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Subject: {ASSM} -RP- Playing the Game II, Playing to Win, Ch. 21-25 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
- 21 -
SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS AT THE DOOR
You can always tell when a doctor or a nurse is lying to you. It's
when they are approaching you with a wicked-looking instrument or
needle in their hand, and they say, "Now, this won't hurt a bit."
About 20 minutes after hearing just those words, they were still
trying to scrape me off the walls of the examination room, having
changed all my bandages, and cleaned and drained all my wounds,
performing all these tortures with the cavalier indifference to my
pain and discomfort that probably caused them to go into medicine in
the first place.
It was just before lunchtime when Mom and I finally were on our way
home.
"Would you like to stop at McDonald's or someplace for lunch?" my
mother asked with artificial good cheer. She was in the room with me
while they poked and prodded my lip and arm, after all.
"No," I snapped. "I just want to go home."
"All right, dear," she replied sympathetically.
Two hours later, I was feeling almost human again. Two peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches on spongy white bread, comfort food for
the young, had been wolfed down, along with nearly a quart of milk,
and I was cocooned on the couch in the family room, a thick quilt
wrapped around me. The pain in my arm and my ribs was down to a dull
throb, thanks in part to the painkillers I had taken with lunch, and
I drowsily acknowledged my mom when she called out from the kitchen
that she was leaving to go in to work for the afternoon, now that she
had me back home, safe and reasonably sound.
It was just too easy to fall asleep that afternoon, and it was after
3:00 when I finally woke up. I got up creakily, and headed into the
kitchen, and I started rummaging through the cabinets, looking for
cookies or crackers or something.
I was just in the process of fumbling open a bag of potato chips,
trying to tear the bag open with my teeth without jarring my cut lip
too much, when I heard a soft knock at the back door. Before I had a
chance to see who it was, the door opened, and Jake and Kayla came in.
"Hungry, Porter?" asked Jake when he saw me struggling. He reached
for the bag and tore it open for me.
"Hi, Sean, how are you feeling?" asked Kayla softly, her eyes
glittering.
"Not bad," I replied. "I think I like taking naps in the
afternoons." I stretched to emphasize the point, but I was a little
too extravagant in my movements, and I ended up pulling on my bruised
ribs, which made me hunch down, clutching at my ribcage and grimacing
in pain. Kayla came over and held my good arm solicitously.
"Did you hurt yourself?" she asked anxiously.
"It's okay, Kay," I assured her. "It only hurts when I move."
"And that's why he was taking a nap, Kay," said Jake, his big hand
rummaging around in the bag of chips. "So he wouldn't move around
and hurt himself any worse."
I gave him a look that he easily ignored. "What a pal," I muttered.
As we headed for the family room, it occurred to me that they were
here too soon after school let out.
"Hey, Jake, why aren't you at football practice?" I asked.
"Oh, man, you missed the strangest day I've ever seen at school
today," he said.
"Everybody was talking about the Homecoming dance," added Kayla.
"And, of course, you and Jilly were the main topics of
conversation," continued Jake.
"Of course," I said disgustedly. I could see already that it was
going to be tough that first day back.
"You wouldn't believe some of the stories I heard today," said Jake.
"You were dead, Jilly was on life support, Martians had landed. You
name it, I heard it today."
"Was Molly at school? Surely she could have straightened everybody
out."
"Shirley could have straightened it out? Who's Shirley?" I scowled
at him, and Kayla stuck her tongue out at her brother. "Actually,
Molly was there, but it's much more exciting to spread rumors about
what might have happened than actually learn the truth. Besides, she
could only talk to a few kids in one day between classes, and stories
expand a lot faster. And the fact that both you and Del Toro were
missing today only fueled the fire," he said.
Another thought occurred to me. "Okay, but why aren't you at
football practice?"
"Practice for both the football team and the soccer team was another
casualty of the weekend," he answered. "Counselors were at school
all afternoon, trying to get to the bottom of it all. They were on
the phone with the cops, and they called in half the football team
and most of the soccer team for interviews. So many kids were
cooling their heels in the counselor's office that they had to cancel
practices."
"Jake had to talk to them, Sean," said Kayla. That news didn't
surprise me.
"Yeah, me and Tiny and Josh and about 10 other suspicious characters
had to talk to the principal and the counselor. I saw Eric and Trent
and Mikey and Jorge there, too," said Jake.
"I suppose it'll be my turn when I go back," I said. "How about
Amonte and Barnes and those guys? Any of the Bulls at school today?"
"No, not really," said Jake. "Remember last year, after Skip got
killed? The Bulls kind of hid out for a few days, and then came back
all spiffed up, as if they were giving up the gang life, you know? I
think they might be doing the same thing now. Besides," he
continued, "their leader and chief bully is fallen. They've got
nobody to tell them what to do right now."
"Del Toro may be out of sight, but I'll bet he hasn't given up the
reins of his little terror squad quite yet," I surmised.
"Yeah, he's in a little cubbyhole somewhere, some rat's nest,
licking his wounds right about now," said Jake.
The sudden laughter burst from me in a painful cramp. Both Kayla
and Jake looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Maybe I had. When I
got myself back under control, moaning at the pain in my ribcage as
the laughter subsided, I explained. "The mental image of Del Toro
having to lick those particular wounds is kind of funny, isn't it?"
Jake looked surprised, and then he must have remembered that it
wasn't just a separated shoulder that Del Toro was hurting from. In
fact, that was his secondary injury, and Jake started laughing,
sending me off again. Kayla giggled, all the while turning bright
pink as she recalled where Jilly was hurting the most.
We finally settled down. Kayla went out into the kitchen and got
sodas for us all, and Jake and I cleared off the coffee table so we
could work. Kay had done as she promised, and picked up my homework
assignments for the day. There wasn't much, because of the uproar in
school all day, but that just meant that the teachers would pile it
on the next day, I was certain.
And, as it turned out, it was a good thing there wasn't much work to
do. My front door should have been a revolving door, there were so
many visitors, each with a tale to tell about what had happened at
school.
The first to drop by were Trent and Allison, who just wanted to see
how I was feeling. Allie looked stricken when she saw me all
bandaged up, but I was able to reassure her that I was doing okay.
Trent sat down on the couch and helped himself to a handful of
chips. "Coach is going to have a cow when he realizes you're out for
a few weeks," he remarked.
"I hope it's not a few weeks," I said. "My arm shouldn't keep me
out of the lineup. It's just a question of how fast my ribs will
heal. As it is now, I'm having trouble taking deep breaths."
"Ribs can take a long time, buddy," said Jake. "Sometimes six or
eight weeks, if they're cracked."
"I don't think they're cracked," I said. "I just had another x-ray
today, but nobody seemed real concerned about my ribs." Six or eight
weeks? Oh, man, say it ain't so, I thought to myself.
"That's because of your filleted arm, Sean. Ribs can heal
themselves in time, but they've got to keep an eye on your cuts to
make sure they don't get infected." Trent reached for the bag of
chips again.
The doorbell rang again, and Kayla, playing hostess, hopped up to
open the front door. Eric and Anthony came in and headed right for
the bag of chips on the coffee table.
"How you doin'?" asked Eric. "Keisha wanted to come over with me,
but she was afraid of how busted up you would look. I told her that
maybe, if Del Toro rearranged your face a little, you'd turn out to
be better looking."
"What a pal," I said disgustedly. "Here I am, in pain and needing a
little sympathy, and instead I get a junior Richard Pryor."
Kayla jumped onto the couch next to me and snuggled up, putting her
arms carefully around my neck. "Do you need some sympathy, Sean?"
she cooed as she pressed herself in next to me. She gave me a quick
kiss on my cheek, hopped back up, and declared, "Sorry, none to be
found here!"
Everybody cracked up. I claimed I didn't see the humor in it, but I
was lying, and they all knew it. I finally relented, and smiled
along with them all. I knew, deep down inside, that just by being
there, my friends were showing their sympathy and support, and I was
grateful.
I turned to Eric and Anthony. "I'm going to have to call Coach and
let him know about what's going on. He's not going to be happy."
Eric snorted. "Happy? That ain't the word for what Coach is gonna
be. Happy is about as far away from how Coach is gonna feel as you
can get, I'd bet."
"Especially when he realizes he's gonna have to start Weasel in your
spot," added Anthony.
"Weasel? Christ, I didn't even think about that," I said. "And if
that little freshman dirtbag does start, he's not going to give up
that position without a fight."
"Hey!" admonished Kayla. "Just because he's a freshman, doesn't
mean he's a dirtbag. Watch your mouth, Mr. Porter, or you'll be
getting another fat lip. After this one heals first."
"Listen, Luscious, he's not a dirtbag because he's a freshman.
Hell, I like freshmen. Especially broiled. With barbeque sauce." I
smiled at her, to let her know that the present company was exempted.
She stuck out her tongue at me. "Hey, don't point that thing at me
unless you intend to use it," I warned.
Kayla blushed furiously, but it didn't stop her from jumping back on
the couch and snuggling up to me again. She put her mouth next to my
ear. "So, you think I'm luscious, do you?" she whispered.
Now it was my turn to blush a bright red.
"Hey, leave the poor boy alone," teased Eric. "He's in a delicate
medical condition, and can't take that kind of excitement." He
pronounced it almost like three words, Dell-E-Kit, and managed to get
a laugh out of everybody.
"Do you hear that?" I said to no one in particular. "See the
respect I get around here? And in my own home, too."
"Awww, poor Sean," was the nearly unanimous reply.
"Yeah, the Rodney Dangerfield of the high school set," added Jake.
"Hey, by the way, who's Weasel?" asked Kayla.
"A kid on the team," said Anthony. "Do you know Adam Prince?"
Kay made a face like she was sucking on a lemon. "Oh, him," she
said. "He was a friend of..." She glanced quickly over to me,
looking a little abashed. "A friend of Brandon's."
"Oh? And who's Brandon?" I asked.
There was a long pause before she answered. "Just a boy I know,"
she said mysteriously.
"Ah," I said. "Is he the kid you were at the dance with?"
She just nodded, her head down as if she was embarrassed.
"And he's the kid at the scavenger hunt party," I said. The picture
was a little clearer for me now.
"Oops," said Jake. He winked at his sister. She didn't look like
she appreciated it very much, but I wasn't sure why she was
uncomfortable talking about him. But she was, so I let it drop.
By the time my mom got home, there was still a houseful of kids. My
little brother had gotten home from school, and was mixing with my
friends, loving hanging out with the high-school kids. Tiny and Josh
had stopped by, and so had Austin and Tessa, and Toby and Ashley, and
Kevin and Mikey and Brett from the soccer team. Trent and Danielle,
and a couple of others, had already left, but it was still a pretty
full house.
Mom stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, surveying the scene.
"Well, I guess pizzas are in order for dinner," she said with a
laugh. She tapped Jake on the shoulder. "Jake, would you be a dear
and run out and pick up some more sodas? We must be just about out
by now." She started rooting around in her purse. "Here, take
this," she said, handing him a twenty dollar bill. "Just buy what
you can. And maybe some more snacks, too. This looks like a hungry
crowd."
"Sure thing, Mrs. P.," said Jake. He grabbed his coat and headed
for the door.
It was a good thing there wasn't a lot of homework assigned that
night. Nobody wanted to leave to go do something as boring as
studying, and so the party went on. Jake returned with fresh
supplies of pop and chips, and four pizzas were delivered. By that
time, my older brother Michael was home from work, and Dad was there,
too. Kids were coming and going, but the two constants all evening
long were my best friend Jake, and Kayla, who stayed at my side,
refilling my glass and making sure I was comfortable. If I had to
get up to walk around, or go to the bathroom, she helped me to stand,
unwilling to believe me when I told her I was perfectly capable of
getting up by myself. I believed her mothering instincts were in
full blossom, and there was no holding her back, so I submitted to
her help with as much good humor as I could muster. Considering it
was Jake's sister, I found that I was able to muster quite a bit of
good humor. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed her help. I never
would have put up with the same amount of fussing from my own mother,
but coming from Luscious Kayla, it was all okay.
Which, I was to discover later, was all part of the plan.
By the time everybody had left, I was wondering if I had fallen
through some sort of odd space warp. Just 60 hours prior, I had been
a fit, happy and healthy athlete. A day and a half later, I was
feeling like a truck had run me down, backed up, and aimed for me
again, and I had done practically nothing all day. Jake and Luscious
Kayla were the last to leave, friends to the end, but I was so tired
I was cross-eyed. I couldn't wait to drag my sorry carcass up the
stairs and fall into bed. Because of the bandages, I hadn't been
able to take a shower since Saturday, and I was feeling pretty gross.
Mom helped me stumble into the bathroom, and I stood there, too tired
to be embarrassed, as my mother gave me a warm sponge bath. She
wanted to wash my hair in the sink, just like she did when I was a
little kid, but I was not going to stay away from my pillow any
longer, so I managed to put her off to another day for that
particular dispiriting activity.
I was asleep practically before my head hit the pillow, and I slept
the sleep of the dead until midmorning the next day, waking to an
empty and quiet house.
My mom had left me a note, letting me know that she was at work, and
would be home before 5:00. I had the day to myself, something that
was completely foreign to me. For the first couple of hours, I
luxuriated in the idleness, flipping channels and discovering that
daytime television truly was the vast wasteland that Newton Minow had
declared in 1961. No improvement in 20 years, no improvement in
sight. I was looking forward to Jake and Kayla coming over, even if
it meant they were bringing homework. And, surprisingly, I was
looking forward to going back to school.
Late that afternoon, the telephone rang. I had had the foresight to
put the phone on the table next to the couch, so I didn't have to
struggle up to answer it.
"Sean?" A familiar voice was making sure I was who she thought I was.
"Hey, Lori, how are you?"
"Well, I'm fine. I guess the bigger question is, how are you?" she
asked, concern evident in her voice. Obviously she had heard some
sort of story about the weekend.
"I'm doing okay," I reassured her. "I'm just taking a couple of
days off from school, until I feel a little better."
"Sean, I heard about the fight... How badly are you hurt?"
I ignored the question for the moment. "How did you hear about it?"
I asked.
She hesitated. "Actually, Molly called me. She said she wanted to
apologize for some things, and she said she missed seeing the boys.
She and I talked for a long time, Sean. She told me some things...
about what she had been through... and she told me about what
happened Saturday night, how you got hurt protecting her..."
"Molly's got a skewed perspective about what happened that night,
Lori. I wouldn't take all she said as the gospel truth."
I could almost hear her smile. "She also told me you'd deny doing
anything at all," she said.
"Hey, I'm not saying I didn't do anything. I got my ass kicked, and
I got my arm sliced up. If some of the other people who were there
hadn't shown up, I'd have been in even worse shape. Tiny and those
guys are the real heroes, not me, despite what Molly says."
She laughed a little. "If you say so, Sean. Anyway, I just wanted
to call and see how you were. The boys ask about you all the time."
"Hey, why don't you bring them to one of the games? Maybe I can get
them a gig as a ballboy or something. They'd have a ball."
"That's a great idea. Let me know when the home games are, and
we'll try to arrange it." She paused for a moment. "It's really
great to hear your voice, Sean."
"It's good to talk to you, too, Lori. Thanks for calling. I
appreciate it."
I no sooner hung up the phone, and it rang again. I thought it was
probably Lori calling back.
"Lori?" I said, as I picked up the handset.
A gruff voice, with a heavy southern accent, said, "Uh, no, old son,
this isn't Lori. My name is Cropper, Pickett Cropper. Is this Sean
Porter?"
"Yes, Mr. Cropper, speaking. What can I do for you?"
Cropper chuckled. "Actually, I think the question to be asked is
what I might be able to do for you, Sean."
(Continued in Chapter 22)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 22 -
THE FIFTY-CENT BET
"Okay, I'll bite," I replied. "What can you do for me, Mr. Cropper?"
The gruff voice on the other end of the telephone line said, "Do you
know a young man by the name of Jesse Wilhoit, son?"
"Yes, sir, I do. Is he okay?" I didn't think I could take any more
bad news than I'd gotten over the past year or so.
"Oh, yeah, Jesse's just fine," said Cropper. "In fact, he's the one
suggested I give you a holler."
"Um, okay," I said. I was still confused. "And how do you know
Jesse?"
"Ah, I see now where I done went and took the wrong turn down this
particular highway," he said, almost to himself. "I didn't introduce
myself very proper here, did I? Son, as I told you a moment ago, my
name's Pickett Cropper, but most folks just call me Pick. I'm the
head coach of the University of Florida soccer team, down here in
Gainesville, Florida."
"Oh, I get it," I said stupidly. Hey, my mama always said I should
work on my strengths, and right now, stupid was my main commodity.
"Now, Jesse Wilhoit's been singin' your praises, son, and I would
like to send up one of my assistants to talk to you, maybe watch you
play."
"Uh, sure, that's great, Mr. Cropper. How's Jesse doing for you?"
"Well, son, I guess soccer news don't spread out quite as fast as
football news across the country, but I've got to tell you, that
Jesse Wilhoit's a fine player for us. He's been in our starting
lineup right from the get-go, and he's helped us to the Southeastern
Conference championships, and right into the NCAA Tournament. As a
matter of fact, I believe he'll be the Southeastern Conference
Freshman Player of the Year, I do."
"Wow," I said, impressed. "Good for him. I can't wait to talk to
him."
"Now, son, as head coach, I've always got to be lookin' to the
future, as well as herdin' these boys in the here-and-now, and I hear
tell you've got a game that just might fit into our type of play here
at Florida. But, just to make sure, I'm going to be sending up one
of my best ol' boys, a fella name of Stan Harvard. He's gonna be up
in your neck of the woods the next couple of weeks, and I'd like for
him to watch your team play this Friday."
Uh-oh. Ninety seconds into a conversation with a Division 1 school
coach, and I was in trouble already. There was no way I would be
playing this weekend, and probably not the next, either.
"Coach Cropper, I think I might have a problem. You see, right now
I'm... injured. I won't be playing for at least a couple of weeks."
There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. "Oh? Is
that right? What kind of injury are we talking about here, son?"
"Oh, it's really nothing," I said hurriedly. "Just some... bruised
ribs... and some... cuts and scrapes."
"You've been to see the sawbones, right?"
I was puzzled. What the heck was a sawbones? "Sir?" I asked
inquiringly.
"The doctor, son. Have you been to see the doctor about them ribs?"
"Oh, I get it. Sawbones. Yes, sir, I had x-rays and everything.
No cracks or breaks, but I've got to take it easy for a little while."
"Well, that really shouldn't be a problem then. After all, you're
only a junior, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, we've got a whole year to figure this one out anyway.
And I know, if half the things Jesse was telling me were true, you're
prolly gonna have recruiting scouts hounding you for some time to
come. I just wanted to be first in line, is all."
"Thank you, sir."
"Let me leave you my number, Sean. You give me a call when you're
healed up and playing again, and I'll see where ol' Stan is, and see
if I can get him to drive over yet this year. That sound all right
with you?"
"That would be great, Coach. Thank you."
I wrote down the number he gave me, a direct line into the athletic
offices.
Now that was a great call to get, I thought to myself. I sat back
on the couch smugly, basking in the warmth of the realization that
there was a college out there looking at me for their team. What a
great feeling!
However, as I replayed the conversation in my mind, I got restless.
It took me a few minutes to realize what was making me uncomfortable.
Here was another situation where I was not very honest with somebody
who was trying to do something for me, and my deceptive description
of my injuries to Pick Cropper seemed like it was another of those
Sean Porter defects, and one that directly confronted how firm my
resolve was going to be in keeping the pledge I had made to myself,
just a couple of days ago.
My bruised ribs hurt like hell, and there was a dull throbbing in my
sliced-up arm, but these pains were minor compared to the self-
inflicted battering my conscience was taking.
I tried to tell myself it was all a fabrication of my own addled
mind as I tried to find a comfortable position on the couch. The
television was on, but it was just background noise to me. I turned
the sound up, trying to drown out my own bitter thoughts, but it
didn't help. I flipped through the stations, hoping for a good
Bogart or Cagney movie to lose myself in, but no luck there, either.
I got up and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, but nothing
sounded good. What I was looking for wasn't going to be found in a
cabinet or in the refrigerator, but I wasn't ready to accept that
particular truth quite yet. I stalked through the first floor of the
house, looking for something I knew I wasn't going to find easily.
Jake and Kayla came over again after football practice. Kay had my
homework assignments, and, as expected, there was a ton of work. The
three of us spread out in the family room, but I couldn't concentrate.
"Will you sit still?" said Jake, exasperated, after about the
dozenth time I shifted on the couch, trying to find a decent position.
Kayla knelt beside me, leaning on the arm of the sofa. "What's the
matter, Sean?" she asked, concern in her eyes.
"I got a call today," I began, and I told them about my conversation
with the coach of the Florida Gators soccer team.
"But that's great, Sean," said Jake enthusiastically. "Maybe you'll
get a scholarship to play soccer."
"Yeah, that part's great," I agreed. "It's the omissions that I'm
worried about."
"What do you mean?"
"I think I know," said Kayla. She looked seriously at me. "You're
afraid he's going to find out you were hurt in a fight, right?"
I slapped the arm of the sofa, making her jump a little. "That's
just it," I said. "If he finds out I might be suspended from school
for fighting on school property, I'm afraid he's gonna be really mad.
He's not going to want a troublemaker like me on his team." I could
feel my eyes burning a little. Damn it; don't cry like a little kid,
I admonished myself. You've got to grow up sometime.
And there, right before me, was the answer I had spent the last
several hours searching for, practically tearing the house apart in
my desire for some sort of solution. I had to be grown-up about it,
stand up and face the music.
Kay had grasped my hand as I confessed my fear, holding it close to
her in support. I gently disentangled myself and reached beyond her
to the telephone. Pickett Cropper's number was on a scrap of paper
on the end table, by the telephone. I picked it up and dialed. A
female voice answered on the third ring.
"Gator Athletic Office, this is Eunice Adkins speaking."
"Uh, hello, I'd like to speak to Coach Cropper, please," I said.
"Pick is in a meeting right now with his assistants," replied
Florence. "May I ask who's calling?"
"My name is Sean Porter," I said.
"Oh, of course, Mr. Porter, Pick has been expecting your call. One
moment, please." And she put me on hold. I could hear the random
pops of the long-distance connection through the receiver.
He was expecting my call? Why would he think I would be calling him
back so soon?
After just a couple of minutes, Pick came on the line.
"Sean?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"What can I do for you, son?" he asked. His attitude seemed to be
one of pleasant surprise to be hearing so soon from me. I could
almost hear a sense of amusement in his attitude.
"Well, Coach, I feel I need to explain to you just how I got my cuts
and bruises in the first place," I said. I took a deep breath,
closed my eyes, and leapt off the cliff. "You see, sir, I was in a
fight over the weekend, with another student. In the school parking
lot. And I got my butt stomped, and my arm's kind of cut up from a
knife, and my ribs are bruised because I got kicked. I've been home
recuperating for the past couple of days, sir, after the doctors
stitched me back up again, but I'm planning on going back to school
either tomorrow or the next day, but I'm expecting to be suspended
for at least a few days because of the fight." I paused for a moment
to catch my breath, having just spilled out my confession. I was
expecting him to hang up on me, since I was giving him the
opportunity to tell me to forget about meeting with his scout, but
there was a long silence on the other end of the line. The silence
was worse than my admissions, so I jumped into the void, and
continued with my explanation. "I... I was surprised by your earlier
call, sir, and I... I wanted to set the record straight... and...
well, you deserve to know the truth about me, sir..." I finally
wound down, nothing more to say.
There was a deep chuckle on the other end. "Son, I can't tell you
how happy I am to hear from you, especially so quick," he said.
I was very confused. "You're happy?" I asked incredulously.
"Why, shore, son, a course I'm happy." He laughed again, evidently
taking a great pleasure in my humiliation.
"I don't know why you're so freaking happy," I grumbled. "Unless
you like humiliating little kids."
He laughed even harder at that. "Hoo, boy, you are a one, Sean
Porter," he finally managed to eke out. "I guess I owe you some sort
of apology, son." His laughter had subsided to an occasional low
chuckle, but by now I was pretty mad, and just about to tell him to
go fuck off.
"I got to tell you, Sean, I been pullin' on your leg jest a little
here. You see, I already knew about all that stuff."
"What?" Now I was puzzled, as well as pissed.
"I didn't jest call you up outa the blue, now, boy," explained Pick.
"I've had several long conversations with your coach up there, Mr.
Martin Neville. And after I got done talking with him, I had another
very pleasant conversation with a Dr. Osgood, who I believe is the
principal of your fine school."
"Uh, yes, sir, he is, but..."
"Anyways, both those fine gentlemen were kind enough to give me some
background on you and your soccer habits, abilities, dedication to
the game, that sort of thing, and in the midst of our conversation,
the troubles of this past weekend just happened to come up."
"Oh. Well, sir..."
"Now, before you go off and start apologizin' again, son, let me say
a few things, and maybe my amusement will become a little more
apparent to you, okay?"
"Okay, but..."
"Now you just set back and listen up for a moment, son, while I kind
of talk my way through this. You see, I've talked to Mr. Martin
Neville a few times, Sean. The first time was, oh, I'd guess maybe a
couple of weeks ago. Your coach was kind enough to send me some film
of a couple of your games, which, along with what Jesse was telling
me, kind of piqued my interest, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I always listen real close to what a feller's coach has to say
about him before I decide one way or t' other if I'm a gonna pursue
that feller for my team, you understand. And Mr. Neville, he's the
kind of straight shooter I like to talk to, the kind of coach that,
over the years, I've learned to respect and trust. And he told me
about the altercation when I called him yesterday, and he explained
all that he knew about it, and made no apologies on your behalf.
Well, I got to tell you, son, that story shook me a little, so that's
why I called up that Dr. Osgood fellow, and talked to him. Now, he
had the preliminary reports from the police at his disposal, and he
was quite open about sharing his information, let me tell you."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I've got a pretty fair soccer team down here, son, and getting
good players to come to the University of Florida is important to me,
and to the University. But I got to tell you, son, I always got to
look hard at a boy's underpinnings, if you know what I mean. If it
comes down to a choice between a hard-nosed, upstanding player, and a
hard-nosed, but ultimately morally questionable player, I will always
take up the cause of getting the upstanding boy down here.
Understand?"
"Yes, sir, but I..."
"Now, that's not to say I won't take a chance on makin' a bad boy
into a good soccer player, now, and I've been known to take a project
like that on a time or two, but my scouts and assistants had better
be right on target with such a boy. But the ones who have already
proven themselves, Sean, I most always can sniff 'em out myself. You
know what I mean, son?"
"Not really, sir, but..."
"I already know quite a lot about you, Mr. Sean Porter. I know what
another group of pretty fine players has to say about you, since I
even went and spent near on half my month's telephone budget calling
trans-Atlantic so I could speak personally to Mr. Duane Olchick, for
instance. I know about your work with some of the younger kids in
town, and I know how many games you refereed this past summer, all
for the love of the game. I could probably even name who was
involved in Saturday night's incident, and not be off by more than
two or three people. I know you got four stitches in your lip, and
near onto 30 in your arm, and I know you was standing up for a young
lady who needed you to be there, standing up for her."
"I... I..."
"You don't have to say nothin' right now, Sean, but let me assure
you of this: I like what I've been told, and I like what I've seen.
And you have shown me that you got some steel in you, son, by callin'
me back the way you done, ready to give up on the University of
Florida, all for the sake of tellin' me your story."
"Coach, I..."
"And that's why I was so amused, Sean. Made a bet with Eunice that
you would be calling me back within twenty-four hours. I was tickled
pink when she come barging into my meeting here, and plunked fifty
cents down on my desk. She didn't have to say a word, because I knew
what it was for."
"Fifty cents?" That was about the only thing I could make any sense
of, out of all he had talked about. My head was spinning.
"Fifty cents," he confirmed. "Best damn can of pop I ever drank.
It always tastes better when it's won fair and square. Let me tell
you, son, that if you hadn't called, I still would have sent ol'
Stanley Harvard up to see you play, and maybe talk to you some.
Hell, I've seen your game films, and with another season of
experience, you're going to be a helluva player. But your calling me
now has convinced me, son. I ain't leaving this here project to one
of my employees. Eunice is going to have to rearrange my schedule,
because in a month or so, I'm coming up there myself to talk to you
and watch you play. Is that okay with you, son?"
I gulped. "Yes, sir, that's okay with me," I said.
"Well, good, then," he said with satisfaction.
We said our goodbyes. My hands were shaking as I put the phone down.
"What the hell was that all about?" asked Jake. "We couldn't tell
if it was a good call or a bad call from your stuttering."
"And what was that fifty cents thing?" interjected Kayla.
"Wait, give me a minute," I said, falling back into the couch
cushions. "I've got to try to absorb all this."
The back door banged open, and Stephen came running through the
kitchen. As he bounded up the stairs to his room, he called out a
greeting.
"Hi, Sean. Hi, Jake. Hi, Kayla."
And, with a crash as his bedroom door rattled on its hinges, he was
gone.
My mom was in the kitchen, having picked up my brother on her way
home from work as usual.
"Hey, Mrs. P.," said Jake loudly.
Mom came out to stand in the doorway. "Why, hello, Jake. Hello,
Kayla sweetie. Did you bring Sean's work home for him?"
"Yes, Mrs. Porter," said Kayla. "I said I would."
"I know you did, dear, and I thank you for it," said my mother.
"Hey, Mom, maybe you'd better come in here and sit down," I said.
"I might as well tell you all at once about this phone call, so I
don't have to repeat myself."
Mom looked concerned as she stepped into the room and sat down in
the big stuffed chair. "What phone call, Sean?" she asked.
"Well, I got a call earlier this afternoon from this man named
Pickett Cropper," I began. And I told them about my brief
conversation with Coach Pick, and just mentioned in passing about my
crisis of conscience, and Kayla's insight, that made me decide to
call him back. I described my second conversation as best I could.
I tried to emphasize Jesse's and Coach Neville's roles in influencing
Cropper's interest in me, and tried to downplay the things he said
about my moral character. He didn't really know me, after all.
"Woo hoo!" yelled Jake. "A scholarship, Sean! That's fucking
incredible!" He glanced over at my mother, just as Kayla slapped his
arm. "Oops, sorry, Mrs. P."
"That is wonderful news, Sean," said my mom, pointedly ignoring
Jake's slip.
"When's he coming to watch you?" asked Kayla excitedly.
"I don't know," I said. "I don't even know if he'll call ahead.
I'll just have to be prepared all the time."
"Which you were going to do anyway," said Jake.
I glanced over to him. "Yeah," I admitted. "I was. I've got a lot
of work to do once I can get back on the field."
It was hard to buckle down and get back to work on our schoolwork,
but we managed. Mom headed into the kitchen to get dinner ready, and
by the time Dad and Michael got home, we were almost done. Jake and
Kayla stayed to eat with us, and we finished our work afterwards. By
the time we were done, and the story of the telephone call had been
told another couple of times, I was exhausted once again. I fumbled
around one-handed, trying to help Jake and Kay pick up and pack away
books and papers, but I was just in the way, and I finally gave up
the attempt, flopping down onto the sofa.
After the backpacks were zipped up, Jake hefted two of them onto his
shoulders and headed out to put them in his car. Kayla stole a
glance at the kitchen door, and slipped next to me on the couch,
putting her arms carefully around my neck.
"I'm so proud of you, Sean," she murmured, her blue eyes sparkling
as she leaned in close to me. She gently turned my head and gave me
a soft kiss on the side of my mouth, taking great care not to press
against my bandage. I desperately wanted to kiss her back, but I was
in no shape to do anything except put my good arm around her
shoulder, holding her near to me.
"Thank you, Luscious," I whispered.
She smiled delightedly, and kissed me again, a little harder. The
tiny flare of pain from my stitches was worth it, matched by the tiny
flare of desire in my solar plexus.
(Continued in Chapter 23)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 23 -
TIME SERVED
I really was tired of sitting at home, so on Wednesday I went back
to school. My dad dropped me off early, and made sure I got in the
door without incident. I was still bandaged up, but I was feeling
pretty good. I got a lot of greetings from kids streaming into
school, good friends and kids I barely knew.
My first stop was to the school office. I knew I would have to talk
to Dr. Osgood, so I thought I should get it done with early. I was
hoping that I could talk him into counting the two days I had spent
at home already as part of my expected suspension. I was also
worried about having this suspension on my school record, for other
colleges and scouts to see. I hadn't even thought about it before,
but since Pick Cropper had called, I was afraid this incident might
just scare off any other scholarship offers. My parents were going
to be really upset when they found out I had probably blown my
chances for a free college education with this fight. Perhaps Pick
Cropper's offer was legitimate, but I had my doubts about any other
schools offering me anything but the door, once the fight and my
anticipated suspension entered the dreaded Permanent Record. Even
Pick would probably modify his offer to only a partial scholarship,
at best.
Ayesha Ford's mother worked in the school office, and she was
standing at the counter, writing down something on a notepad, when I
walked in the door.
"Good morning, Mrs. Ford, is Dr. Osgood in?" I asked.
She looked up, saw me, and smiled. "Good morning, Sean. How are
you feeling?" She certainly sounded friendly enough, not all scowly
like she was known to act when she was talking to a troublemaker.
"I'm doing okay," I said. "It was pretty boring at home, with no
friends to hang out with."
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "Another good reason to come to
school every day, right?"
"Well," I replied, "I guess there had to be one good reason."
She laughed, a deep belly laugh that shook her large frame. "Just
as long as there's one good reason, Sean." She was still chuckling
as she opened the gate to usher me into the inner sanctum. "Dr.
Osgood's in his office. Just knock on the doorframe and go right in."
I rapped on the frame, and Dr. Osgood's voice floated out of the
office. "Come in, Mr. Porter."
"How did you know it was me?" I asked as I headed for his desk.
He smiled and took off his reading glasses. "I heard you talking to
Mrs. Ford," he said. "Sit down, Sean." He gestured toward the pair
of chairs in front of his desk.
When we had both settled into our chairs, he steepled his hands, the
tips resting lightly against his moustache, as he gazed at me with an
expressionless face. I felt fidgety, but I concentrated on sitting
still, wondering why he didn't begin.
Finally, he dropped his hands. "What can I do for you, Sean?"
Now I was confused. Certainly he wanted to yell at me, tell me what
a dunderhead I was, a troublemaker who was skating on thin ice, in
danger of being expelled for fighting on school grounds. Why was he
asking me this? Was he toying with me before he lowered the boom?
"Well, uh, I'm back, and I... I'm here to apologize... and... Don't
you want to tell me...?" I stopped, unsure of where to go.
He smiled, just a little. "I see," he said, almost to himself.
"Let's start like this, shall we? How are you feeling, Sean? Tell
me about your injuries, and how your healing is progressing." He
slipped his glasses back on again, and pulled a piece of paper over
to the center of his blotter. He picked up a pen in anticipation.
"Oh, okay. Well, my lip was split open, and I've got four stitches
in it. But it really doesn't hurt, even though it's still a little
swollen. I guess you can see that, though, can't you?" He nodded.
"Anyway, it only hurts when I forget about it and bump it or
something. My arm, you probably know about. It's all stitched up,
too, but the doctors say it's all soft tissue damage, no tendons or
anything were cut, so they're pretty sure it will all be okay. I'm
supposed to get the stitches out early next week."
He wrote something down on the piece of paper. "Continue," he said.
"My ribs are just bruised," I said. "They're taped up, but it's
just precautionary, according to the nurse." I paused, and
considered my various other scrapes and bruises, and decided they
weren't worth mentioning. "I guess that's all," I concluded.
He wrote some more stuff down. Without looking up, he said, "Is
there anything you would like to say about how you acquired these
injuries?"
I sat there, silent, until he finally looked up, removing his
glasses once again.
I sighed. "What don't you know?"
He stared at me for a moment, and then he smiled, and settled back
in his big leather chair. "And that's the question of the ages,
isn't it? It's hard to figure out what we don't know. For instance,
I don't know how the Del Toro family let their sons drift so far
afloat without guidance. I don't know why Miss Lipshutz is so
attracted to such a dangerous lifestyle, and why her parents can't
see the path she is on. I don't know if this community could have
stood another tragedy, two years in a row, if Stanford and the others
hadn't been so serendipitously present last Saturday night."
It took me a moment to realize he was speaking of Tiny. Only school
administrators would call him by his real first name.
Dr. Osgood, gazing off into an alternate future, continued, "I don't
know how this will affect our own school security assessment. I
don't know if the school board agrees with the actions I have taken
so far, or the actions I intend to carry out, concerning this
incident. I don't know how safe I can make the school for the
peripheral characters in this drama, without bringing in the army
reserves to march the halls. I don't know what the psychological
damage among the school population has been. The principal players
in this drama will be assessed, of course, but the residual ripple
effects are liable to be felt for some time to come, and probably
will manifest themselves in seemingly unrelated forums."
He suddenly focused on me once again. "You see, Sean? There are
lots of things I don't know, and the things I don't know are what are
most worrisome. As to the fight itself, I know, second by second,
pretty much what happened and why, from interviews conducted by our
own counseling staff, by the police, and by my own inquiries. You,
of course, carry a unique perspective, and I would be interested to
hear your version of the incident. But will it add to the facts of
the case? That's another thing I don't know."
So, with no small amount of reluctance, I told him all that I could
recall about the dance and the fight. I could tell I was only
confirming what he already either knew or suspected. The only time I
surprised him, I think, was when I told him about seeing Joey Amonte
snorting that shit up his nose.
"I see we're going to have to monitor the restrooms at these
functions," he said, making another note on his paper.
After I had finally run out of story, he took his glasses off and
rubbed his eyes.
"Thank you, Sean. I appreciate hearing your version. Since the
first period classes are well underway, stop by the outer office, and
Mrs. Ford will write out a permission slip for you." He stood, and
leaned over his desk and held out his hand.
Puzzled, I stood and automatically shook it.
I made a pretense of gathering up my coat, and then broached the
subject I had been dreading the most.
"Dr. Osgood? About my suspension. Is it possible to credit me,
maybe, for the two days I've been gone? Call it time served or
something?"
He looked at me, startled. "Suspension? What suspension?"
It was my turn to be startled. "Well, I just figured... I mean, I
was involved in a fight on school grounds, and I..."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, now I see why you seemed a
little too nervous, Sean." He smiled at me. "Okay, it's a deal.
Two days suspension, time served is credited, and, since it's still
under investigation, I'll withhold the suspension from your records
until further notice. Deal?"
Who could refuse? "Deal," I said. I headed toward the door.
"Sean?"
I turned back. "Sir?"
"I am anticipating that this investigation will take a long time.
Several years, at least. In fact, it may never be closed, so there's
no point in even noting anything on your records. Innocent until
proven guilty, and all that. So don't be afraid to let any colleges
ask for anything they want in the way of school recommendations and
transcripts, okay?"
I couldn't help but grin. "Thank you, sir," I said. And I meant it.
"Oh, and one more thing, Sean," he added. "Our counseling staff has
brought in some trauma psychologists this week. I want you to stop
by and make an appointment to speak to one of them."
You had to take the good with the bitter, I thought. "Yes, sir,"
was all I said, though, and I left his office.
Mrs. Ford already had my pass written out, and she handed it to me
as I came out, a big grin on her face.
I smiled at her sheepishly. "Thanks, Mrs. Ford," I said.
"Welcome back, Sean," she said, a genuine and open smile affirming
her statement. She opened the gate for me, and waved as I headed out
into the empty hallway.
Since I had my hall pass, and first period was more than half over,
I decided to go to the counseling office, and I made arrangements to
talk to a psychologist during my study hall.
During the scramble in the halls between first and second periods, I
learned of my folly in thinking I was ready to come back to school.
I was jostled by well-wishers, and my arm got bumped pretty hard,
sending me into outer space from the sharp lightning bolts of pain
that shot up into my brain. Fortunately, Eric spotted me, and he ran
interference for me, protecting my left side as we made our way
through the crowd. After that, I had so many friends surrounding me
from class to class, I was pretty well insulated. I saw Molly at our
third period class, in math class, but we didn't have time to do much
except say hello. She looked great, and looked a lot happier than
she had in a long time.
After class, she waited with me, until the room had cleared out, and
she joined Tiny, Jake, and Tessa as my bodyguard detail through the
halls. I felt foolish, but it kept my various injuries protected, so
I accepted it, however grudgingly.
At midday, Josh and Andrea accompanied me to the lunchroom, and sat
me down at one of the long tables, instructing me to sit still and
not move while they gathered food for me. While they were in line,
Kayla found me, and sat down on my left. She decided that the best
way she could protect my arm was to hold my left hand with her right,
and we sat there, all through lunch, chatting with Josh and Andrea
and dozens of others who stopped by to say hello, my hand resting
comfortably in Kayla's warm grip, nestled in her lap.
After school, I took my time going down to the locker rooms. Both
the football players and the soccer players were changing out of
their school clothes into their practice gear, and as I walked
through on my way to Coach Neville's office, the crescendo of
greetings and shouts followed me. It embarrassed the hell out of me,
but I still felt the need to acknowledge the support they were
offering, and I turned and waved, shouting out my thanks to everyone,
before turning and opening the door to the coaching offices.
Coach Neville and Coach Simonson were both leaning against their
desks when I walked in. Mr. Simonson had a big grin on his face.
"Welcome back, Sean," he said. He stood, patted me softly on my
right shoulder, and strolled out to begin organizing the day's
practice.
Coach Neville held out his hand, and I stepped over and shook it.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Porter?" he asked.
"Right now, I'm exhausted," I said. "This school stuff is harder to
do than I remembered."
He laughed. "It hasn't been that long, has it?"
"No," I admitted. "It just seems like it was months ago."
His smile faltered just a little. "Yes, it does, doesn't it?" He
brightened back up. "But I hear you've been getting good reports
from the doctors."
"Yep. No breaks or cracks in the ribs, no major damage in the arm.
I hope I can start working out again next week."
"Well, don't rush it, Sean. I would much rather have you back and
ready for the playoffs than I would want to rush you, just to play in
the last couple of conference games."
"Are you going to put Weasel into my spot in the lineup?" I asked.
"No, I don't think so," he replied. I think I would rather start
Rich Ingrams, instead. After all, he's a junior, and Mr. Prince is
still a freshman."
"That'll work okay," I said.
"It makes our right side considerably weaker," he said, more to
himself. "But Mr. Soranno and Mr. Evanson can patrol a little more
into that area to shore it up."
"Weasel's a stronger player," I said. "You'd have fewer worries if
you played him, instead."
He looked a little startled. "I'm surprised you're recommending Mr.
Prince, Sean. I didn't think you liked him very much."
"I don't," I replied. "But he's a talented player, and putting him
on the right side is a smart move, from a defensive standpoint."
"Yes, it would be," agreed Coach. "However, Mr. Prince needs quite
a bit of seasoning before he's ready to be a starter on this team.
You were thrust into the role last year, Sean, but I knew you would
rise to the occasion, and play your game well. I'm not so certain
about Adam Prince in the same role, as it stands right now." He
rubbed his chin worriedly.
"He's not going to take the news well," I warned.
Coach's eyes flashed in anger. "It's not for him to decide," he said.
I thought about how Weasel would about have a coronary when he found
out he wouldn't start. I really, really wanted to see that, I
decided.
"Come on, Mr. Porter," said Coach. "You can at least set cones for
me today."
I stuck around for practice, but I thought maybe Coach was
regretting asking for my assistance. A one-armed helper can't carry
many plastic cones. Besides, nearly everybody on the team wanted to
hear my version of the Saturday night festivities, so nobody was
paying too much attention to anything except gossip.
Even so, things got done. Drills designed to work against our
Friday opponent were run, passing and shooting practices were held,
and laps were run. At the end of the day's session, Coach Neville
announced to the team that Rich Ingrams would be starting in my
place. I nudged Eric and Trent, and pointed over to Weasel when
Coach start talking, and the three of us nearly cracked up, watching
poor Prince swallowing the news that he wouldn't be starting. His
face turned a bright red, and his eyes bugged out, but he wisely kept
his mouth shut. He must have heard us tittering, however, because he
looked around to see where the laughter was coming from, and he saw
us looking at him, which made him even madder. I couldn't help
myself when I saw that, and I started laughing hard enough to make my
ribs creak and ache, and I sank to my knees, tears streaming out of
my eyes, unable to stop laughing. Eric, and then finally Trent,
knelt down next to me, laughing uncontrollably, and it was
contagious. Before long, nearly all the players were laughing out
loud, even though many of them didn't even know why they were
laughing, and even Coach Simonson was trying to hold back a chuckle.
Coach Neville just stood there, waiting for us to regain our
composure, knowing full well what was going on, but unwilling to give
us any indication that he approved or disapproved of the humor we
found in the situation.
And poor Adam Prince was left standing there, hatred and
embarrassment seething and oozing out of every pore, watching us
laugh at him.
It was cruel, but hey, this was high school. Cruelty has always
been a special ability of teenagers.
(Continued in Chapter 24)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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
- 24 -
WHEN I SAW HER THERE AGAIN
Jake gave me a ride after our respective practices on Wednesday and
Thursday, and we would stop and pick up Luscious Kayla on our way
over to my house, where the three of us would spread our homework out
on the family room floor. My family quickly got used to seeing us
working in there. By Friday, I was really tired of dragging my
mummified arm around. Besides, it was itching so badly it was
driving me crazy, so I unwound the wrappings and threw them away. I
spent a few minutes in absolute ecstasy, scratching my tortured skin
until it was an angry red. Even the stitches itched, which I took to
be a good sign.
When I came down the stairs that morning, my mom almost had a cow
when she saw that I had taken the bandages off. After examining the
arm, however, she reluctantly agreed that maybe getting some air on
it wasn't such a bad idea, so she helped me put a smaller bandage on
the stitches, and she rubbed some moisturizing lotion into my arm.
At lunchtime that day, I decided that fresh air would probably do my
lip some good, too, so I got Kayla to gently peel the bandage off.
She flinched a little when she saw the stitches in my mouth, but she
quickly recovered, and she softly touched the swelling to make sure
it wasn't too tender to go without being covered. She still sat on
my left, protective as a mother hen, and held my hand in her lap.
The soccer team was playing a home game that evening, against the
Lakewood Huskies. I hung around the locker room with my teammates as
they dressed for the game, laughing and joking. Rich Ingrams was so
nervous his hands were shaking as he laced up his shoes. I sat down
next to him.
"How's it going, Rich?" I asked.
He shot me a look of nearly pure terror. "I'm scared shitless," he
admitted. "I've never been a starter in my life, Sean, not even when
I was playing rec soccer when I was a kid. I've always come off the
bench."
"It's no big deal," I said.
"Not for you, it's not," he replied. "You've been the kind of kid
who's been a starter your whole life."
"I didn't start at all my freshman year, or the first half of last
year," I reminded him.
"Doesn't matter," he dismissed. "You're a great player, Sean. You
always started, and even when you didn't, everybody knew it was just
a matter of time before you got into the lineup. Me, I'm a role
player. I ain't never started. Don't get me wrong, I don't really
mind, you know? I like to watch the game a little before I go in,
it's how I've been trained to play. I'm gonna be cold out there, and
slow, and they're gonna blow right past me into the goal."
"Try this," I suggested. "As soon as you get out onto the track,
ask Eric to jog around the track a couple of laps with you, to help
you loosen up. He likes to warm up that way anyway, he'll be glad
for the company. And, he'll talk to you, tell you jokes and shit,
take your mind off the game."
"Yeah, okay, I can do that," he said.
"Then, when you're listening to Coach's instructions, just sit on
the bench, like you normally do. Pretend the game's already started.
When you hear your name being called, you'll think you're just going
in to substitute for somebody, that's all."
"Hey, that's a good idea," he said. He looked a little less
nervous, a little more in tune. "Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it."
"No problem, Rich. Have a great game." I thumped him on the back,
and then went over to talk to Eric. I needed to fill him in on Rich,
and make sure he talked him up as they did their laps around the
track. The kid was a basket case. On our way out to the field, I
walked out with Mikey Evanson and Kevin Soranno, and told them about
my conversation with Rich.
"Just try to clear anything before it gets to him, until he starts
to look a little more comfortable out there, okay?" I looked at each
of them, and got a confirming nod in return.
I would have loved to at least jog a couple of times around the
track, but my ribs still were too creaky, so I contented myself to
walking back and forth on the sidelines, dribbling a ball, right foot
to left foot and back again, as I paced. The desire to get out onto
the field was almost tangible.
Eric and Rich started out on their laps. Eric looked as relaxed as
he nearly always did, but Rich was tensed up, taking very short
strides. I watched as Eric slowed down a little, adjusting to Rich's
pace. Eric's arms were waving as he talked, and apparently he was
encouraging Rich to pick up speed a little, as they started moving
out just a little more. By halfway around the first lap, Rich looked
a lot less tense, even though he was nowhere in the vicinity of
relaxed. It was an improvement, though. As they passed me, starting
their second lap, Eric shot me a look, never a pause in whichever
joke he was telling to Rich at the time. That one glance contained
one part irritation, one part bemusement, and a dash of worry. I
shrugged, letting Eric know that I sympathized, but there was nothing
more I could do, given the situation. He gave me one last sour look
over his shoulder, and then concentrated on jollying Ingrams.
I was bored, so I took to looking in the stands to see if anybody I
knew was watching. Matthew Hartigan, the sports reporter from our
local paper, was sitting in the front row, writing in his notebook.
I knew that by the start of the game he would be in his customary
seat, top row center. Just up from Hartigan was another group I
knew. Coach Bill was there with a few kids from the Warriors, along
with some parents. I saw Justin, Davey, Kip, and Joey, and another
group, sitting on the row right above the kids, consisting of
parents. Lori and Wendy were there, and there were a couple of other
men and women I didn't know sitting with them. I waved to them all,
and Davey and Kip came running down to the fence.
I jogged over to them, and knelt down so I could be face to face
with them.
"Hey, guys, how are you doing?" I asked.
"We're good, Sean," said Davey.
"What happened to your arm, Sean?" asked Kip.
"Oh, I hurt it a few days ago. It's okay, though, the doctor said
it was going to be fine," I told them.
They both looked at the bandage covering my cut with big eyes.
"Oh," breathed Davey. "Mom told us you got hurt and that you
weren't going to be able to play today, but we said we wanted to come
and see you, anyway."
What a pair. These kids were the best.
"Thanks, guys," I said. "It means a lot to me that you came. Tell
your mom thank you for me, okay?"
"Yup," agreed Kip.
I glanced up into the stands. "Say, who are those other people with
your mom, Davey?"
Both of them looked up to where Lori sat with the other grown-ups.
"You mean Mrs. Marcus?" asked Davey.
"No, goof, you know I know her. What about those others?" I pointed.
Davey and Kip both started giggling, looking at each other
conspiratorially.
"Can't tell you," said Kip.
"Can't tell me? Why?"
"'Cause," was all he answered.
"Okay, guys, I've got to get back," I said. These kids always put
me in a good mood. "Enjoy the game."
"See you later, Sean!" "Bye, Sean!" And they both raced back up
the stands to be by their friends.
As I was walking back toward the bench, I looked back into the
stands once again, curious to see who was here. I was a little
surprised to see that Kayla was there, about halfway up the stands,
sitting with a couple of girls I didn't know. I thought she would
have been at the football game, watching her brother play. I was
also a little surprised at who I didn't see, and after warm-ups, as
the team was gathered around getting their gear packed up and
drinking some water before going out to play, I knelt down next to
Jorge.
"Hey, where's your sister?" I asked.
He looked at me a little sourly. "I think she gone to the J-V game
to watch Paco play, man," he said.
That stabbed me a little, even though I really couldn't blame her
for going out with somebody else.
"Papa, he still pretty pissed at you, Sean," he continued. "He
still telling Kristina that she got to stay away from you, whenever
your name come up. I fixed her up with Paco, just so she have
somebody to go to the dance with, you know? But he really likes her,
and he's been moonin' over her ever since she agreed to go to
Homecoming with him. It's gettin' on my nerves, I got to tell you,
but she's kind of digging it, you know?"
"Yeah," I said disgustedly. "I know."
"Besides," he said, looking at me critically, "I t'ink some other
little muchacha is workin' on putting her mark on you." He glanced
up into the stands to emphasize his point.
While that news didn't really surprise me, I was startled to know
that others had recognized it. Oddly, it didn't displease me at all.
In fact, it felt kind of good.
The announcer's voice came out of the loudspeakers with the starting
lineups, and Rich started looking a little green again. He was
sitting on the bench, like I had told him, but he was sweating as he
anticipated hearing his name. Finally, the announcer said, "Playing
right defense, a junior, Richard Ingrams!" Rich stood up quickly,
intending to run out onto the field to join the starting lineup. He
took two steps, and tripped over a gear bag, and he tumbled to the
ground, rolling in a heap. He leapt up and ran as fast as he could
out to his teammates, never looking back. The rest of us, the
substitutes and the equipment manager and me, groaned over poor
Rich's bad luck.
Unfortunately, Rich's troubles were far from over. By the end of
the first half, he had been pummeled by our opponents, who had been
able to penetrate from his side almost at will, even with Mikey's and
Kevin's help, and they had capitalized on their opportunities twice.
On the other hand, their defensive players were also fairly weak, so
Eric, Javier, and Trent were able to keep us in front on the
scoreboard, 4-2.
Rich slumped down on the bench at halftime, panting nearly
uncontrollably. Exhaustion oozed from his pores, flowing out with
his sweat, as he sat there, arms resting on his knees as he leaned
forward, head down. There was no way he could go back on the field
for the second half, and everybody, Rich included, knew it. Adam
Prince was pacing back and forth, anxious for Coach Neville to give
him the word that he would be going in. He was smart enough not to
press things by bugging Coach, but his attitude of anticipation was
obvious.
Finally, just before the referee blew his whistle to get the teams
back on the field for the start of the second half, Coach gestured
for Adam. He jogged over to Coach, who quietly told him to prepare
to join the starters. Weasel was practically jumping in place, he
was so giddy, and he hopped and jigged over to where the rest of the
starters were standing, preparing to run out onto the field. Kevin,
Mikey, Brett, and Jorge surrounded him, and started haranguing him
about how to play the position. With the four of them in his face,
he had no choice but to stand there and take it, but even from where
I was standing, I could see he was mad about their instructions.
I walked over and sat down next to Rich. "Tough game," I said, by
way of consolation.
He glanced up at me, misery in his eyes. "I fucking blew it, didn't
I?"
"Don't worry about it," I tried to reassure him. "They saw a new
player in that position, and they attacked. Nothing you could do to
help that."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he said with some heat.
"Don't try to sugarcoat it, Porter. They blew right past me, and
there wasn't nothing I could do about it."
I shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Rich? You sucked? Okay,
you sucked. So what? We all do, at one time or another. It's a
game, that's all."
"Easy for you to say," he said disgustedly. "You weren't the one
out there getting your ass torched."
"You'll do better next time, Rich. Look on the bright side. Maybe
Weasel will do even worse."
"Now there's a thought to brighten even the darkest day," he said,
but he didn't sound like he really meant it.
I stood up and paced up and down for almost the entire second half,
watching as we played out the second half. Weasel didn't play very
smart. He was all over the place, running around the defensive side
of the field and chasing the ball at nearly every opportunity,
tending to get in the way a lot. The Huskies managed to score one
more time by attacking the right side, but it was only a salve for
them, since the final tally was 7-3. After the final whistle, I saw
Kayla wave to her friends and come out onto the field toward me, but
before she reached me, Matthew Hartigan found me. He eyed my
bandages and my lip.
"Okay, Sean, I can see you're injured, and that's why you weren't
playing. How did you get hurt?" He reached into his pocket and
started up a small battery-operated cassette recorder.
"It was just... an accident at home," I said.
"Okay," he said dubiously. "What are your injuries?"
"I... uh, I've just got an injured arm," I tried.
"Uh-huh," he said, looking at me. "And the mouth?"
"Oh, yeah, and the mouth," I agreed reluctantly.
"And?"
"And that's about it," I said. I certainly didn't want to bring up
the bruised ribs. What kind of accident at home could have accounted
for three different and varied injuries like these?
"What is the injury to the arm, Sean?" he persisted.
"I just... it got scraped up pretty bad... when I... fell..."
Just then, Coach Neville stepped up. "Hello, Mr. Hartigan," he
said, as he gently but firmly took his elbow and steered him over
toward the bench, away from me. "Did you have some questions about
tonight's game?" I heard him ask politely as he walked Matthew away.
I smiled, grateful for his intervention before I found myself trapped
into actually spilling the truth.
Meanwhile, Kayla skipped over and took my good arm in hers.
"Hiya, Sean," she said, tilting her head back to look up at me.
God, she looked so kissable, but I was not going to do that in front
of everybody. She had a wide, happy smile on her face, and the look
in her eye indicated that she knew exactly what I was thinking, and
was getting a big kick out of my embarrassment.
I will never, ever understand the female mind, I thought to myself,
for perhaps the thousandth time.
Keisha, Ayesha, Danielle, and some of the other girlfriends of my
teammates were going to wait in the school hallway outside the
gymnasium for us to shower and change, and Kayla walked with them in
that direction, while I rejoined the team as they were headed toward
the outside entrance to the locker rooms. I jogged to catch up with
Eric and Trent, feeling the tightness in my ribs as I breathed a
little deeper. I kept going, however, unwilling to give in to it,
and unwilling to give Matt Hartigan anything more to speculate upon,
just in case he was watching.
"Hey, Seanster, what's up?" Eric said with a smile. He glanced
quickly over to where Kayla was joining up with Keisha and Ayesha.
"Got another one on the line?"
"Hey, Eric," said Trent. "What was that joke you were telling me
earlier? Something about cradles and robbers?"
They both laughed uproariously.
"Very funny," I mumbled. "She just happens to be Jake's little
sister. She's a friend."
"Unh-hunh," agreed Eric with great humor. "If you say so, Porter."
He chuckled. "If'n you say so, boss."
The post-game analysis from Coach Neville was brief. He was not
happy with the way the entire defensive team had played, and though
he carefully refrained from specifically mentioning the right side,
nearly all of the players in question knew they were standing in the
unwanted glare of his attention. The one exception to that awareness
seemed to be Adam Prince, who was still acting like he was full of
nervous energy. You could practically see him quivering as he
attempted, and failed, to stand still. He was looking around the
room, as if he was wondering why he wasn't being congratulated for
playing such a stellar game, unaware that Coach was referring to him,
along with the other defensive players. I had a feeling that the
thick skin he was exhibiting would do him ill among his teammates
again sometime.
Rich Ingrams, on the other hand, was sitting on a bench. Even
though he had Anthony sitting next to him on his right, and Jorge on
his left, he still looked as if he was sitting all alone, hunched
over and depressingly introspective.
Coach finally dismissed us. The guys who didn't play in the game
headed out the door, while the rest wandered to their lockers, so
they could strip off their sweat-stained game uniforms and get into
the shower. I waited around for the guys to finish up, swapping
jokes and lies with Eric, Jorge, Trent, and the rest, and pointedly
ignoring Weasel's pathetic attempts to join in the comradeship.
I waited for Eric and Trent to finish up, and the three of us walked
out to the hallway to meet up with the girls. As we all headed out
to the parking lot, I couldn't help but look around nervously, on the
lookout for potential trouble, but there were just a few cars in the
lot, and no sign of any of the Bulls. Kayla, perhaps sensing my
mood, took my right hand in her left, and we followed Eric and
Keisha, also holding hands, over to my car. Kay and I hopped into
the front seat, and I draped my arm around her as she slid over quite
naturally, across the bench seat, next to me. Eric and his
girlfriend got into the back seat and cuddled up close as I drove us
all over to Mike's Pizza Palace, where we were meeting Trent and
Danielle, along with Anthony and Ayesha. We commandeered a big round
table, and the eight of us spent the rest of that Friday night
stuffing our faces with fried mozzarella sticks, pepperoni pizza, and
Cokes. I still had to chew carefully, because of my lip, but I was
willing to accept a little pain in exchange for the good times we
shared around that table.
The other three couples were going to a movie, but since my evening
with Kayla was kind of improvised, we decided that she should be
getting home. She was just turning 15, and even though her parents
knew she was out with a group of kids that included me, she still had
a curfew she needed to obey. Besides, even though I wouldn't have
admitted it to any of my friends, I was looking forward to crawling
into my own bed. I was pretty tired, and it wasn't even 10:00. I
was beginning to feel old and creaky, and I didn't even play in the
game.
We waved goodnight to the others, and got into the car. As we were
waiting for it to warm up, Kayla once again slid over to sit next to
me. She took my arm and purposefully wrapped it around her shoulder,
and she leaned lightly against me in the car. I figured, what the
hell, now was as good an opportunity as any, so I leaned down and
gingerly, softly, kissed her willing mouth.
She put her hand to my neck and held me there, kissing me back very
gently, ever mindful of my cut lip. She turned slightly to me, so I
wouldn't have to contort myself to be kissing her, and we stayed that
way until hot air was churning out of the vents.
We stopped kissing, and just held each other closely for a few
moments, each lost in our own thoughts.
"Kay?"
"Hmmmm?" she answered.
"Do you think your parents would let you go out on an actual date
with me?"
She looked over, into my eyes. "Why wouldn't they?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said, looking away. "I'm older, and... I don't
know..."
"Besides," she said with a giggle, "don't you think you should ask
me first? Maybe I won't go out with you."
I whipped around to look at her, just a little panicky at her words,
until I saw her smiling.
"Hey, Porter, I'm just teasing you. Why don't you ask me and find
out for sure?"
"Uh, okay. Do you want to go out with me sometime?"
She hesitated, evidently enjoying my discomfort. "I don't know,
what did you have in mind?"
Well, I didn't have anything in mind, just a general idea that I'd
like to go out with her. Now I had to scramble to come up with
something. "Well," I said lamely, "how about a movie? Tomorrow
night?"
Now it was her turn to be embarrassed. "I can't, tomorrow night,"
she said quietly, turning away.
"Oh." I was very disappointed, and very confused. Didn't she just
indicate that she wanted to go out with me?
"But next weekend I can," she offered, turning back to me, an
anxious look on her face.
"Really? Okay, next Saturday? Because, like, I'll have a game
again on Friday, and..."
"Saturday is good," she said as I fumbled for words. "And maybe we
can meet your friends again after the game on Friday," she added.
"Sure!" Now I was excited. She did want to go out with me, after
all!
Kayla sat back, looking satisfied about the arrangements, but
something was still bothering me.
"Kay? Why can't you go out tomorrow?"
She turned away from me just a little. "I already have a date," she
said quietly.
My heart thumped once, and then seemed to stop. I felt like I
should pound on my chest to get it going again, but before I did, it
started back up again on its own.
"A date?" I repeated stupidly.
She turned back to me, and put both arms around my neck. She gave
me a soft peck on the lips, careful to stay clear of my stitches.
"Yes, a date," she said, no longer embarrassed about it. "I just
couldn't wait forever for you to notice me again, could I?"
"What?" I wasn't sure I understood.
"But next weekend is for you," she said with a smile. She
disentangled herself from me, and sat back in the seat.
My mind was buzzing. "Say, is this date tomorrow with Bronson, or
Branson, or whatever his name is?" I asked.
"Brandon," she corrected. "And yes, it is."
"You've been going out with him since the summer," I said. "If
you're willing to go out with me next weekend, what about him?"
She looked at me coquettishly. "Drive," she said. She pointed at
the clock on the dashboard. Yikes. I had to get her home, and
quickly. I dropped the car into drive, and we headed down the
street. The time distracted me from getting an answer to my
question, which might have been her plan. However, as we pulled into
the driveway at her house, she leaned over one last time, gave me a
soft kiss full of promise, and whispered, "Brandon's okay, but I've
just been using him for practice, and he knows it."
I really wanted to kiss her back, but I also had to ask the question.
"Practice for what?" I asked.
She looked at me, a small and enigmatic smile on her lips, before
she slid over to grasp the door handle on her side and open the door.
"For when you finally saw me there again, waiting for you," she said.
She slipped out of the car gracefully, held the door open as she
gazed back in at me meaningfully, and then closed the car door and,
without a glance back, walked up her driveway to her front door,
opened it, and entered her house. The door closed, leaving me
feeling unaccountably alone and a little emptier without her presence.
(Continued in Chapter 25)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 25 -
A BETTER KISS
Monday was a really good day. My mom took the morning off from work
again, and I took the morning off from school, and we went to the
doctor's office to have all my stitches taken out. After examining
my various healing wounds, the doctor pronounced me as progressing
nicely, and he removed almost all restrictions from activities. He
did caution me that my ribs would still need a lot of time, and he
told me not to go into the weight room and stress my arm for a couple
more weeks. On the other hand, he also told me that he didn't need
to see me again, unless a problem cropped up, giving me pretty much a
clean bill of health.
I was at school by lunchtime, and I slid into my customary seat next
to Luscious, who was happy to take my hand and hold it in her lap, as
usual. I quickly got caught up on the main topic of gossip for that
morning, which was the temporary return of Jilly Del Toro to school.
Dr. Osgood, apparently having been tipped off to the return of Jilly,
was standing at the main entrance, waiting for him, and he hustled
Del Toro into his office as he entered school. There was a lot of
speculation about what Jilly's fate at school would be, especially
when it was learned that his mother was called in to speak to Dr.
Osgood, too, but the smart money was on the prospect of him being
assigned to "Outreach Alternative Learning", our education board's
euphemism for reform school.
The other members of his little band of outlaws, Joey Amonte, Harold
Barnes, Vinnie Arilio, and Pammy Lipschutz, were all staying after
school each and every night for detention, in an open-ended sentence
that was agreed upon by both the school administration and each kid's
parents. They were watched over in one of the study hall rooms by
Miss Gladys Epstein, a tough, no-nonsense, battleship of a
schoolteacher who brooked absolutely no nonsense under her watch.
Miss Epstein stood over each of them in turn, looking over their
shoulders as they hunched down and did schoolwork. If, either
through a lenient teacher or through some attempt at deception, any
of them claimed not to have any schoolwork to do, Miss Epstein, a
member of our high school's English Department for over 35 years,
assigned her own work to do. The first time she did this, it was
reported, Vinnie protested, threatening to go to Dr. Osgood to
complain. The next day at detention, Dr. Osgood, himself a former
history teacher, was in attendance with Miss Epstein, and supported
her intent to keep the miscreants busy through additional
assignments, by giving each of them a history project they had to do
for him, in addition to their regular homework and the work assigned
by Miss Epstein.
If nothing else, Miss Epstein was bound and determined to teach the
rascals something in an intellectual capacity before they left her
sphere of influence, according to kids who had to suffer a day or two
in the same detention room as the Bulls, even if it meant having the
four of them in the room with her five days a week, until the end of
the school year. The mere prospect of enduring Miss Epstein's
detention room for the foreseeable future was enough, according to
the rumors floating about, to make at least Harold and Pammy consider
dropping out of school altogether.
The other interesting topic of conversation concerned the article
that Matthew Hartigan wrote for our local paper. The top headline of
the sports section read "Bears Extend Streak to 12-0", not a
particularly surprising headline about the soccer team. What
disconcerted me, however, was the sub-head, just below the headline
and in slightly smaller type, but still large: "Porter Injured; Sits
Out Game".
Jesus H. Freakin' Christ, I thought to myself. Why was the fact
that I sat out a game so newsworthy?
The article started out: "The Bears soccer team, ranked as one of
the best in the state, extended their unbeaten streak to 12 in a row,
beating the Lakewood Huskies 7-3 on the offensive firepower of Trent
Abbott and Eric Johnson. Surprisingly, the win was achieved without
the defensive help of Sean Porter, the All-State defenseman for the
Bears, who was sidelined with an injury. Worse news for the Bears is
that Porter may be out for their next game, against the always tough
Rockton Heights Jaguars."
Just great, I thought glumly. Now the whole world knows.
Determined to try to recapture my good mood, I asked Kayla how her
date on Saturday went, but she pointedly ignored my question, so I
wisely let the subject lapse. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to
remember not to stick my foot firmly between my molars, and that
happened to be one of those times. We finished up lunch by not
talking about the past weekend, nor mentioning the coming one.
That afternoon, I suited up with the rest of the team in my practice
gear, and joined them as they headed out to the track to run some
warm-up laps. I had removed the bindings from around my chest, and I
was feeling deliciously free and reasonably healthy, now that I was
down to just a small covering over my healing arm. That feeling
lasted about three-quarters of the way around the track, until
reality hit, and I started trying to take deeper breaths as I jogged,
and found that my ribs still were going to restrict me from exerting
myself too much. I let Eric and Trent move out ahead of me as I
slowed to a more sedate speed, trying to find a balance between my
need for aerobic exercise and my efforts to keep from breathing too
deeply. By the time I finished my second lap, I was down to
practically a walk, and the rest of the team had lapped me at least
once, and Weasel, Eric, Jorge, and Anthony had passed me twice. Eric
slapped my back each time he passed me by, almost like he was telling
me that my betters were gliding on past, as if I didn't realize
already that I was slowing down practically with each step.
As we gathered on the sidelines of the main practice field and
stretched out, Prince jogged over to Coach Neville. I happened to be
near enough to hear most of the conversation.
"Coach?" asked Weasel. "Since I played the entire second half of
the game, are you going to keep me in the starting lineup?"
Coach didn't even look up from his clipboard. "No," was all he said.
Weasel's face got red, but his voice was calm. "Why not, Coach?"
Coach Neville now looked up, his face carefully neutral. "Because
Mr. Ingrams is the designated starter in that position."
"But..."
"End of discussion, Mr. Prince," said Coach, going back to studying
his notes on his clipboard.
Weasel's posture spoke of defiance. "Okay, then, in that case, I
want to issue a challenge to Ingrams for his spot," said Weasel.
Coach looked up at him, over the rim of his glasses, and sighed.
"You do insist on being an irritant," he said. "However, I can see
that you will be persistent in this, won't you? All right, I will
abide by the rules I set out at the beginning of the season. You may
challenge Mr. Ingrams. Challenge match to be played tomorrow at
practice." He looked hard at Weasel, conveying his displeasure. He
spoke in chopped words. "Is. There. Anything. Else. Mr. Prince."
Weasel gulped, backpedaling a couple of steps. "No, sir," he said.
"Thank you, Coach." And he turned back to the team, a satisfied
smile on his face until he saw his 20 teammates, all scowling at him.
His smile faltered as he realized he might have a problem finding
someone who would be willing to partner up with him on this challenge.
When Coach Simonson was done setting up the field for the day's
drills, Coach Neville blew his whistle and explained the day's
activities. I participated the best I could during the passing and
shooting drills, and after about an hour, we headed in to the
physical education classroom to watch the film of our previous game.
I knew a number of players who were not going to enjoy the analysis
that was coming, especially Rich Ingrams, but for once, I didn't have
to concentrate too hard on what the tape would show. I settled back
to watch.
After our warm-up laps on Tuesday, Coach Neville announced that it
was time for the challenge to be played.
"Mr. Prince, who is your teammate?"
Weasel stood up. "Brett," he said, pointing to our stopper.
Brett looked pretty disgusted, but he stood, anyway.
"Mr. Ingrams?"
Rich stood, and said, "Jimmy Brooks."
Jimmy hopped up, having apparently agreed previously to play for
Rich. Coach Neville took the four boys with him over to another
field, and Coach Simonson got the rest of us to our feet to work on
passing schemes. We all just kind of stumbled around, half-heartedly
working at the drill, more interested in finding out how the
challenge would turn out.
It didn't take long, and we could tell by the body language of the
returning players that Weasel had won his challenge. Jimmy and Brett
were just walking along, as if nothing much had happened, while Rich
was trudging behind them, head down. Weasel, on the other hand, was
jigging and jogging up in front, next to Coach Neville, yelling and
pumping his fist in the air. Eric turned to Trent and me.
"Shit. Now he's gonna be even more obnoxious to be around," he said
sourly.
"Look on the bright side," said Trent. "We're playing Rockland on
Friday night. Maybe he'll get burned even worse than Rich did last
week."
Eric just looked at him. "That's the bright side?" he asked. "We
could lose big against a strong team like that, if that's the case."
"So what?" said Trent. "One loss all season long? We'll still
carry home field advantage into the playoffs."
"Only if we don't lose the next game, too," reminded Eric.
Trent's face fell. "Oh, yeah," he said. He turned to me. "But
you'll be back for that game, won't you, Sean?"
"Maybe," I said. "But that might not mean much. The way I've been
able to play so far doesn't bode well for a very successful return."
"Ah, I wouldn't worry too much about it, Porter," said Eric. "Even
hurt and practically bled out, you'd still play stronger than Ingrams
or Weasel."
"Maybe you think so," I said. "But from the inside looking out, let
me tell you, it hurts."
"Well," said Eric, eyeing my face critically, "I'd say, by the look
of it, from the inside your face must hurt like hell, because it's
killing me to have to look at the outside of it."
I swung at him, but he easily stepped back, as both he and Trent
laughed hard at my expense.
Jake and Kayla were still coming over to my house after school most
evenings, so we could all do our homework together. After practice
on Monday, I had told them about how decrepit I had felt trying to
run laps. Jake was getting enough of a workout at football practice
every night, but Kay suggested that she could bring some running
clothes, and she and I could go for short runs after we finished our
homework. We decided that, beginning Tuesday, Jake would load up his
car with Kay's books and backpack and stuff after we had finished our
work, and drive back home, while Kay and I would jog together back to
their house, where I would drop her off, and jog back home. I
figured it was as good a way as I knew to get my legs and my wind
back.
That first night, Kayla stepped into our downstairs bathroom and
changed out of her school clothes into running gear. She came out
and handed her duffel bag to her brother to put in his car. He took
it and headed out the front door, while I just stood and stared. Her
pale blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that still reached to
below her shoulders, with just a few wisps floating free to frame the
sides of her face. She was wearing a shorty pink t-shirt that left
her flat tummy bare, and baggy black silk running shorts that seemed
to accentuate her long, lean legs. She had a zippered, hooded
sweatshirt over her arm as she stopped, fully aware of my admiring
gaze. She smiled and struck a pose.
"You approve?" she asked with a smile.
"Do I ever," I said admiringly, struck anew by how absolutely
gorgeous she was.
"Sean?"
I started, having been caught staring. "Uh, yeah?" I said hoarsely.
"Don't you think you should change, too?"
"Yeah," I mumbled. "I'll go change." I stumbled toward the stairs.
"But you, Luscious," I added, "don't you ever change."
She smiled at me, a bright and happy grin that made her even more
beautiful. I found it difficult to turn away from her and clomp up
the stairs so I could throw on running clothes.
By the time I got back downstairs, Jake had already taken off, and I
called out to my mom, in the family room, that I would be back from
jogging within an hour. Kayla had already put on her sweatshirt, and
we headed out the back door and walked down the sidewalk.
"An hour?" she asked.
"Well, it's only a couple of blocks to your house," I said. "We
need to take the long way there."
So we started out, heading in the opposite direction from her house,
intending to jog about a mile, circling around in the direction of
the park where I had worked with the boys, and coming back toward the
Lehigh residence from the other side. We went slowly, and even at
that, I had to stop every couple of blocks to walk for about 100 feet
to catch my breath. We would step it back up for another quarter of
a mile or so, and then walk again, until, about 45 minutes later, we
were walking the last partial block to Kayla's house. I was
wheezing, hands on my hips as I walked, trying without much success
to get my aching ribs to stop squeezing, and yet Kayla looked relaxed
and flush and ready to go a few more miles.
I walked her to her back door. The outside light was on, a pool of
yellow light splashing across the wooden steps. She stepped up onto
the first step, and turned back to me in anticipation. I leaned
forward and up, now that she was just over my height, and kissed her
softly. She put her arms around my neck, holding me close to her as
she gave in to the kiss. After a few moments, we broke the kiss, but
she held on to me, looking me straight in the eye.
"Is your lip okay now?" she whispered.
"Yeah, it's fine," I said.
"No pain? No swelling?"
"Nope. It's okay. A little tender, but no pain."
"So you can give me a good kiss, then?" she asked, a gleam in her eye.
"That wasn't a good kiss?" I asked teasingly.
She looked at me, her head slightly cocked. "I've had better," she
said, a saucy gleam in her eye.
"Oh, really?" I asked. "From who?"
She gave me one last, quick peck on the lips, and let go. As she
leapt up the last two steps and grasped the door handle, she turned
back to me. "Whom," she said.
"What?" I asked, confused again.
"No, not 'what'. And not 'who', either. It's not 'from who', it's
'from whom'. Ain't you had no proper schooling?" And, with a
giggle, she slipped through the open door, and I was alone again. I
just shook my head, confused as usual, and started slowly jogging
back home, wondering where my grasp of our conversation had slipped
from my question to her slick evasion. It was like she was having a
battle of wits with a woefully unarmed adversary.
It's amazing how quickly a reasonably fit and healthy young body can
recuperate. Between working with the team and jogging with Kayla, by
Friday I was feeling more and more like I was supposed to. I still
had to take it pretty easy, but I was able to control the spasms my
ribs would create to make be slow down, and I could run, slowly, for
much longer, and I didn't have to concentrate so much on placing one
foot in front of the other.
Our game was an away game, while the football team was playing at
home. Kayla told me that she would be going to the football game to
watch her brother, and she would get Josh to drop her off at Mike's
Pizza Palace after the game.
I sat next to Rich on the bus to the game. Even though he was
disappointed that he had lost the challenge to Weasel, deep down he
was happier that he could revert to his comfortable position as a
reserve, ready to enter a game in progress and contribute.
About three rows up toward the front, Weasel and Jimmy were sitting
by themselves. I thought Jimmy was a little taken back by how
quickly he was ostracized, aligned with Prince because of the
challenge match, and how quickly most of the rest of the team stepped
back, treating him with the same cool detachment that was given to
Prince.
Rockton Heights was the team that handed us our only loss last
season, up until the semi-finals of the state tournament. They were
a big school, the biggest in our conference. They had a large
student population to draw their athletes from, so all their sports
teams were powerful, especially when they played on their home
fields. In the last Metro Times, we were ranked third in the state,
but Rockton was also in the Top 20. We expected a very tough game,
but we were confident that they would have a hard time containing our
offense, and as long as our defensive players held their own, we
should be able to come home with our 13th victory of the season.
We unloaded our gear bags and moved as a group out to the sidelines
of the field. The stands were about half full, a very respectable
crowd for a soccer game.
Coach Neville called out, "Mr. Prince and Mr. Porter, please." He
walked a dozen steps away from the rest of the team. Weasel and I
followed him.
"Mr. Prince, this is a very dangerous team," admonished Coach.
"Even though Rockton's big guns from last year have graduated, they
still returned seven of their starters." He turned to me, placing a
hand on my shoulder. "Mr. Porter had the opportunity to play this
team twice last year. He will tell you what you can expect in your
area. Listen to him well, and heed his advice." With that, he
withdrew to speak a few words to the rest of the team.
Weasel looked at me. "Well?" I could tell he was anxious to get
back and get ready to play.
I shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. Like Coach said, their
best players graduated. But I'd bet that they've watched tape of our
game last week."
"So?" He was playing at being stubborn, I knew. I was tempted to
just let him learn while doing, so to speak. Trial by fire.
Instead, I heeded Coach's unspoken request.
"Just shut up and listen for a moment." His face got red as his
anger quotient went up, but he kept his mouth shut. "If they studied
anything of last week's game, they're going to know that their best
chance is on your side. You only played one half, so they really
couldn't get a feel of your game. That, plus you were bouncing
around the field like you were on a pogo stick."
"I..."
"Listen up, Weasel, I'm not going to tell you again. Stay home, be
the guardian of your own borders. Kevin and Mikey will guard their
own interiors, they don't need your help. Listen to what Jorge has
to say, and don't poach into anybody else's areas unless you're
invited. Okay?"
"But..."
"Ain't no buts about it. If you run around without purpose again,
like you did last week, Coach is going to yank you out before you can
work up a sweat. Understand?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Understand?" I growled.
His mouth snapped shut. He nodded tersely. I nodded back, and did
an about-face and walked back to rejoin my team. Weasel followed
silently.
As visitors we got the opening kickoff, and our offensive set
started. I kept watch on the right side, and Weasel tried to stay in
position, guarding his own turf, but it was a struggle for him. When
Rockton cleared the ball down the center, he ended up standing right
next to Mike Evanson as he trapped the ball and started dribbling
back up toward the center line. Mikey passed it off over to Eric, on
the left, and started yelling at Weasel to get back into his
position. I couldn't hear his words, but Prince's body language
spoke of an injured innocence. He was probably saying something like
"What did I do?" to Mikey.
And, to make matters worse, he was still paying more attention to
defending himself to Mikey than defending against Rockton Heights, as
the ball came sailing through the air on a clearing kick from the
Jaguars' sweeper. It flew over Kevin's head, and bounced down the
sidelines, being chased down by the left forward for Rockton, who
gathered it up, angled in behind Mikey and Weasel, and took a shot at
Jorge, standing watch in goal. Jorge dove at the ball, and landed,
arms outstretched, holding the ball in his fingertips. He scrambled
to his feet, punted the ball, and then started jawing at both Mike
and Weasel about being flatfooted on the play. He was so angry I
could hear him lapse into Spanish in the middle of his tirade. Mikey
turned away, embarrassed that he had lost concentration, and focused
on the game again. Weasel, on the other hand, turned and began
arguing with Jorge, until, finally, Coach Simonson's voice cut
through the babble to grab his attention, and, looking a little more
chastised, he moved back into his position.
But, as far as Coach Neville was concerned, the damage was done. As
soon as we had a throw-in, Coach called for a substitution, and he
pulled Prince out, and played Rich Ingrams for the balance of the
first half.
Coach Neville preferred to run his games with few substitutions, but
in the second half, he went to a different tactic. He freely
substituted Weasel and Rich, keeping them rotated about every five
minutes, not letting either of them get too winded, nor too
comfortable out on the field. It also changed the tempo of the game,
and that worked, surprisingly, to our advantage, and at the final
whistle, we walked off the field with a 2-1 victory, feeling like we
had stolen something and escaped.
By the time we had taken the long bus ride back to our school, and
had sat through Coach Neville's post-game summary, showered and
changed, it was later than I thought I would be. I rode over to
Mike's Pizza Palace with Eric and Trent, half expecting to find that
Kayla had gotten bored and gone off somewhere else with her friends,
but she was there, with Jake, Jaimie, Tiny, Erica, and a few others,
and the soccer girls, Keisha and Danielle and Ayesha, were holding
another big table, right next to them. A bunch of kids from school
walked in the door a few minutes later, and suddenly the place was
filled up with friends, a warm and happy hangout for us on a cold
Friday night.
Around midnight, Kayla and I piled into the back seat of Jake's car.
Jaimie got in the front passenger bucket seat, and looked a little
sourly back at Kayla and me, cuddling on the rear bench seat.
"Not fair," she grumbled. "We can't sit close like that up here."
I smiled at her. "Maybe next week I'll drive, and you two can ride
in the back," I offered. Her face brightened at that.
"Maybe a double-date?" she suggested. "To the drive-in?"
Kayla laughed out loud. "Like your parents would let you go to a
drive-in movie," she said.
Jaimie looked a little crestfallen. "You're right," she grumbled.
Jake, meanwhile, had gotten behind the wheel and started up the car.
"Hey, they don't have to know you're going to a drive-in," he said.
"Just tell them you're going to a movie with Kay."
Jaimie's eyes lit up. "Now, that's an idea," she said. She leaned
over and rewarded him with a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Yawzah!" he said happily. He dropped the car into gear and drove
out of the parking lot and toward my house.
I had Kayla wrapped up in my arms, and she was contentedly bundled
up, her head resting between my arm and shoulder, one arm hugging me
around my waist. We had winter coats on, so our actual contact was
minimal, but we were cozy, anyway, and we stayed that way, all the
way home.
Jake pulled into my driveway, and I disentangled myself from Kayla,
who grumbled softly, complaining about losing her nice, warm cushion.
I gave her one soft kiss, too aware that her brother was sitting in
the front seat, pointedly looking straight ahead, and I opened the
car door and bade them all good night.
On Saturday night, Kayla and I went to the local movie complex.
Fortunately, there was a kid from our school working the ticket
window. He sold us two tickets to "Arthur", a PG-rated comedy
starring Dudley Moore, but then he told us quietly to sneak into
"Body Heat", an R-rated film, instead. Kayla turned to the door as I
was collecting my change, and the kid behind the glass gave me a
quick wink.
We slipped quietly into the room showing the movie, and found two
seats near the back, against the far wall. I had heard that "Body
Heat" was a great date movie, but Kay didn't know anything about it.
We took off our coats and settled back as the previews came on, and
before the main attraction had started, I had my arm around her, and
she was nestled up to me, her arm and hand resting on my leg.
I could have stayed like that forever, but as the movie progressed,
Kay sat up in her seat, still glued to my side, and watched the
unfolding drama raptly. I still had my arm draped around her
shoulder, and she was clutching that hand as the tension built. And
then, when that scene comes on (You remember the scene, don't you?
The one where William Hurt and Kathleen Turner are staring at each
other through the window, and he picks up the chair and breaks
through the window to get to her?) and the two characters practically
attack each other in their passion, Kayla squeaked just a little, and
subconsciously pressed the palm of my hand firmly against her small
breast. Her chest was heaving, and each breath she was taking was
pressing her boob harder against my hand, giving us both electric
thrills that seemed to match the fireworks being displayed on the
screen.
We stayed like that for quite a long time, even after the movie
settled back down into a noir detective story, until, at long last,
my arm started cramping from being torqued around her neck, and I
gently removed my hand from its soft resting place, lifted my
complaining arm from around her shoulder, and took her hand in mine.
She grasped my hand with both of hers, nested in her lap, and we
finished the movie just like that. We stayed in just that same
position as the credits rolled, and the house lights came up, and
people began filing out of the theater, until we were practically the
last ones left. She turned to me with shining eyes.
"That was incredible," she said.
I smiled at her. "So you liked the movie? Good."
"Oh, the movie was okay," she said. "That part in the rain, though.
I've never seen anything like that before."
"What part in the rain?" I asked teasingly. "It rained for
practically the whole movie."
She slapped my arm. "Come on, I know you know what I mean." She
sighed. "You're more of a romantic than you like to let on, Sean."
She favored me with another smile as we stood and put our coats on.
She sat next to me all the way over to the pizza parlor, huddled up
and holding my arm. The place was crowded with kids, but we managed
to commandeer a booth near the kitchen, and we sat side by side,
sipping Cokes from big, clunky tornado-shaped glasses, and grabbing
handfuls of french fries dipped in ketchup.
Since Kayla's curfew was 11:00, we couldn't stay there long, and it
was after 10:30 before we managed to say our goodbyes to friends we
had run into at the restaurant. I started up the car, and we sat on
the chilly vinyl seat, huddled together, waiting for the heater to
kick in.
The fan was set to high, and warm air was pumping out of the vents
as I pulled out of the parking lot. We drove aimlessly for a few
minutes, content to be sitting close to each other, until the time
forced us to turn toward home. With about ten minutes to go, I
stopped on the street, a block away from Kayla's, and switched off
the lights, leaving the car running. We turned to each other there,
and I could see the light from a distant streetlamp reflecting off
her bright eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, perhaps anticipating
my touch, and I leaned down, enfolding her within my arms, and kissed
her soft and pliant lips. I heard her make a soft sound of pleasure,
and my eyes closed as I concentrated on the erotic pleasure of her
lips moving slightly, adjusting to the pressure and the moisture of
our kiss.
She let me take the lead, content to wait until I couldn't stand it
any longer, and I let my tongue slip out and brush against the slight
gap of her mouth, licking and caressing her lips. Her lips parted
just a little, and her tongue darted out to meet the tip of mine, and
we played a sensuous cat-and-mouse game with each other, dipping and
sliding and darting and testing.
I felt her shift slightly on the seat, and I slipped my hand under
the flap of her coat, feeling the soft, fuzzy nap of her sweater
against my fingers. She shifted again, and my hand found the harder
material beneath the sweater of her bra, and the softer swell of her
encased breast. My hand reflexively flexed, lightly squeezing her
soft flesh, and her passion, demonstrated through a more insistent
pressure of her kiss, got hotter.
Unfortunately, it was all over almost before we had begun, as we
both were aware of the inexorable movement of time working against
us, as we worked each other up into fevers we would not be able to
quench. Reluctantly, we broke our kiss, and we straightened up in
our seats. Without a word, I dropped the car into gear once again,
and drove the last, short block to her driveway, just as the hands of
the clock on the dashboard moved to 11:00. She slid over and opened
the passenger door, and I got out the driver's side, and I walked her
to her front door. Just as we got there, Jake's car came barreling
down the street, swinging into the driveway, next to my car. Jake
hopped out and came up the sidewalk toward us, and our mood was
broken.
"How you doing, Seanster?" said Jake, pounding my back in greeting,
a big smile on his face.
"I was doing good, until you showed up," I grumbled.
"We'll talk about that another time," he said threateningly, but I
knew he was joking. After all, it was Jake.
"Good night, Sean," said Kayla softly. Her mouth was smiling, but
her eyes told me she was sorry for the interruption, too. She leaned
in and whispered in my ear, "That was a better kiss." I thought she
was blushing just a little when she turned back to open the door.
"Yeah, g'night, Sean," called out Jake. He pushed Kayla into the
house and, with an evil grin, shut the door in my face.
My best friend, I thought grumpily.
But, on the other hand, I was lusting after my best friend's sister.
So maybe he had a legitimate point, even if his methods were crude.
I mentally shrugged, and turned and headed back to my car.
I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, thinking about the
movie, and thinking about the body heat of the girl who had been
sitting next to me, holding me tightly to her bosom.
(Continued in Chapter 26)
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