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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 2
Date: Fri, 12 Sep 2003 09:10:12 -0400
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It's Friday, and time for a new chapter of the third book of "Playing the
Game."
Enjoy!
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
Would you like to be notified when I post new chapters or stories? Sign up
at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/RCMStories/join
**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**
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<1st attachment, "CE2.txt" begin>
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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
story is the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or
downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for
anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as
long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.
(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 2 -
WESTON, WEST, WESTY
Classes didn't start for another week, and already I was tired.
Because we didn't have any distractions from schoolwork, Pick took up
the slack, working us nearly to the point of collapse in the Florida
heat.
Since Gatorade had been formulated and tested here in Gatorland
(hence the name, see?) I learned to like the taste, and I drank as
much of it as I could pound down, on the theory it would help me out.
Maybe it did, but I was too exhausted to tell. Between sprints,
agility drills, and long-distance miles running both on the track and
on the streets, we started melding together as a team. We discovered
who among us was faster, stronger, fitter. The distance runners were
identified, as were the sprinters. I didn't know which category I
fit into. I knew I wasn't a sprinter. There were guys on our team
who would leave Eric Johnson in the dust, and there was no way I
could stay with them in a race. On the other hand, my stamina for
pounding out miles was decent enough, but the real long-distance
runners on our team also left me far behind. On ten-kilometer runs,
the good ones would already be jogging back, cooling down, while I
was still chugging along, two kilometers to go to the end. I wasn't
breathing any harder than they were across the finish line, but if I
tried to carry their pace across the full course, I would have
collapsed into a quivering mass of exhaustion. I just hoped my ball-
handling skills were better than theirs, so I would have an edge
somewhere along the line.
We ran without soccer balls most of the time. By this point in our
soccer careers, it was assumed we all knew how to handle a ball
sufficiently, so less emphasis was placed on dribbling and passing
than I had ever experienced before, and more was placed on
conditioning. The running was boring, but necessary. At least I had
plenty of company, even if I didn't have the breath to talk to them
very often.
After practices were over, Jesse and Bryan showed me the ropes and
took me around to the dorm rooms and apartments of their friends. I
soon discovered that no amount of exercise would keep a healthy
college kid away from a party for long, and I was surprised to learn
that my name and my awards were well known among the crowd I was
introduced to. Even a relatively little-known sport as soccer had
its fans, and I discovered they were a very knowledgeable group. At
first it was very flattering, and I attributed it to Jesse's
overenthusiastic praise. Later it became obvious, even to me, that
even minor celebrity was celebrated.
I also discovered that every sport has its groupies, and having an
All-American designation after my name made me a lot more popular
than I would otherwise have been, which I found most uncomfortable.
I really wanted people to like me or dislike me for who I was, warts
and all, rather than for any awards or achievements that had been
attributed to me. For some people, asking this was impossible. All
they could see was the award. I tried to steer clear of these
people, but at times they could be persistent. I accepted the
attention with as much grace as I could muster. Sometimes it wasn't
much.
*****
It was a good thing I didn't have classes, because I was already
overrun with paperwork, anyway. My mailbox was overflowing.
Luscious Kayla wrote to me every day, six or seven lovely,
handwritten pages each letter. They were full of the everyday around
the neighborhood and within the Lehigh family, interspersed with
confessions and thoughts so searing they took my breath away. I
ached to hold her, to talk to her, and I went to bed every night
frustrated beyond imagining.
Toward the end of the week I started getting letters from my mom.
They were typical Mom Advice letters, admonishing me to make sure I
did my laundry every week, eat right, don't stay out too late, study
hard, and wash my hands after going to the bathroom. God forbid I
should get hit by a truck and not be wearing clean underwear when
they got me to the hospital!
I got a bit of a surprise when I opened my mailbox one day and found
a long letter from Stephen and Tara, along with a new picture of
Kyle. Every other paragraph was in Stephen's primitive handwriting,
alternating with a paragraph in Tara's only slightly more feminine
cursive. It was so juvenile and cutesy it was hard to believe they
were the parents of a baby boy. Well, I had to remind myself, Tara
was a parent. Stephen, even though he was trying to act like a dad
to baby Kyle, was probably not the real father. They were enjoying
their time together before they had to put Kyle into day care so they
could both return to high school for their sophomore years.
I also got a short letter from Jake, getting ready to leave for the
University of Iowa. He wrote that he was thinking of walking on and
trying out for the football team, but he had his doubts about if he
would make it. If nothing else, he wrote, he would sign up for
intramural football. As much as he loved football, I knew Jake had
other plans. His primary goal was to go to pharmacy school so he
could work at his father's drug store, and make a good life for
himself and Jaimie.
Another surprise in my mailbox was a note from Eric Johnson. He and
Keisha were at Maryland, and he wrote to let me know about some of
the drills his coaches were using. He thought some of them could be
revised for use by my summer clinics, especially for the advanced
groups. It sounded like his workouts were just as tough as mine. I
almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He sent along a hug and a kiss
from Keisha, and promised to get together with Kayla and me over
Christmas break.
The biggest surprise, though, was a letter I got on Friday. It was
from Molly, a fat envelope that smelled faintly of the perfume she
favored. For some reason, I was almost afraid to open it.
Molly was heading for the University of Illinois, but her boyfriend
Alex was going to Stanford. I didn't have much hope for that
particular long-distance relationship to survive, and Molly's letter
was full of similar doubts and worries. She wasn't concerned for
herself, but she was afraid Alex, stuck out in California until
Christmas, would drift away from her.
As I read her letter, I worried for her enough for both of us, right
up until a particular passage on the fourth page.
"Baumgartner can give a first impression that he is such a dweeb,"
she wrote. "I don't worry about losing him to another girl. He's MY
dweeb, and I love him for it. I just have to hope some brainy
California chick doesn't figure out he uses his dweebiness as a
defense mechanism. He can be a little too trusting sometimes, my
Baumgartner, and I hope it doesn't lead him into temptation.
"As for me, he knows he doesn't have to worry. I may have had my
wild side once, but Amonte and Del Toro probably did me a favor by
beating it out of me. It's a hard cure, but once it takes, there
ain't no breaking it!
"That's a joke, Porter. You can laugh now!"
I didn't laugh, but I did breathe a big sigh of relief. Molly
O'Toole was probably going to be just fine. Alex would be doing
himself a huge disservice if he let this one go. I mentally promised
myself to write to him and remind him of what was waiting for him
back at home.
I settled down to return every letter I received that first week. I
wrote to my parents, telling them about soccer practices. I didn't
mention anything about parties or apartments to them, sticking
instead to safer subjects, such as the tortures Pick and his
assistants were inflicting upon us. I also promised my mother that I
would change my underwear every day, eat my vegetables, and look
twice before crossing the street.
I wrote back to Eric and tried to describe some of the things our
team had been working on. I described most of the other members of
our team, and I made sure I sent along greetings from both Jesse and
Spencer. Between soccer, school and Keisha, I knew Eric wouldn't
have much time to himself. I didn't expect another letter from him
to arrive, but that was okay. We would catch up over Christmas break.
I addressed a short letter to Jake, and mailed it to Iowa City.
With luck it would be waiting for him by the time he got there. If I
had sent it to his house, I knew I would miss him. I reminded him
not to be too disappointed if he didn't make the Iowa football team.
As long as he could play and have fun, I knew Jake would be fine. It
really didn't matter to him if he played on a Division 1 team or on a
campus recreational league. As long as he could tackle somebody and
get dirty, he would be happy. I did remind him to call me or write
to me if he was lonely. After all, he was in the same spot with his
girlfriend as I was, even if he was about twenty hours closer to home
than I.
I wrote a longer letter to Molly in answer to hers, trying to put a
positive spin on her separation from Alex. We were best of friends,
and I knew we could both use a good shoulder to cry on occasionally.
I would provide one for her, and I knew she would be available to me
anytime.
And I tried to write to Kayla every day. The first four or five
letters came pretty easily, as there was a lot to tell her about. By
the end of the week, though, I was running out of things to say,
afraid I would start repeating myself. It was real work to fill
three or four pages of stuff, but I slogged through it the best I
could.
Once classes started, and once our games began, I hoped to acquire
more stories to relate to her. Otherwise, I might have to cut down
on the frequency of my letters. Maybe every other day would give me
a chance to come up with something to tell her about.
*****
My roommate moved in on the Saturday before classes started. His
parents, indulging their only child, helped him fill our room to
overflowing with a refrigerator, a television, a huge stereo, boxes
of records and tapes, and more clothes than they could fit into his
half of our tiny closet.
I was at practice in the morning, and I was scheduled to work one of
the gift concession stands that were set up outside Reitz Student
Union for about three hours that afternoon. By the time I got back
to the dorm, they were just taking the last few things out of their
van and carting them upstairs. I followed them down the hall, not
realizing it was Weston and his parents until they walked into my
dorm room. I turned and entered what looked like a war zone. I
stopped in the doorway, just looking at the sheer volume of stuff my
roomie had brought, wondering where he was going to be able to store
it all. In the middle of the floor, underneath our beds, was an old
couch with big, stuffed arms and a damask coverlet.
Weston turned in surprise, and stepped up to me.
"Are you Sean? I'm Westy," he said by way of introduction.
"Westy? That's an odd name," I said as I shook his hand.
He looked a little embarrassed, glancing over toward his father.
"Actually, I'm Weston Bridges III. My grandfather was Weston, my dad
is known as West, and I got stuck with Westy. I have no idea what
I'm going to call my son, if I ever have one."
Westy's father stepped over. "Glad to meet you, Sean," he said,
sticking his hand out and giving me a bone-crushing handshake. "This
is my wife, Westy's mother, Gail."
Gail was spectacular. She appeared to spend most of her time in the
gym and in the tanning salon. She was tall and lithe, and moved with
a dancer's grace. I couldn't help staring as she came over to shake
my hand.
"Hello, Sean. I'm so glad to finally meet you. I've heard so much
about you," she said softly. She allowed me to cradle her hand
gently in mine for just a moment.
"You have?" I stammered. I was feeling a little dumb, a little
tongue-tied.
"Of course," she said with a laugh. "We get soccer news in Atlanta,
too, you know."
I blushed a deep red. "I didn't mean..."
She laughed delightedly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sean, I didn't mean to
tease you..."
"Gail, look what you've done," interjected Mr. Bridges. "You've put
Sean on the spot, now." He slapped my back hard, nearly knocking me
off my feet. "She loves to tease the boys," he said to me in a stage
whisper. He winked elaborately at me as Gail protested.
"I most certainly do not tease," she said with a theatrical little
pout. She leaned in toward my ear. "I promise," she said softly.
I was startled, until I looked over at Westy's father. Obviously,
he was meant to hear, because Gail and West were smiling and making
google-eyes at each other. Westy just stood there, looking as
uncomfortable around them as I felt. Look at that, I thought to
myself. We have something in common already.
I backpedaled out of the room. "I'm just going to... uh... go get..."
Mr. Bridges interrupted me. "You go ahead and do what you need to
do, Sean, and we'll be out of here in just a little bit." He and
Gail exchanged a silent look, and then he continued, "We're going to
take Westy out for dinner. His last good meal before digging into
the cafeteria food and all. Can you join us?"
Westy looked at me a little imploringly. "Yeah, Sean. Come along
to dinner."
I shrugged. "Well, if you really don't mind..."
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Bridges. "We'll be done here in, what, about
an hour?" He glanced around, and then nodded satisfactorily. "Yes,
I think about an hour will do it. Care to meet us back here?" He
turned back and concentrated on untangling a rat's nest of speaker
cords without waiting for an answer.
"Sure, okay," I said lamely.
"See you then, Sean," purred Mrs. Bridges. "It was nice talking
with you."
Westy just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "See you in
an hour," he said.
I looked around the room once more. No way would they be done in
just an hour, I thought as I wandered down the hall. I headed up to
Spencer's room to kill an hour before dinner.
(Continued in Chapter 3)
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