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Subject: {ASSM} -RP- Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 1-5, 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
- 1 -
SEAN PORTER'S DILEMMA
You wonder, sometimes, how you get into these situations. Looking
back, I have to believe that, somewhere along the timeline of my
life, I was led to this point, that I would be here no matter how I
led my life. But I digress...
In the spring of 1981, I was experiencing a crisis. I was a 16-year-
old soccer jock with girl trouble brewing, ready to spill out and
burn me good. On this particular weekend, I had spent Saturday
afternoon fooling around with Kristina Mendoza, the girl I had been
dating for a few weeks, only to end up frustrated when her mother
called, interrupting our fun, and she had to go home. Later that
same afternoon, I helped coach a team of younger kids, a boy's under-
8 soccer team, to their first win of the season, and we all
celebrated by going out for pizza and sodas afterwards. Davey and
Kip, two kids I had been working with who were on the team, fell
asleep in my car as I was driving them home, so I carried them into
their house, where my old girlfriend, Molly O'Toole, was babysitting.
One thing led to another, and before I could stop it, Molly and I
were going at it on the family room floor.
Now, here it was, Sunday afternoon, and I still couldn't work up the
courage to call Kristina, even though I knew she was waiting to hear
from me. Not only did I screw Molly, but I had the feeling I had
royally screwed myself by letting the little head do my thinking for
me last night. I had no idea what I should do.
So I did nothing, which was probably even worse. I hid at home most
of the day, even though it was a gorgeous spring Sunday. I didn't
want to see anybody, I didn't want to talk to anybody. I couldn't
even stand being in my own skin. I tried to tell myself to give
Kristina a call, pretend that everything was all right, but I knew
things weren't all right, and I knew my voice would betray me. I
thought about calling her brother Jorge, one of my best friends, but
I wouldn't know how to explain it to him, either. My best buddy Jake
would be sympathetic, but he had his own troubles, ever since he was
caught with his pants down, literally, with his next-door neighbor,
Jaimie.
It was just too much of a dilemma for a 16-year-old kid.
So I stayed locked away from the world at large, hiding in my room
(it almost sounds like a Brian Wilson song; in fact, it felt like a
Brian Wilson song). I dreaded going to school on Monday, but I knew
I wouldn't be able to effectively fake an illness. Mom and Dad had
seen it all with my older brother Mike, and he pretty much ruined it
for me and my younger brother Stephen when it came to trying to scam
the parents.
Monday morning dawned cold and rainy, perfect for my mood. In the
hallway before first class, I imagined that everybody around me was
whispering and pointing at me accusingly, knowing practically first-
hand what had happened over the weekend. I kept my head buried in my
locker, trying to will myself into some sort of invisibility.
By lunchtime, I was a wreck. I wanted to move away, start life over
under a new identity. Everything, including what little future I
had, looked bleak. And then, things got really bad.
I was standing under the canopy of one of the rear doors of the
school during lunch. It was one of the spots where the smokers
tended to congregate, but I was hoping that the weather would
discourage a lot of them. Of course, today I couldn't be that lucky,
and I was enveloped in a blue-white cloud of cigarette smoke as I
tried to choke down my sandwich. Finally, I had enough, and
disgustedly tossed the rest of my lunch away and yanked open the
door. I thought maybe the library would be a safe place to hang out
for the rest of my lunch period, so I headed in that direction, only
to bump into Jorge Mendoza.
Jorge was a couple of inches shorter than me, but what he lacked in
height, he more than made up for in ferocity. He grabbed the front
of my shirt and pushed me back against the wall.
"What the fuck is going on, Sean?" he growled.
I put my hands up in resignation, and tried bluffing. "What do you
mean? Get off of me, Jorge."
"You know what I mean," he said. "Rumor has it you're back together
again with Molly. So tell me, Porter. What the fuck is going on?"
"No, I'm definitely not back together with Molly. Where did you
hear that?"
"The usual sources," he admitted. He let me go, but still stood
close to me, not willing to give me a chance to slip away. "So how
would a rumor like that get started?"
"Uh," I said cleverly. My mind was scrambling for something
plausible to say, and was coming up blank, as usual.
"You din' call Kristina all weekend, either. And she's pretty upset
about it. It's pretty suspicious, Sean," he continued.
I desperately needed a friend in my corner, if I had any hope of
redeeming myself in Kristina's eyes. I had to hope that Jorge was
that friend.
"Look, Jorge, I need your help. You've got to talk to Kristina for
me."
"Why, amigo? Why don' you talk to her yourself?"
"Because I am drowning in a lake of shit, and she's probably going
to throw an anchor at me, instead of tossing a safety rope, when she
hears about this." I put my arm around his shoulder and turned with
him to walk down the hallway. I felt his shoulder muscles bunch up,
as if he wanted to shrug off my arm, but I was determined to enlist
his help here. "I'll tell you all I have to tell, Jorge, but you've
got to help me convince your sister that I'm not the bad guy here," I
pleaded.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but at least he didn't
shove me away and bury me. I steered him toward the library, where
we might be able to find a corner we could whisper, and I could
confess my sins.
I laid myself bare and told him nearly everything. I told him about
studying with Kristina in the afternoon, about making out with her
after lunch. I told him about the soccer game, and how well the boys
had played, and especially how the keepers had seemed to grasp what
Jorge had tried to teach them. I told him about going out for a
pizza celebration afterward, about how the boys had fallen asleep,
and about how Molly had answered the door at the Wilkinson house. I
told him about putting them to bed, and about how I was looking at
Molly's art project. I confessed about being lulled by her, and I
told him about her little play with the wax banana, and how she used
it to her advantage. I told him about fucking on the floor, sparing
no detail, offering no excuses, letting him see the Sean Porter I had
come to loathe. The only thing I didn't tell him was how his sister
looked on my family room floor, her hands on the back of my head,
pressing my mouth harder onto her naked pussy as I reveled in her
sweet taste, and how much she loved licking her own juices from my
face and lips. I needed an ally, after all, not another enemy.
"Sean, you really fucked up," whispered Jorge as he shook his head.
"I know I did. I've been beating myself up about it since it
happened. But what do I do about it?" I asked in desperation.
"I dunno. Lemme work on it a little." Jorge stood up from the
table and walked away, still shaking his head.
Maybe I had found an ally. I hoped I had. Then again, maybe I had
given him all the ammunition he needed to bury me.
(Continued in Chapter 2)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 2 -
RUNNING
Jorge was a true friend. Even with all his efforts, though,
Kristina cried for a week after she found out about what happened,
and wouldn't hardly talk to me. Molly started out the week
practically vamping around me, but after a couple of days of me not
even acknowledging her, she toned it down a little. It was still
monumentally embarrassing for me, but there was nothing I could do
about it. Maybe I was imagining it, but there seemed to be an awful
lot of whispering and finger-pointing going on in the halls between
classes as I walked alone through school. My appetite was gone, and
I couldn't concentrate on homework.
What I did, instead, was run. Every afternoon after school, I would
grab my soccer ball and head for the park and run laps around the
baseball fields and the soccer fields. At first I just kicked the
ball and ran after it, getting some of my frustrations out by
slamming on the ball. Chasing that ball down got old pretty fast, so
I began to give myself targets to kick at. Maybe it was a stick in
the grass I would try to hit, or I would aim for a fence post and
give myself some imaginary give-and-go passes. This progressed into
doing alternating laps dribbling with just my left foot, then my
right foot, then just the inside of each foot, followed by a lap
using just the outside of my foot. By the end of the week, I had
added an occasional lap where I would try to keep the ball in the
air, juggling it off my foot, my knee, my head, shoulder, chest,
anything I had to do to keep the ball from hitting the ground. That
was surprisingly hard to do, especially while trying to move around
the perimeter of a field.
Twice a week, Coach Bill and the team would meet me at the park for
practice. Bill and I had allowed the boys to pick a team name, and
they decided to call themselves the Warriors. Lori Wilkinson saw me
working out when she dropped off the boys for practice. I was just
coming toward Bill and the boys, doing a crossover dribble that made
me look like a hopping, wounded duck, when I saw her walking toward
me, a big smile on her face.
"What are you doing, Sean? It looks so funny," she said.
I was out of breath, and couldn't answer for a minute. I wiped the
sweat off my face with the edge of my t-shirt. I saw her eyes glance
at my belly, but I was huffing and puffing too much to suck it in.
"Torturing myself," I finally managed to reply. "It looks pretty
odd, I know, but it makes me concentrate on the ball more."
"How early are you here before practice, Sean? If you have time, I
know Davey and Kip would really like to play more soccer with you."
"That would be great," I said. "Practice starts at 5:00, so if you
can bring them by around 4:15 or so, that will give us plenty of
time."
"Wonderful!" Lori clapped her hands together in delight. "I'll
tell them about it on the way home. If I let them know now, they'll
be impossible to handle during practice, they'll be so excited." Her
eyes were bright as she continued, "You've been so good for them. I
can't even express how much you have meant for them, Sean."
We chatted for a few minutes more, as Coach Bill got his cones and
drills organized. Other moms were driving up, dropping boys off for
practice. Justin's mother saw Lori and me talking, and came over to
say hello.
"Sean," said Lori, "this is Wendy Marcus, Justin's mother."
Mrs. Marcus was short and chunky, very busty, with short, dark brown
hair. "Hi, Mrs. Marcus, glad to meet you," I said, holding out my
hand.
She held my hand in hers, her fingers tracing along my hand as
lightly as feathers. "Please," she said with a twinkle in her eye,
"call me Wendy." She turned to Lori. "You're right, Lori, he is to
die for." She actually winked at me as she turned and walked back to
her car, giving her backside a little extra wiggle as she went. I
just stood there goggling at her. Lori snorted, then burst out
laughing.
"Subtlety is not Wendy's long suit," she said with a chuckle.
"I guess not," I mumbled, embarrassed.
"I'll see you after practice, Sean," said Lori. She waved to Davey
and Kip, and walked up the slope toward her car. I caught myself
admiring her ass as she was walking away, comparing her slim backside
to Wendy's more substantial one, and gave myself a mental boot in the
ass for it. 'Jesus Christ, Sean, aren't you in enough hot water over
women? Now you're going to go letching Mrs. Wilkinson?' I chided
myself.
I trotted over to catch up with Bill, so we could go over the drills
he had in mind for that day's practice.
I had also called Mrs. Dailey, from the soccer association, and told
her I would be glad to referee any games she wanted. After some
convincing that I really did have the time for such a schedule, she
assigned three games to me for Saturday, and three for Sunday. Along
with Coach Bill's game, that meant I would be at seven soccer games
each weekend, more than enough to keep me busy, exhausted, and out of
trouble.
The next Saturday morning, I started at 9:00 with an under-8 girl's
match, followed immediately by an under-12 boy's game that required a
lot of running on my part. I had an hour break for lunch, and then
it was back to the field for the Warriors game. I just had time to
help Bill pack up his equipment, and I was off to referee my third
game, an under-12 girl's game.
On Sunday, I worked as a referee in two games, and as a linesman for
an adult game. By the time I got home late Sunday afternoon, I was
sweaty, tired and hungry, and I still had all my homework to do. I
spent about 15 minutes on the phone with my best friend Jake Lehigh,
and managed to crawl into bed by 9:00, looking forward to simply
closing my eyes and allowing my troubles to float away for a few
short hours.
The next week it was more of the same, except that I wasn't quite
the monster at school that I had been. Typical of such an
environment, a new crisis emerged that took the spotlight off me, and
nearly everybody, except for the primary players in the Sean Porter
Soap Opera, pretty much forgot about it all. Even my best buddies,
Eric Johnson and Jake, dropped the subject, leaving just Kristina and
Jorge, Molly and me to address the lingering issues.
And even the other three players in the drama never mentioned the
one issue that was scaring the shit out of me: because of our little
adventure, I was afraid Molly might be pregnant.
(Continued in Chapter 3)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 3 -
TRYING TO MAKE AMENDS
Finally, the place we all most liked to hang out, the Dairy Queen,
opened for the season. I headed over there between games on a
Saturday, and found a bunch of kids there. Molly and her best
friend, Tessa Navarrone, were sitting at a table with Tessa's
boyfriend, Austin Graves, and, of all people, Joey Amonte, one of
Richie Del Toro's Bulls, our local version of a gang of bad boys.
Joey was acting large, no doubt because he had one of the prettiest
girls in school sitting next to him. I ordered a hot fudge sundae
and joined Toby Mueller, Ashley Horvath, Josh O'Toole, and Andrea
Coulter at another table. Toby and Ashley had started going out
together right after the Turnabout Dance, and Josh, Molly's twin
brother, had been going with Andrea since around the first of the
year.
As I sat down, I nodded in the direction of the other table.
"What's up with that?" I asked.
Josh looked disgusted. "You know," he said, "I used to think that
Molly was pretty much okay, as sisters go. But lately..." He just
shook his head at the sight of his cheerleader sister sitting with
one of the true losers of our school.
Andrea grasped his hand, as if she could somehow channel support
into him.
"Hey, Sean," Toby began, "I thought you and M... Ow!" he exclaimed,
giving Ashley a hurt look as he reached down to rub his shin where
she had swiftly kicked him. She was giving him a stern look,
practically willing him to shut up, if all he could say was something
about me and Molly.
"So, Sean," said Ashley, trying to divert the conversation, "I hear
you've been refereeing a lot this spring."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm on an hour lunch break right now, and then I
have to go back and referee one more game, and then the boy's team
I'm helping with has their game right after that."
"Is that the team with the Wilkinson boys on it? I hear that Mrs.
Wilkinson is a hottie," said Toby. Again, out of the corner of my
eye, I could see Ashley trying to kick him into shutting up, but
Toby wasn't going to let himself be caught within her range again.
He drew his feet up and sat Indian style on the bench.
"Yeah, I guess she is," I said uncomfortably. "I just coach the
boys, though. After all, she's kind of old. Old enough to be a
mom, anyway."
"She could mother me anytime," laughed Josh. That earned him a good-
natured jab from his girlfriend.
"I guess I'd better be getting back," I said as I stood and tossed
my empty paper cup into the trash can. "Gotta keep them young 'uns
in line, don'tcha know." I hopped back on my bike, but before I
could pedal off, Kristina Mendoza walked around the corner of the DQ.
She stopped short when she saw me, and then nonchalantly walked over
to the table where Molly and Tessa were sitting. I heard the tone
of her voice, if not the actual words, as I rode away, making me feel
hollow and empty inside.
The Warriors were gaining a reputation as the Under-8 Boy's team to
beat. Bill and I had worked out a good schedule for practices that
took advantage of the high energy levels and the short attention
spans of boys that age. We did some warm-up drills first, followed
by some simple passing drills, making sure all the boys were kept
moving in patterns. After a short break, we started up with
scrimmages. Sometimes we played full-field scrimmages, dividing the
team into two squads. Other times, we played 3-on-3 short sets,
rotating teams around in a kind of round-robin tournament and
playing across the width of the field. Other times, we played the
World Cup game, usually with me in goal.
We also developed a scrimmage we called Freeze Soccer. We would
divide the team into two squads for a full-field scrimmage, and let
them go at it. When they heard either Bill or me blow the whistle,
they had to freeze right where they were. We would then give them a
specific instruction, such as "Red team take 3 giant steps to your
right", or "Blue team switch forwards and backs", or "You can only
touch the ball two times". All of our instructions during Freeze
Soccer were designed to keep them from bunching up. We were trying
to instill in them the concept of keeping as much space around them
as they could, giving them confidence to pass into open space
instead of into a crowd. Sometimes it worked beautifully, sometimes
it failed miserably, but both Coach Bill and I knew we were building
a good foundation for all these boys as they progressed in their
soccer pursuits. In the meantime, we discovered that the lessons we
were giving them, under the disguise of practice fun, were carrying
over into game situations. Our team average of goals scored per
game was 6, and the average of goals scored against us was just
under 1.
At the game later that afternoon, all the moms, along with a few
dads, were crowded along the near sideline for the game. Some of
the boys had brothers or sisters who were starting to catch the
soccer bug, and there was an impromptu passing game going on behind
the parents as Bill and I organized the warm-ups.
We had come up with the idea of using our criss-cross passing and
shooting drill as our standard game warm-up. We called it our
Warrior Warm-up Shuffle. It was a very efficient drill, in which we
divided the boys into four groups of three or four players each. We
had a group line up at each of the goalposts, with the other two
groups about 12 meters straight out from the posts. Our starting
keeper was in the net, and the balls were lined up by the goalposts.
The boys at the posts were to alternate passing the ball across to
the boys on the outside, across from their position. Those players
would trap the ball, set themselves up with a touch or two, then
take a shot on goal. They would then rotate around, until each
player had passed from each corner, and taken a shot from each
position. The drill not only warmed them up for the game by keeping
them moving around from position to position, but it also helped them
to kick the ball where they intended, it gave them a chance to shoot
on goal, plus it gave our keepers lots of opportunities to try to
stop a 10-meter open shot. We could even vary the drill by making
the players receiving the passes one-touch the ball across to the
boy on the other side, giving them an opportunity to practice their
crossing passes.
By the time the referee came over to check equipment, the boys were
warmed up and anxious to play. We announced our starting lineups,
and let the boys know who the first substitutions would be, and had
the team gather around Bill and I for last-minute reminders, a
routine we had developed early on in the season.
"How do we play the game, boys?" asked Bill.
"Zones and lanes!" they all shouted.
"And what does zones and lanes mean?" he continued.
"Lanes are up and down the field," said Justin, "and zones are back
and forth."
"Right! Okay, can you cross into the zone or lane next to yours?"
"Yes!" came the collective shout.
"How far over?"
"Five steps!"
"Right! And can you cross two lanes over?"
"No!" came the resounding yell from the boys.
"Okay, boys," finished Bill, "go out there and have fun."
With a final "Go Warriors!" cheer from the boys, the starting lineup
raced into their positions on the field and prepared for the opening
whistle.
We had heard from some of the boys, and some of our fellow coaches,
that the team we were playing, the Eagles, was a pretty good team,
well coached with some talented kids. In particular, they had two
of the best keepers in our league, plus they were rumored to have a
very fast player who loved to play forward and score goals. However,
Bill and I were confident enough in our team that we felt that our
opponents had to figure out how to beat us, rather than us trying to
change our game plan to suit an opponent's game. Besides, we really
felt that the Warriors needed to face a challenge soon. Otherwise,
practices were going to become less important to some of the boys if
they thought that winning was so easy.
And the Eagles were good. Before we even had a chance to challenge
their starting keeper to see how effective he was, their fastest
player, a small Hispanic boy who controlled the ball as if it was
lined with iron and his feet were magnets, took control of an early
play. He seemed to know the limits we had assigned to our lanes,
and managed to find the seams where our boys weren't supposed to
double-team. One against one, not a single player of ours could keep
up with him, and within the first five minutes of the game, he
squirted through our defense twice, approaching our goal with the
ball. The first time, his shot went wide as our keeper came out,
just like he was supposed to do. The next time, our keeper was a
little slow in coming out to challenge the boy, and the ball slipped
past him, and into the back of the net. For the first time all
season, we were behind in a game.
Panic set in on our side of the field. All of a sudden, the
Warriors were scrambling all over the field, and our lanes and zones
got sloppier and sloppier as the players gave in to temptation and
started stalking the ball, wherever it went. Oddly, it slowed down
the Eagles after the game had degenerated into swarmball. They only
scored twice more on us during the first half. The Warriors, on the
other hand, couldn't manufacture even one goal against their
opponents. We couldn't even mount a serious challenge on their
keeper. Bill was pacing the sidelines, calling out to his players,
practically pleading with them to play their positions, but our team
was beyond the reach of our coaching out on the field by then.
At halftime, the boys were panting and jittery about what was going
on out on the field. Bill and I handed out water and orange slices,
and asked the boys to sit around us and try to be quiet, instead of
yelling at each other about blown coverages and missed assignments.
"It's not so bad," I said to the boys.
"It's terrible!" retorted Andrew. "They're really good. Better
than us."
"So what?" said Bill. "Maybe they are better than you, maybe they
aren't. Does that mean you're just going to give up?"
"No!" shouted Davey. "Warriors don't give up!"
Andrew looked abashed as the rest of the team reluctantly agreed.
"But what can we do about that kid?" asked Andrew.
Now we had their attention. They were frustrated, and ripe for some
better playmaking decisions.
"Okay, here's what we're going to do," I said. "Devon, you're going
to be our goalie, and our defensive co-captain." He nodded, and
reached for the keeper's jersey. "All the defensive players on the
field, listen for instructions from Devon. A lot of the time, the
keeper can see what's happening on the field better than the players
that are involved with the ball, so he will be in charge of
directing you guys around. Davey, you will be the other co-captain,
in charge of the offense. You can move forwards and midfielders up
or back, and I want you to play center-mid. That way you can direct
everybody around you, if you need to. Zones and lanes are now
expanded to overlap by half."
"What do you mean, Sean?" asked Kip.
"That means that you still need to play your lanes and zones," I
said, looking around at all the boys. "But, you can cross over to
as much as half the zone or lane next to you. But no more than
half. All right? Everybody agree?"
There was a general mumble of agreement, until Bill's voice cut
through.
"Everybody needs to agree to the plan, otherwise it won't work," he
said. "Does everybody agree?"
With much more enthusiasm, the boys endorsed the plan. Bill and I
got the boys standing, and we gathered together for a unifying cheer
of "Go Warriors", and our second-half starting lineup took the field.
With Bill and I shouting encouragement and suggestions to our
captains and the team, the second half progressed a lot more
according to plan. Devon moved the defense around a bit when he
thought it was necessary, but he was a little uncomfortable in the co-
captain's role, afraid of being too bossy. Davey, on the other
hand, reveled in his role as co-captain, and moved players up and
back on his side of the field at whim. Bill finally had to send in a
substitute with specific instructions for Davey to only move players
when it was necessary. He looked a little disappointed when he
glanced over to the sidelines after receiving our message, but he
calmed down out there, and let his players play the way they were
supposed to.
The expanded lanes and zones did the trick. Every part of the
field, except for the sidelines, were now double-covered, and our
midfielders and defensive players did a great job in shutting down
the Eagles. They got one more goal on us late in the game, and we
managed to make up some ground on the offensive side. Their keepers
were good, stopping 8 of our 10 good shots on goal. The score at
the final whistle was Eagles 4, Warriors 2, but our kids still walked
away from the loss feeling like they had played well, especially
after Bill pointed out to them that they had won the second half, 2-
1.
As I was helping Bill pack up equipment and clean up our bench area,
Justin Marcus came toward us, dragging his mother along by her hand.
"Sean! My mom says it's okay!" he shouted as they got closer.
I was confused. Did he tell me something earlier that I didn't
remember? "What's okay?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, Sean," said Mrs. Marcus. "Justin asked if he could join
in when you were giving Davey and Kip their soccer lessons. I guess
he just forgot to ask you first," she added sheepishly.
"No, that's fine," I said. "It's just been for about 45 minutes
before practices. I've been here anyway, working on my own game,
and I'd be glad to have Justin work with us, if you can get him here
that early."
"Oh, that's no problem, really. I'll call Lori, and we'll work out
a schedule. Is that okay?"
"Sure, that's fine," I said. "It beats running by myself, too."
She handed me a slip of paper with her address and phone number on
it, waved to Bill, and headed back across the field, Justin in tow.
I shoved the paper into my pocket and returned to picking up the
rest of the orange peels scattered on the ground like so many lost
Halloween smiles.
Before going home to get cleaned up, I decided to swing by the DQ
one more time, just to see if any of my friends were there. Jorge
Mendoza was there, with Trent Abbott and Eric Johnson, two more
friends from the varsity soccer team. I plopped down on the bench
next to Eric. He lightly punched me on the arm in greeting.
"How you doing, Seanster," he said.
"Doing okay, I guess. The boys lost their first game this
afternoon. Got outplayed in the first half, and couldn't make up
the lost ground," I said.
Eric grunted. "Probably good for 'em, anyway," he said. "They was
getting too confident, probably."
"Probably," I agreed. "All in all, it wasn't a bad thing."
Jorge stood up. "You going to be here for a few minutes?" he asked
me.
I shrugged. "Sure," I replied.
He walked over to the pay phone hanging on the side of the building.
Trent said, "Hey, are either of you signed up yet for the Olchick
clinic this summer?"
I looked over at Eric. He looked as confused as I felt about the
question.
"What's the Olchick clinic?" he asked.
"You know Duane Olchick, right?"
"As in Duane Olchick, the pro soccer player?" I asked.
"No, Duane Olchick the pro fry cook at Mickey D's," said Trent
sarcastically. "Of course, Duane Olchick the pro soccer player.
He's running a clinic this summer. Two weeks of intensive training,
high school and college players. I heard he might do some shorter
clinics with some younger kids, too, right after. Anyway, me and
Mikey Evanson were going to sign up. You guys need to ask Coach
Neville about it. I'm sure he's got the information on it." Coach
Neville was our varsity soccer coach.
Jorge walked back to our table in time to catch the last of what
Trent was saying. "Are you talking about the Olchick clinic? Yeah,
I t'ink Kristina and I are both going to go to that this summer."
"Who were you calling, Jorge?" I asked.
He pointedly ignored my question. "How about you, Eric? You going
to go to the clinic?"
"I dunno," he replied. "Depends on how much it's gonna cost. I've
got to work a lot this summer. Gotta start saving up for college.
And Keisha's going to want me to spend some money on her this
summer, probably."
"Man, you almost married," said Jorge disgustedly. "She's really
got you by the cajones, doesn't she?"
Eric smiled. "Yes, she does, and sometimes that's every bit of
okay, amigo."
We all laughed at that.
A small voice drifted to us from around the corner of the building.
"Jorge? Venido aquí, por favor."
Jorge looked around toward the front of the Dairy Queen, then
glanced back at me a little guiltily.
"Wait here, Sean. I'll be right back," he said.
He walked over and around the corner. Trent and Eric and I just
looked quizzically at each other. We could just hear two voices
murmuring in Spanish from that direction. Finally, Jorge came back
around the corner. He pointed at me, and gestured for me to join
him. I got up and walked over to him. He silently pointed me
around the corner, but he didn't accompany me over to where Kristina
was sitting, alone, at another table, her back to me. I looked at
him. He just shooed me along, and turned to rejoin the other guys.
I hesitated, and then walked over and sat down opposite Kristina.
Her eyes were downcast, and they were red and teary. She was
clutching a paper napkin nervously, and her shoulders were hunched.
It was obvious that she didn't want to be here with me. I couldn't
blame her.
"Hi," I said.
After a moment, she finally responded with a weak "Hi," still not
looking up.
"Look, Kristina," I blurted, "I know I hurt you. You can't beat me
up any worse than I've been beating myself up. But it meant nothing
to me. You've got to believe me!"
She looked up at me now, her eyes hard, pinning me down like a bug
in an eighth-grade science project. "It meant nothing to you?
Sean, it meant everything to me. Everything! You were so kind to
me, so patient, I thought we were getting along really good, you
know? I thought I might even have been in love with you, and I
thought you might have felt the same for me. And I find out in the
worst possible way that it was all a lie! And now you tell me it
meant nothing to you? Is that how you valued me? You were willing
to risk losing me over 'nothing'? And this is supposed to make me
feel better?" She just shook her head at my insanity, as tears
began to stream down her cheeks.
Hoo boy. Now I had really stepped in it. All the arguments, all
the rationalizations that had sounded so logical in my mind, slipped
away like a deer through an early-morning fog. I slid out of my
seat and moved around the table to sit next to her. I tried to drape
my arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, scooting away
from me down the bench. I wasn't going to give up so easily,
however, so I slid down next to her and grasped her hand in both of
mine. She allowed this small comfort, at least.
"Kristina, I did love you. I DO love you. What do you want me to
say? That it did mean something? It's just not true. Molly and I
have a history, Kristina. I can't help that. I never meant for
anything to happen. You have to know that. You know how she's been
lately, Kristina. I just got caught up in a bad moment. If I
hadn't been tired from the game with the kids, and worked up from
the... studying..."
She flashed me a look that told me I was on dangerous ground. I
knew I should go slowly here, but I was getting pretty worked up
now, myself.
"Well, it's true, and you should know it. I promised I would take
things as slow as you wanted, and I stopped when you said stop,
didn't I?" She just looked at me noncommittally. "Well, didn't I,
Kristina?" She reluctantly nodded in agreement. "I stopped when you
said stop, but that doesn't mean that I wasn't going to feel a
little frustrated," I continued. I was on unsteady ground here, but
it was too late to turn back. "It was late, and I was tired, and I
think Molly just unconsciously took advantage of the situation, and I
just got caught up in it without thinking. Christ, if I could take
it all back, you know I would..." I trailed off, finally running out
of apologies. At least she hadn't removed her hand from my grasp
yet, which I took to be a good sign.
Kristina took a big, shuddering sigh. "I just can't pretend to
still be Molly's friend," she said, almost to herself. "Not after
what she's done. I can hardly stand to look at her anymore." She
looked up at me again, her brown eyes large in her darkly tanned
face. "I heard a rumor, Sean. Joey Amonte is telling people that
Molly told him she's going to have a baby."
I was speechless. A baby? Was it mine? Was it even true?
"Sean?" Kristina brought me back out of my suddenly dark thoughts.
"If it's true, if she's pregnant because of you, I could not accept
that. It's just all too horrible. But if it's not true..." She
left the sentence unfinished. I thought I understood: if Molly was
pregnant, it was all over with Kristina, but if the rumor was false,
maybe - just maybe - Kristina would be my girlfriend again sometime
soon.
Maybe.
(Continued in Chapter 4)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 4 -
TWO TELEPHONE CALLS
I spent the next week or so racking my brain trying to figure out
what to do. I finally decided that the direct approach was probably
the best. I certainly didn't want to confront her at school, so I
waited until I could get the nerve up to call her one evening. After
pacing my room nervously, I finally called Molly.
"Hello?"
"Molly, it's Sean. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
She chuckled softly, a throaty sound even over telephone wires. "I
thought I'd hear from you eventually," she said.
"Hey, all I want to know is if what I've heard is true," I said
roughly. "Nothing more."
"And what have you heard, Sean?" she asked, almost playfully.
I took a deep breath. The next couple of minutes would have a very
real impact on the rest of my life. "Are you pregnant, Molly?"
There was a long pause. At the time, it felt like it was about an
hour before she said anything, but it was probably only a few seconds.
"What would you say if I told you I was, Sean? Would you be happy?
Or would it upset you?"
I felt like my head was going to explode. "Is it mine?" I croaked.
I heard her sigh on the other end of the line. "I'm going to make
your day, Sean, and maybe even give Kristina Mendoza a little gift in
the process." I could hear her take a big breath before continuing.
"There is no baby. I'm not pregnant. I've never been pregnant.
I've been on the pill since last fall. If we hadn't broken up, I was
going to tell you about it at Christmastime." She took a large,
hitching breath before continuing. "Do you feel better now, Sean?
Do you? I wish to Christ that I did." And she hung up.
I set the telephone back down gently. A great load had just been
lifted from me. I felt great!
Or did I? But I was too buzzed to consider that thorny question.
My first thought was to call Kristina and tell her the good news. I
dialed the Mendoza home, and Jorge answered.
"Jorge! I've got great news. Molly's not having my baby. I mean,
she's not pregnant. I've got to let Kristina know! Is she home?
Lemme talk to her, buddy."
"Hold on, man, take it easy. I'll go get her. You can tell her
yourself. Thass great, Sean. Hold on a minute."
The handset thumped down and I could faintly hear his footsteps
fading away. In just a few moments, I heard somebody pick up the
phone.
"Kristina? It's Sean. Guess what? I just talked to..."
The deep, rumbling voice of her father interrupted me.
"Kristina cannot come to the telephone," he said. "You have
disappointed me greatly, Mr. Porter. Do not call here again."
"Mr. Mendoza, please, I just need to..."
"No mas, Senor Porter. No mas." There was no room for argument in
his voice.
"Yes, sir. No more," I agreed reluctantly. With that, the line
went dead.
My buzz departed just as swiftly as it had arrived.
(Continued in Chapter 5)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 5 -
TOURNAMENT WEEKEND
I kept up my schedule through the end of the school year. Since I
didn't have a girlfriend to spend any time with, I kept on running,
with and without a soccer ball. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I worked
with Davey, Kip, and Justin before the Warriors practices. I wasn't
sure how productive these sessions were, but we had fun goofing
around in the park, at least. And, at that age, any time spent
working the ball was time well spent for a kid who wanted to be a
better player.
The recreational leagues played through the first weekend of June.
The following weekend, there was a huge tournament in a nearby
community, and Bill had sent in our entry. The tournament was for
recreational teams only, all age groups, and all the teams played
three 40-minute games on Saturday. The top four teams would be
invited back for playoffs on Sunday. The organizers used a version
of tournament scoring, which meant that teams were awarded 3 points
for a win, 0 points for a loss, and 1 point for a tie. In addition,
teams were awarded 1 point for each goal scored, up to a maximum of 3
points. If a team shut out their opponent, they accrued 2 additional
points. Finally, the referee working any game, at their option,
could award 1 more point to any team that displayed, in their
opinion, outstanding sportsmanship and fair play, so the maximum
number of points a team could win in a game was 9, by winning a game
by a score of at least 3-0 (3 points awarded for the win, 3 for
goals, 2 for a shutout, and 1 for sportsmanship). The top four teams
in each division with the most points after the three Saturday games
would play two more games on Sunday. The winners of the semi-finals
would advance to the championship game, the losers would play a
consolation game.
The community's soccer organization set up 15 soccer fields around
town, ranging from small fields, not much bigger than the width of a
regular field, for the little kids, all the way up to full-sized
fields at the schools, for the older kids. The organizers also
required each team entering the tournament to supply one referee, to
be assigned games not involving their own teams. I agreed to be our
team's designated referee, so I would be there all day Saturday,
running from game to game to game.
Wendy Marcus, Justin's mom, arranged for a team party at their house
for Sunday afternoon, win or lose. They had a swimming pool in their
back yard, complete with a slide and a diving board, and the boys
were just as excited about the party as they were about the
tournament.
There were 14 teams in our division, but only three of them were
teams in our rec league, so we weren't familiar with any of our
scheduled opponents. The Eagles, our only loss of the season, were
also entered in the tournament, but if we played them, it would only
be because we had both made the playoffs. We had a lot of work to do
before we could even begin to think about it.
Our first game was at 9:00 on Saturday morning. Our team was
assembled and anxious to play by 8:40, and we watched the last few
minutes of the game ahead of ours. It was an Under-12 girl's game,
and the hometown team was winning by a score of 3-1 when the final
whistle blew. We organized our Warrior Warm-up Shuffle, while at the
same time, our opponents were running laps around the field, without
balls, as their warm-up.
We started Devon in goal. Ever since our loss to the Eagles, he had
taken on more of a leadership role for our defense while he was on
the field, to the point where he really didn't want to play a forward
position at all. Bill and I agreed that he was effective and
comfortable staying on defense for the entire game, so there was no
point in forcing him to play up. Besides, even when he wasn't in
goal, he helped the other defensive players maneuver on the field,
proving his proficiency.
And he was very effective during that first game. He moved his
defenders around so efficiently, that he only had to make one, easy
stop the entire half he played in goal. His midfielders, sweeper,
and fullbacks stopped every other threat on our side of the field.
We ended up winning easily, 4-0. Eight points for the Warriors went
on the giant scorecard at the central scorer's table.
Right after our game ended, I had to jog over to another field to
referee my first game of the day, an Under-6 boy's game on a half-
sized field. Each team had about 25 players, so there were a lot of
substitutions being made, by both sides, on every available throw-in.
It almost seemed like there was more standing-around time, waiting
for players to either get on the field or get off after being subbed,
than there was actual playing time, but eventually the game
progressed as much as it could, considering that it was Munchkin
Swarmball at its ugliest.
The Warriors had another game at noon, and I got there just in time.
Bill had already set the lineup, and the boys knew the routine by
now, so I got to sit back and relax during the second game, chatting
with Lori and Wendy and some of the other parents as our boys romped
to a second shutout, 6-0. Even though this was a tournament, Bill
still pulled one of our players after our fourth goal, in the
interest of fairness. He promised the boys that he would play them
at full strength again if the other team scored on us while we were
down one player, but that was never necessary. Because of this
sportsmanlike gesture, our team was awarded an extra point for fair
play. We now had tallied 17 points, and were looking good for
returning on Sunday. A tie or a win would land us in the playoffs.
Our last game was at 4:00 in the afternoon. We took all the boys
out for a good, relaxing lunch at a nearby pizza parlor, and let them
run riot in the little game arcade that was there. By the time we
got back to the field, around 3:30, they were starting to tire a
little. They were easily distracted, more into goofing off than
getting ready to play soccer. They really didn't want to go through
the Warrior Warm-up Shuffle, so we were a little disorganized when
the referee came over to inspect our shoes and shin guards.
We sent our starting lineup onto the field, and within a few minutes
after the opening whistle blew, the carbs and sugar from lunch
finally kicked in, and the boys began to run and play their game
again. Bill and I discovered, however, that their stamina was short
by this third game, so we found ourselves keeping a close eye on
everybody, substituting much more often than we normally did, and
making sure the smaller kids got a little more rest before shuffling
them back into the game. We won the game, but it wasn't pretty. The
final score was 3-1.
Everybody went home exhausted. Bill promised to call everyone when
he found out what time we would be playing the next day. I hoped it
wasn't going to be an early game. I was supposed to referee the
first playoff game for the Under-6 boys on Sunday, at 10:00, and I
really wanted to sleep in a little.
By the time I got home and out of the shower, there was a message
for me from Coach Bill. Our semi-final game was at 11:00, against
the Eagles. The championship game and the consolation game would be
played at 2:00, giving all the teams a chance to grab some lunch
before playing. I silently gave thanks to whichever soccer god was
watching over me this particular weekend, and was asleep almost
before my head hit the pillow.
The next morning, Lori and Davey and Kip picked me up in plenty of
time for my 10:00 game. It was going to be sunny and fairly hot. I
had a small cooler full of ice and water for myself, and I was glad
to see that Lori had packed a large, wheeled cooler full of drinks
for the team. The Warriors were assembled and ready to play a couple
of fields over from me, and as my game was finishing up, I could see
Coach Bill working the Warm-up Shuffle with the crossing passes. He
wanted them ready against the team that handed us our only loss of
the season.
By the time I got over there, the boys were warmed up and
enthusiastic about playing. Bill put together what he considered to
be his strongest starting lineup, with Devon in goal, Davey in the
center at midfield, Kip to his left, Justin playing right defender,
and Joey at forward.
"Defenders!" he called out. "Listen for Devon's instructions, guys.
He's your captain out there. And Justin? Stay close to that fast
kid whenever he's in your zone, whether he's got the ball or not.
All the defenders keep an eye out for him. If he's in your lane and
zone, I want you to stick like glue to him. If he zigs, you zig. If
he zags, you zag. Try to stay in his way as much as you can, okay?
The other defenders will try for the ball. You just keep him
covered, so they can't pass to him."
"Anytime he stops running," I added, "lean your shoulder on his.
Let him know you're there. Just make sure you stay between him and
our goal. You don't want him getting a head start on you. Maybe
this way, we can keep him from getting a breakaway chance on us."
The referee blew his whistle. We huddled up and sent our players
out onto the field to take their positions, and the Eagles did the
same. The game was on.
Remembering the varsity team's experiences in the state playoffs, I
reminded Bill to substitute often. We had a second game to play,
either for the championship or the consolation game, and we didn't
want to leave everything we had on the field during this first game.
Our defenders, in particular, were going to get tired quickly,
worrying about the Eagles forwards. On every throw-in we could, we
substituted at least two players, even if they were protesting that
they weren't tired at all.
Even though our defenders stayed on the kid as much as they could,
he still managed to score twice, but our offense was clicking, too.
We got a lot of good looks at their goal, and managed to convert 4
good shots into goals by the final whistle. The Warriors were bound
for the championship game.
The Eagles and the Warriors were the two best teams of our age group
at the tournament. The only reason we didn't meet in the
championship game was because another team had tied the Eagles, 1-1
on Saturday, so they didn't score as many tournament points as some
of the other teams. The team we played for the championship must
have played some of the weakest teams in the tournament to get there,
because they were hopelessly overmatched against the Warriors. By
the start of the second half, we were already up 4-0, and our keepers
were never challenged. We ended up cruising to the tournament
championship, 7-0.
After the presentation of trophies, everybody piled into cars and
headed over to the Marcus house for the pool party. Justin's dad,
Arthur, had the barbeque grill fired up, and was busy flipping
burgers and turning hot dogs as the boys took turns running in and
out of the house, stripping off uniforms and pulling swim trunks on,
jumping into the pool and splashing anything that moved. A lot of
the parents came along, content to sit around the pool, out of range
of all but the most determined splashers, drinking sodas and beer
after the long weekend out in the sun as they watched the boys play
soccer.
I had ridden over with the Wilkinsons, and was very conscious of how
sweaty I was. I was looking forward to getting in the pool and
cooling off. When we got there, though, the pool was crowded and
rowdy, full of 7 and 8 and 9 year olds. I plopped down in a lawn
chair, and wiped my face off with my damp shirt.
"You look hot and sweaty," said Wendy as she walked by. "Why don't
you hop in the pool?"
"Maybe later," I said. "It's a little busy right now."
She smiled. "If you'd like, you can take a shower upstairs." She
pointed toward the patio sliding doors. "Just go in there, through
the kitchen. You'll find the stairs by the front door. Go on
upstairs, the bathroom is the second door on the right."
"Thanks," I said, "but I'll be fine..."
"Don't be silly," she interrupted. "Go on. Towels are in the
closet in the bathroom." She pulled me up out of the chair, and
propelled me toward the house with a gentle shove. A shower did
sound good. I headed into the house, and found my way upstairs. The
bathroom was big, with a linen closet, double sinks, and a toilet in
one room, a large shower and changing area through another door. I
grabbed a towel, turned on the shower and let the water run until
steam was permeating the room, and stripped off my sweaty clothes. I
had my swim trunks and a fresh t-shirt in a gym bag that I left by
the sinks. I stepped into the shower, closed the Plexiglas door, and
adjusted the water temperature, turning the shower head until I got a
needle spray that pounded into my neck and shoulders.
It felt so good, I never noticed the sudden swirling of the steam in
the room as the outer door opened. In fact, I was standing there,
eyes closed as the water streamed down my back, when I heard the
shower door open. Startled, I opened my eyes, just as the outline of
another person appeared through the mist. With a wide grin and a
twinkle in her eye, Wendy Marcus stepped up to me, pressing her very
naked body against mine, her large breasts mashing up on my ribcage.
"I thought you might need some help washing those hard-to-reach
places," she said softly. She reached down with one hand and took
control, sizing up my already hard cock, while with the other, she
pulled me down by my neck to press her open mouth hard to mine.
The assault on my senses had its desired effect. I kissed her back
as the little head began taking control once again, and I reached up
to squeeze one large boob, with its swollen and distended nipple.
She was stroking me rhythmically, and my hips joined in on the
activity, pushing my cock harder into her pumping palm.
She must have been somewhat familiar with a teenager's ability to
last (next to none), as well as a teenager's ability to recharge
after coming (second to none), because she didn't hesitate. Almost
as soon as she felt my hips thrusting, she broke our wet kiss and
dropped to her knees, unhesitatingly taking me fully into her mouth.
This was no foreplay. Her technique was a direct assault on her
target, the object was to get me off quickly. And it worked
beautifully. She took just about all of me into her mouth, her
tongue working frantically on the underside of my cock as she bobbed
up and down. One hand was caressing and squeezing my balls, the
other was stroking the base of my throbbing cock, working me into a
frenzy. In record time, I grunted and thrust as deeply into her
mouth as she would allow, and spewed across her tongue and down her
throat. She kept sucking me, taking all I could give her, and when I
was done, and my poor abused cock was softening slightly, she
continued to suck me hard, concentrating on keeping me erect.
Before I knew it, I could feel my heartbeat through my resurgent
dick, and Wendy felt it, too. When she was sure I had attained
nearly full hardness once again, she gave me one last lick, and
stood. She never relinquished her hold on me, though, but instead
took her other hand, ran it down my arm until she was grasping my
hand, and then guided my fingers to her very wet, hairy pussy, her
legs spread for me. With a moan, she turned around, rubbing her
substantial butt against me, still holding and stroking my cock with
one hand, and guiding my efforts with her other hand on my wrist. My
fingers eagerly plowed through her pussy lips, releasing her oily
lubrication in their search for her vagina, her clitoris, and all the
hot flesh in between.
She began breathing hard, huffing and puffing in front of me, until
she bent over, and guided my pole toward her flooding hole from
behind. I sank fully into her, my thighs slapping wetly against her
ass, and I stroked deeply into her. She put her hands out in front
of her so she could lean on the shower stall wall, and let me
willingly do the work. Each time I bottomed out in her, I drove the
breath out of her in a breathy huff. Each time I pulled almost out
of her, she wiggled her ass, trying to keep our connection, until I
pumped back into her again, my hands on her hips, and the cycle
started all over. With the shower pelting my back, refreshing me, I
felt like I could stay like this, inside her, for hours.
Finally, though, Wendy's breath got ragged, and her movements became
erratic. Her butt was moving from side to side, then front to back,
then up and down, creating a lot more friction between us. Her
fleshy walls were gripping me, and I could feel her vaginal muscles
clenching and unclenching against my intruding shaft, raising my
temperature and bringing on my second climax. I felt a hot, oily
flooding along my cock as she came, and it triggered my own reaction,
and I groaned as I flooded her spasming walls with hot jets of semen.
If she hadn't been leaning against the wall, and if I hadn't been
leaning on her backside, we both would have collapsed to the shower
floor. As it was, Wendy roused herself weakly, and I pulled back, my
thoroughly spent cock slipping from her, and she turned, reached up
to wrap both arms around my neck, and kissed me softly, tenderly.
"Thanks, Sean," she whispered. "I needed that." She pecked me on
the lips one more time, turned, and opened the shower door,
disappearing as suddenly as she had appeared just a few minutes
before. I stood there, the water cascading down over me, in shock
from it all, until finally I roused myself, turned off the water,
opened the door, and reached for the towel. I wasn't quite sure how
I was going to be able to face her, or Justin, after this. And then
there was her husband, blissfully unaware that his wife was upstairs
schtupping his son's soccer coach, while he was busily cooking for
the troops out by the pool.
I got dressed and reluctantly went back down the stairs and out to
the back. Wendy was chatting with Lori, as if this was just an
everyday neighborhood get-together. She glanced up as I came out the
door and flashed me a quick, knowing smile before turning back to her
conversation. Arthur was busy at the grill, and the entire soccer
team was either carousing in the pool, or standing nearby, shoving
down food before rejoining the fun in the water. There was typical
suburban normalcy all around me, and yet I felt completely out of
place and disconnected.
What a very strange day, I thought to myself.
(Continued in Chapter 6)
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