managed to direct the ball up, in a sweeping arc
over his head, and over mine. I kind of stood there in shock, not
sure I could believe that he did that on purpose, when he stepped
around me, gathered up the ball as it bounced behind me, and raced
toward the goal, leaving me in the dust. Jorge came out at Jesse
when he saw what happened, and managed to deflect the ball in a panic
dive, just as Jesse took his shot, saving a goal. But Jesse's point
was made: he had figured out how to give himself what he subsequently
called an Alley-Oop One-Man Give-And-Go, and he had saved it for an
opportunity to teach me, the youngster, that there were tricks yet to
be discovered.
After the game, we were lined up at the coolers, refilling our water
cups.
"Let me guess," I said. "Is that what you were dreaming up at
dinner on Friday?"
He gave me a big grin. "Yep," he acknowledged. "Anna and I worked
on it at home over the weekend. I wanted to wait to hit you with it
as a surprise, and I think Anna was going to try it in her game
today, too, if the opportunity presented itself."
"How the hell am I supposed to defend against that move?" I asked.
"I can show you how," said Duane from behind us. He had apparently
been listening to our conversation with interest. "I am glad to see
you came up with that move on your own, Jesse. It is a difficult
maneuver to perfect. Come over here, men, and I will explain it to
you." We all followed him into the tent. "Sean, anytime a pass goes
behind your player, one of three things will happen." He moved to
the chalkboard next to the television. "Either a heel give-and-go,
or one of Jesse's Alley-Oops, as he calls it, will be highly
technical moves you could expect. In either case, a good defense is
to back off a little. If you think a give-and-go will occur, move
toward the passer to try to intercept." He drew lines and squiggles
to illustrate his point. "If you think an Alley-Oop is a
possibility, by backing off a little, you have a chance at a header,
taking away the ball." He dropped the chalk back into the tray and
looked at me, wanting to make sure I understood his points.
"Okay," I said. "I understand those defensive positions. But you
mentioned three possibilities, and you've only described defenses for
two of them. What's the third?"
"Very good," he said with satisfaction, looking quite pleased. "The
third possibility is that it truly was an errant pass, or your
opponent is not skilled enough to perform the maneuver, in which case
the ball will go behind the person you are defending, and you will be
in a better position in any case to recover the ball. Simple, no?"
"Simple for you, I think. Difficult for me," I said with a smile.
He looked at me shrewdly. "If you say so, Mr. Porter. But I do not
think that is so true."
On Wednesday, at the end of the session for the day, Nicholas
Arpente came up to me and touched my arm.
"Excuse me, Sean? Duane would like to see you for a moment."
He pointed me toward the tent, and turned away to help the other
coaches take down the nets and corner flags. I walked over to the
tent, and drew back the flap. Duane was watching a videotape of one
of our games from earlier in the day.
"You wanted to see me, Duane?" I asked.
He whirled around. "Oh, sorry, I was engrossed in watching this
game." He paused the tape, leaving an image of the women's teams
frozen on the screen. "Sit down a moment, Sean." He indicated a
chair. "My brothers must return to Europe to rejoin their own teams
this weekend," he continued. "And yet we have made a commitment to
continue here with another clinic, for the younger players, yes? So,
I seem to have a couple of openings for assistants for next week. I
understand you have been working with some of the boys who will be
attending our clinic, yes?"
I nodded. Davey and Kip were both enrolled, I knew.
"Good. I have been observing your play. You have made some
remarkable improvements these past days, and I have conferred with
Nicholas and James, as well as Katrina and Tasha. They all agree
that you would be a fine addition to our staff for the next week.
Are you interested?"
Was I interested? Working with Duane Olchick and his crack
assistants? Teaching soccer and getting paid to do it? Was I
interested?
"Absolutely," I exclaimed. "What an opportunity! Thank you very
much, Mr. Olchick! Wow!"
"Please," he said with a smile, "I am Duane, not Mr. Olchick. Next
week, for the children, I can be Mr. Olchick. But this week, with
the players we have here, I am merely Duane."
(Continued in Chapter 10)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.
(Copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 10 -
A WHOLE LOTTA WORTHWHILE
By the end of the following week, I was falling-down exhausted, both
physically and mentally. Riding herd over 60 kids between the ages
of 7 and 12 wasn't the fun and games I had thought it would be when I
accepted Duane's invitation to join his staff. But, on the other
hand, I got to watch Duane, Nicholas, James, Katrina and Tasha in
action, and even provide a little help as they lectured, cajoled,
whistled, directed, pointed, stopped, persuaded, maneuvered, and
otherwise controlled the swarm, and actually taught some soccer in
those moments in between. Davey and Kip were lost to me in the
shuffle, even though they tended to try to hang around me the first
day. By the end, they had assimilated into the group so well, that I
hardly got to say anything to them all week long.
On Friday, Duane took all of his assistants out for a nice dinner
after the clinic had finished. I borrowed my brother Mike's car, and
met them downtown at The Great Midwest Steakhouse, one of the most
expensive restaurants in town. The others were already there,
looking at their menus, when I arrived.
"Ah, Sean, welcome," said Duane. "No date tonight? I thought you
would bring a girlfriend."
I shrugged as I sat down at one of the two empty seats at the table.
"I'm not really dating anyone right now," I said.
"Really?" Nicholas queried in surprise. "Sorry, I just thought..."
He let it drop. I wondered what he had heard over the past three
weeks.
"Don't mind him, Sean," interjected Tasha. "Nick sometimes lets his
mouth do his thinking for him." She looked over at Nick
affectionately, and patted his hand to lessen the sting of her
comment. "But he's a loveable old bear, and he means well," she
added.
So, I thought to myself, Nicholas and Tasha are an item, it seems.
But I didn't say anything.
The waiter took our orders for drinks and appetizers, and when the
drinks arrived, Duane asked for our attention.
"If I may, I would like to propose a toast. To my friends, here at
table, you have made these weeks fly by effortlessly. I could never
have run these clinics without your help. Nicholas, my trusted
assistant, who has been a part of my support staff for so long, and
will be returning with me to Germany; Katrina, the lovely midfielder,
returning to UCLA for her senior year; James, an extraordinary
goalkeeper, who, I am certain, will enjoy a very successful
professional career; Tasha, who is due to return to her duties at
Arizona, I hope you discovered some new talent for your future teams,
my dear; to my brothers, Yuri and Anik, who, even though they are not
here with us tonight, still have been an intregal part of the success
of these past weeks; and, of course, to the newest member of our
staff, the young defensive specialist, Sean, who has so many
wonderful games yet to play over the next several years. You are,
each and every one, special to me. Salud!"
We all clinked our glasses together, thanking Duane for his kindness.
"Ah, but I am not through yet, my friends." He reached into his
jacket pocket and brought out several envelopes. As he passed them
out to each of us, he continued, "Here is a small token of my
gratitude for the help you have provided. And, of course, if you are
ever in Bremen," he added with a smile, "My wife Francesca and I
would be honored if you would stay with us."
The conversation around the table broke down into reminiscences
about the clinics they had run, both here and in other locales. I
sat and listened, mostly, content to sit and enjoy hearing the
stories. Even though I was, by several years, the youngest person at
the table, and even, in soccer terms, the least experienced person at
the table, I wasn't uncomfortable, since everybody effortlessly
included me in their circle of conversation. I really felt as if I
were a comrade, a fellow player of the game.
Jake Lehigh had been working out at the YMCA gym a lot, trying to
muscle up for football, and the time he spent with free weights was
making a difference. He played tackle, on both sides of the ball, so
he felt that he needed to work on his strength conditioning to be a
better player. He had grown quite a bit over the past couple of
years, and had bulked up from his workouts, and he now was a very big
guy, for a kid who was just past his sophomore year of high school,
nearly six feet tall, and weighing over 200 pounds. All summer, he
had been bugging me to join him at the gym, and I had been trying to
get him to go running with me, but he hated to run, and I wasn't a
weightlifting kind of guy, so we didn't get together much for a
workout.
We finally made a deal, and decided that I would work out with him
at the gym, so I could work on my upper-body strength, and then we
would go for a run, so we could work on his wind and his stamina.
He showed me how to use the machines in the exercise room, moving
with me from machine to machine. He figured out a good rotation, and
followed me around, explaining each machine's functions and the
muscle groups they were designed to strengthen. We did two rotations
around the room, and by the time I was done, my arms were shaking and
sweat was running down my back. Jake still looked like he had barely
started his workout, even though he usually doubled the amount of
weight when he used the machines. When we were done with the
machines, we went back into the locker room to change into fresh
socks and running shoes, and then we headed outside to pound the
pavement. I had mapped out an easy three mile loop, staying on
relatively flat ground, to ease him into it, and we headed out at an
easy jog.
By the time we were back in sight of the YMCA parking lot, Jake was
laboring, his weight shifting side to side and his strides shortened
up, and he was gasping for breath. I was feeling like my legs were
warmed up and ready for a workout, while my shoulders, chest, and
arms were starting to tighten up from our previous workout. We
slowed to a walk, using the last couple of blocks to cool down. We
got to the front door, and headed slowly toward the locker room.
Jake staggered to a bench by our lockers, and sat down heavily, head
bowed, his arms resting on his knees as he caught his breath. I
opened my locker, and pulled out a towel. I sat next to him on the
bench, and began unlacing my shoes, the towel draped around my neck.
He glanced over at me tiredly and said, "You do that all the time?
That's harder than I thought."
I shrugged. I could sympathize, since even shrugging was painful
for me after the workout with the weights. "It's all in what you're
used to doing," I said.
He just grunted. Talking hurt when you were that tired.
We stumbled to the showers and let the stinging spray do what it
could to revive us. Wrapping towels around our waists, we shuffled
back to our lockers to get dressed.
"Hey, Sean, remember that picnic in the field behind my house last
year?"
Did I ever. Jake's little sister Kayla and I, hiding in the
basement during the scavenger hunt, and the way the dim light played
on her skin, creating alluring shadows in interesting places. I
remembered. "Sure," I said.
"They're gonna do it again," he said. "Next weekend. You want to
come over?"
Kayla. Basement. Dark.
"Sure," I said.
Damn, something to look forward to. I couldn't remember the last
time I had that experience, that wasn't connected to soccer. Even if
Kayla had a boyfriend, a guy can dream, can't he?
"How's Jaimie?" I asked.
He was pulling on a fresh t-shirt. "She's okay. We have to do a
lot of sneaking around to get together, though. It's kind of tough
on her, going around her folks the way we have. And her sister's
still irritating her."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "I remember last year, Tara had a bug up her
butt about something."
"That bug is still there. Jaimie thinks she might know about us,
and she's afraid Tara is going to start blackmailing her or
something. There's a lot of sibling rivalry shit going on there, I
guess. Anyway, it creates some tension between Jaimie and me, on top
of it all."
"I can see how it would," I commiserated.
"Almost makes you wonder if this boy-girl thing is worth it
sometimes." He hesitated, and then confessed, "But then she kisses
me, and we're hanging out together, and..."
"Kinda makes it all worthwhile, huh?" I asked with a grin.
He smiled sheepishly. "Yup. A whole lotta worthwhile." He laughed
out loud.
We walked out to the parking lot, toward Jake's car, when we saw
Josh O'Toole pulling into the lot. He parked a few spots away from
Jake's car, and was just getting out of the car and reaching back in
for his gym bag when we came up to him.
"Hey, Josh," said Jake. "You going in for a workout?"
He backed out of his car and slammed the door.
"Yeah, I gotta work off some of this bullshit I've been
accumulating," he said. He looked disgusted and upset about
something.
"Why? What's going on?" I asked.
He gave me a sour look.
"Ah, it's nothing, Sean. Nothing that should concern you, anyway."
He turned his head and spat at his front tire. "It's my delinquent
sister and her hophead boyfriend. He gives me the jitters. I just
don't like him, and I don't like the direction Molly's going, and I
don't know if I can do anything about it."
"What are they doing?" asked Jake. He knew all about my last
episode with Molly, including the pregnancy scare, but I didn't know
how much Josh knew. And I certainly wasn't going to tell him.
"Ah, it's nothing specific, you know? It's just that she's getting
home later and later, and a lot of the time she's a little wasted by
the time she gets home. She's not real interested in spending any
time with her own friends, she just hangs out with Joey's pals." He
sighed. "You know, I really don't want my twin sister to be a Bulls
bitch, but I'm afraid that's where she's headed. Only she can't see
it."
Molly a Bulls bitch? That would be a stretch. We had all heard
stories about the girls who liked to hang around Richie Del Toro and
the Bulls. I'm sure most of the stories were gross exaggerations,
but even so, some of the tamer rumors included things like slapping
them around to keep them in line, strange initiations, certain
tattoos indicating ownership, and even passing the girls around to
all the guys in the gang after their boyfriends got tired of them. I
couldn't see Molly O'Toole putting up with any of that from anybody,
much less from a social load like Joey Amonte.
Besides, we all thought the Bulls were kind of directionless, since
Richie, their founder and Fearless Leader, was still in the pokey.
Jake and I walked over to Jake's car, and tossed our gym bags into
the back seat. Josh was trudging toward the front door as we pulled
out of the lot. We were both quiet, thinking our own ugly thoughts
about Joey Amonte and his friends.
Maybe we were wrong about the Bulls. I hoped not, but we had been
wrong about them before.
(Continued in Chapter 11)
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