Message-ID: <44440asstr$1064448630@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <news@giganews.com> X-Original-Path: nntp.comcast.com!news.comcast.com.POSTED!not-for-mail NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 11:40:49 -0500 From: SirFozzie <Tarislan@yahoo.com> User-Agent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 5.1; en-US; rv:1.4) Gecko/20030529 X-Accept-Language: en-us, en MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Original-Message-ID: <92CdnefO7KOMVOyiU-KYjQ@comcast.com> X-DMCA-Complaints-To: dmca@comcast.net X-Abuse-and-DMCA-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-and-DMCA-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly X-Postfilter: 1.1 X-Spamscanner: mailbox5.ucsd.edu (v1.2 May 26 2003 01:55:38, 2.2/5.0 2.55) X-Spam-Level: Level ** X-MailScanner: PASSED (v1.2.8 58687 h8OGepLT098468 mailbox5.ucsd.edu) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 12:40:43 -0400 Subject: {ASSM} One On One (Chapter 1-Background) Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 20:10:31 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2003/44440> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman Basketball has dominated my life ever since... well... since I was old enough to remember. Even at the ages of 5 and 6; I was clumsily trying to dribble a basketball on my driveway. Eventually that led to throwing the ball up towards the hoop, and after a while, actually MAKING some shots. When I wasn't playing basketball, I was thinking basketball, and for that matter, probably eating, drinking and sleeping basketball. At least, the sleeping part I can confirm. I hated winter with a passion, because with all the ice and snow New England got, I'd lose out on several months of basketball. My only solace was when the local high school, college and pro teams played. There was many an evening that I fell asleep to the rough voice of Johnny Most, as he was "High above Courtside" at the legendary Boston Garden. Bird, Parish, and McHale were my heroes, and Laimbeer, Worthy and Thomas were all names that gave me nightmares. I cheered when the Celtics won, and cried myself to sleep on the rare occasions they lost. I told my folks that the second I could sign up for local youth league basketball; I'd be there ready to sign up, with or without them. I spent a couple hours a day by myself in the driveway, just dribbling and shooting. My mom claimed she could always tell when I was making trouble; she could tell I was up to something when she couldn't hear the rhythmic bouncing of the ball on the pavement. My folks were, well, for lack of a better word, AMUSED at my fixation on basketball. They tried to make sure I didn't burn out on it, but they kind of expected me to lose my drive for the game eventually. But more than anything else, they supported me. They knew how much it meant to me. And then in the blink of a moment, it all changed forever. Some idiot had taken a car for a joyride, and had panicked when the cops turned on their lights and siren behind them, after they had confirmed that the car had been stolen. He apparently led them on a chase throughout the city, but near the end of that chase he tried to take a turn at too high a speed, and overcorrected, clipping a ten year old boy on the sidewalk that was just walking home from a friend's house, sending him flying 15 feet through the air... Three guesses who that boy was, and the first two don't count. I guess I really shouldn't complain, after all. The doctor told me that it was touch and go for a while, that if the lunatic had hit me head on instead of clipping me with just a corner of his stolen car, those odds were pretty good that the thief would have been looking at vehicular manslaughter charges instead of the reckless endangerment and vehicular assault to go with the stolen car charge. But that was not much solace to a ten year old that needed 11 surgeries to piece together a shattered hip and pelvis. I spent six months in bed and a wheel chair, either preparing for a surgery, or recovering from one. One of the things that kept me going in that very difficult and pain filled time was the fact I could look up at my dresser, and lying on top of it, was my basketball. I literally drew strength from that thing. The idiot who hit me had taken so much away from me, so much time (at least from a 10 year olds view point), even school (they home-schooled me for a year rather then have me kept back) and all the pain, but he wasn't going to take basketball from me. After the surgeries, came the next step, which was physical therapy. More pain, but each time I used the twin guard rails to support my bad leg, and walked from one side of the therapy office to the other, I got a little stronger. It CERTAINLY didn't hurt that my dad offered to get two season tickets to the Celtics if I completed my physical therapy. With motives like that, it was hard to keep me from wanting to go too fast, but the therapist kept me on the right track, slowly rebuilding and strengthening my bad leg. That October, I was able to get out of the wheelchair I had spent so much time in, for limited periods each day. Instead, I was given a cane, and was encouraged to walk a bit more each day. My first steps with that thing was more like a drunken man's shuffle, as I dragged the injured leg behind me, but it got slowly better. Dad lived up to his word, and was able to come through with the season tickets. We couldn't make EVERY game, but we made well more then half of them, and he never complained about the cost, or the premium parking he got to make sure I didn't over do it with my leg. That was the year that the Celtics went 67-15, so I got to watch the greats at the greatest time ever. The real turning point with regards to my injury was on a cool late September day. I had finished one of my daily walking sessions, when I sat down on the bed, and looked outside. My dad had finished raking the leaves (he jokingly told me that he couldn't wait until I was healthy again, so I could help HIM with the yard work). I looked outside, and realized that I hadn't been able to play ball since the accident, nearly 14 months prior, and realized with a New England winter quickly approaching, it would be 6-7 months more before the weather would allow it again, and I saw the ball on the dresser. I made a decision at that moment, and after checking to make sure Mom was still downstairs, taking care of the wash, grabbed my cane from the bed, and the ball from the dresser (Thankfully, it hadn't deflated at all since the last time I had held it), and hobbled toward the front door as quickly as I could. Somehow, I knew that I couldn't let the moment pass. Heading outside, I weighed the ball in my hands, letting my fingers drift over the raised surface slowly, being very careful not to tip myself over, since I couldn't lean on the cane very well, with the ball in both hands, one on either side of it, committing every bump to memory. Then as my left hand returned to the cane that was propped on my leg and my right hand turned the ball over and pushed downward, and I waited for what seemed like an eternity as the ball ever so slowly succumbed to the forces of inertia and gravity. I waited, and I was rewarded with the sound that I had been waiting to hear for so long, the ball hitting the pavement with a solid thunk, and returning to my hand. Slowly, hesitantly, I started dribbling the ball in front and to the side of me. No fancy moves, just a kid dribbling a basketball, and not very well, at first, but as I got used to the feel again of the ball coming up to my fingers and then pushing it back down again and again and again, it just felt... well.. it felt RIGHT. It may be a bit clichéd, but I think, that was the moment when I truly started to heal. I didn't have to shoot, didn't have to move, I don't think my legs could have taken it, for once, the feeling of being weak in the knees was NOT because of my injuries! I honestly couldn't tell you whether it was a few seconds, a few minutes, or a few hours when my mother came running to the door, alerted to the fact that I wasn't resting like I promised by the sound of the ball. That earned me a scolding the like I hadn't seen for a while. I took it with a smile on my face, however, and I tried to "Yes Mom" and "no mom" and even "Sorry Mom" my way through it, could tell she was really scared that I would hurt myself. I could always tell when she was upset when she strung my full name together and made it one word. So if she was calling me MatthewDavidThomas, I was in a world of trouble. Fortunately, after she wore down, she saw the happiness in my face, and the way my free hand cradled the ball against my hip... and her smile told me how happy she was that I was getting back to doing what I enjoyed the most. But she told me that if I ever disappeared without telling her where I was going, that the door would be locked when I wanted to come in. Throughout the fall, I managed to get out once or twice a week for a few minutes under the careful supervision of one of my parents, and Mom made sure that I didn't tire myself out too much. And at the end of the month, I got another surprise, as after a year of home-schooling, I would be returning to school next year, which was great, as I missed being around people.. My family was great, even my younger sister Kaitlin, but trust me, I wanted to deal with more folks then just my family and my doctors! The problem was that I had missed sixth grade, and in Holliston, that was the year that folks transferred from the 4 elementary schools to the 1 middle school in town, and I missed out on the year where everyone mixed together and in many cases, set their cliques for the next few years. So, when I returned, I kind of was in an in-between status, as I knew a lot of people, but I didn't have many close friends. Besides, with a cane and a limp, I was DIFFERENT, which is never a good thing at that age. But I didn't much mind, I had a couple good friends, who even liked basketball, and would listen to me ramble on and on about the game. And I even got Mr. Wilkins, the school janitor to leave the gymnasium unlocked a couple times so I could shoot some hoops at school and not have to worry about braving the elements at my home. I still didn't have the stamina to do it for more then a half hour, but I was grateful for anything Of course, it wasn't all that good, as I had missed out on one of the things I had wanted to do so much, and that's actually play the game. The doctors told me that eventually, I could be independent of the cane on a semi permanent basis, but they told me it would be years before I could even RUN regularly. Playing the sport competitively was a definite no-go, as far as they were concerned for now. Even once it was fully "healed", which wouldn't be until my growth spurt stabilized, it would still be a little more vulnerable to further injury then my good leg. So, after two years of test after test, and trial after trial, I had finally gotten back to a semblance of normalcy. But my attitude had changed, as a result of my home-schooling. It used to be that the only books or magazines I'd read had to do with basketball in some way. Even with all the home-schooling work my parents gave me (they were afraid I'd fall behind if they didn't test me with more advanced items than most kids my age would face), there were many hours of the day and night where I was left to my own devices, and I couldn't fill them with working out and TV, so I started picking up books and spent many days reading them. My favorite was still stuff about basketball, but I learned to read authors like Anthony and McCaffrey, and that led to other books. So I hung out on the outskirts of all the groups at school, and made a couple good friends, including my best friend, Analise Craig. Anna hated being called Analise, and would only let her parents call her that. Anyone else and she would ignore them, with her nose up in the air. She also had the not-so-affectionate nickname of the "Mouth from the South", because she was from Alabama, and because she spoke like a Southerner, even slipping up and saying "y'all" every now and then, a fact that drove our English teacher, Mrs. Dinter, nuts. (If she caught Anna using the words, she'd always remind her that "y'all is not a proper word, Anna". Anna would blush and promise not to do it again, and then a few days later it would happen again!) But she was another inveterate bookworm, just like me, so we always saw each other in the library during our free periods, or kicking back with a book during lunch. Eventually, I dragged her a little bit out of the shell she had put around herself, and she helped keep me from going insane when my injury was acting up. Soon we were swapping books, with recommendations of which one to read next. We were never boyfriend and girlfriend, even as the whole school discovered that particular phase of life, but we were always friends. The next couple years saw me going in for a couple follow-up procedures, to make sure I was still healing properly, but all was going well. Anna and I even helped a couple of our friends out, by doing a study group for folks who were having trouble with certain lessons, but we never did their work for them. We just tried to find a new way to explain it to them, or finding a different way to express the issue, and seeing where they took it from there. Being a brain was one of the worst things that you could be tagged in that school, but somehow, Anna and I never got tagged with that label. In my case, I think a major part was because I was such a basketball freak, and Anna always would tag along with me when I watched a game in the gym (even though she'd spend most of her time reading). But I think the most part was that Anna and I never talked down to the kids who were having trouble, or called them dummies, or what have you. Both of us knew what it was like to be ridiculed, and didn't want to put anyone else in that place. So eventually, we made our way to Holliston High School, and the hole inside me grew a bit deeper, as I watched others pull on the red and white of the Holliston Tigers boys' basketball team. And I wanted that so much, but I had to remind myself that I couldn't have it. Well, it wasn't a dream I could have for the foreseeable future. So I supported the team as best as I could, acting as the team's manager and statistician. Anna became friends with a few more of the in-clique, but we still had a connection, and we usually spent our lunch hours talking together. During my sophomore year, the dread p-word, puberty hit, and hit hard. I shot up eleven inches in a span of three months. Trust me; it drove my mother CRAZY to have to buy me a new set of clothing every few weeks it seemed, as I just outgrew whatever I was given. Despite my utter embarrassment (I even felt a little lopsided leaning down on my cane on the times that I used it). But Anna was my savior during this so-awkward time. She could tease me without the jibes hurting, and she had a stream of stories and commentaries that had me cracking up. By the time things finished up, I was about 5'10", and with my friendship over Anna (who was five foot nothing at best), got us a little bit of teasing, we joked it was our Mutt and Jeff impersonation. We tried to explain the joke to folks who looked at us in confusion, but we usually ended up shaking our heads and muttering "Philistines" under our breath. This usually just made their confusion even more palpable, and it also made our laughter louder. My dating life was not non-existent, but it wasn't what you called hardcore. I didn't pass one of the three dating rules in the unofficial code. A) I wasn't a member of the in-clique or a sports star (those two groups of people pretty much overlapped at Holliston High), B) I didn't have lots of money, and C) I didn't have my own vehicle. To mangle the classic ditty "Take Me out to the Ballgame", it was 1, 2, 3 strikes and you're out at the old dating game. Anna had a lot of the same problem, but that just meant we hung out together on a Saturday night, usually swapping bullshit stories and telling each other secrets about the foibles of our fellow classmates. Some would consider that dating, I don't think it was, just two friends, spending a Saturday night having fun. This was good, because things kind of got kind of strained in my household. Things weren't going well at the office where my dad worked. They had bet big on a new product, and were one of the few "next big things" not to pan out during that time. There were rumors that there were going to be cutbacks in the near future. Dad did his best to explain this to us, and told us that if it did happen, things would be tight for a while, but we'd get through ok. As the sophomore year progressed, I was able to spend a full day at school without the cane. On days I had PE during fifth period, I would spend most of the day walking without the cane, and then go through PE normally, and then use the cane the rest of the day, as my leg would normally be screamingly sore. The gym teacher offered to let me sit out, but I told him that's what I had been doing so long, and I wasn't going to let what happened years ago turn me into an invalid. I wasn't great, but I didn't suck at anything. Except kickball. I just turned into a blocker of the ball, and hoped my teammates would run it out while everyone ran into grab the ball. That worked four or five times before they figured it out. At the end of the school year, we got the word from dad's office, and it wasn't good. He got laid off in a round of cutbacks that basically decimated his division. The severance package was good, but it meant a VERY uncertain summer. There was no vacationing, like there was usually, and both myself and Kaitlin tried to reduce our own spending (we had a weekly allowance that wasn't affected by Dad being laid off, but neither of us were big spenders, and didn't want to go overboard at a time like this) Anna did her best to keep me from getting down during that time frame, but there were a lot of nights spent wondering what was going to happen next. About six weeks later, there was a big family meeting, with Mom and Dad were waiting for us at the kitchen table, holding hands, and Kait and I looked at each other nervously. Our folks hadn't had a big fight or something, had they? We sat in the offered chairs, and waited for them to tell us what was going on. There was a moment of silence, and then Dad cleared his throat, and took the initiative. "I have some good news, and some bad news. Since the bad news affects the good news, I'll give you the good news first. Starting in a week, I will have a new job." He waited until the exclamations of happiness were done, but we knew there was a second part to it, and I had an inkling deep in my soul about what it was, but I just waited for the other shoe to drop. And it did drop, and quickly. "The job is in Pittsfield, as a middle level manager for a factory." He continued, and waited for that to sink in. Kaitlin looked confused, she didn't know where that was. I did, however, and it was a good hour, to maybe an hour and a half from where we lived. I looked at Dad, my heart in my throat, and he nodded, softly. "Even though the job pays the same as my old job here, I can't commute an hour and a half every day. So, the company is going to provide temporary housing for us in Pittsfield, while we look for a permanent home there, and we will be putting this home on the market." That hit us hard, and especially came as a shock to Kaitlin. She had just turned 11, and was looking forward to going to Denbar Middle School, just like her big brother did. And in her case, she had been scheduled to be in a homeroom with all her friends. This hurt her, to be pulled away from what she had known for all her life. But she tried to put the best face on it, telling dad she was happy he was back to work, and promising to help out as best as she could. I could understand how she felt. I had to tell Anna that night, and she was probably unhappier then I was. The first thing she made me promise is that I would keep in touch with her, by phone and mail as much as possible. Her exact words were "I have not spent nearly five years of my life with a guy that I trained to properly appreciate a good book, a guy that I can actually TALK to, to have him up and disappear on me, just because he's got to move." There were a lot of silent tears that night, but there was nothing further. We respected the limits we had set on ourselves. We were best friends... and that's what we were going to be forever. The next week was a flurry of packing, as years and years of stuff were hurriedly stuffed into cardboard boxes. We didn't HAVE to pack everything up, it would take a little time to sell a place like our house, even during a busy market like the one we were facing, but none of us really relished the fact that we'd have to pack at least part of the stuff we were taking to us to our new, temporary home, and then come back when we either acquired a new, permanent place to call home, or we sold this house. Anna helped greatly, becoming a fifth wheel that was actually useful during the process. She helped keep Kaitlin from being sad about the move with a litany of stories about high school that even I had trouble believing, even though I had been there at the time. She performed the same function for me, even starting a laughing fight with me when she took it upon herself to pack my underwear... and COMMENT on it, too, saying "Jeez, Matt, you don't look like a "Tighty-Whitey" type of guy!" I don't think there is a jury in the world that would have convicted me if I exacted a bloody revenge on her. But that's not how one deals with one's best friend, even one who's intent on embarrassing you to death. So, instead, I tossed the pillow at her, in an attempt to keep her from further comment, an attempt that succeeded when she threw the pillow back at me, and we had a pillow fight that eventually drew in Kaitlin and even Mom and Dad. I still think it was the funniest thing when my Dad started to give Kaitlin, Anna, and myself a mock lecture about proper home etiquette, only to have Mom sneak up from behind turn on the faucet, and squirt him with the hose used for washing dishes! He just about hit the sky with a jump and a yelp that echoed off the walls, and then chased my Mom around the house, laughing, and then tried to come back and continue the lecture, and pretending not to know why we were howling with laughter. There was a lot of laughter, packed into seven small days. But as Anna was so fond of saying, "Time waits for no man and no woman either". It was a cloudy, humid Sunday when we were to say goodbye to the town I grew up in. Before we left, I had one last request of my dad. I asked him to take down the backboard, and the rim from the hoop in the driveway. He was a bit bemused, to say the least, but nodded his understanding when I told him I wanted it in my new room when we got the new house. The morning of the move saw me taking a few last shots at the hoop, feeling very very sad, but a little excited too. A fresh start for myself, away from all the ghosts of the past. The minutes flew by, and Anna stopped by, watching me, but not saying anything. I think I saw a tear at the corner of her eye, and I'm pretty sure the same was happening to me. I saw dad, standing at the front door, with the step ladder, and the screwdriver. And I knew it was time. I put the cane down, took a few measured steps out to a white scrawled chalk marked line. I knew that line by heart. It was exactly 15 feet from the hoop. No matter what level of basketball you played, that was the free throw line. From either side of me, Anna and my father watched silently, as I toed that line... the ball in my hands, and took two soft dribbles, raised the ball into position, and shot. And I knew it was in from the second it left my hands. Floating through the air it cleared the front of the rim, and through the hoop with a barely audible swishing sound. After a second's pause, I hobbled to where the ball was, bent over, and picked it up. I smiled, first at my best friend, and then at the man who had done so much to give me a good life. "I couldn't do that again if I tried. I think it's a good omen. Let's get this party started." I helped my dad position the step ladder and watched as he brought down the hoop and the backboard, and I marched that item straight into the trailer we had rented to move all our stuff. A lot of it would go into storage, but it felt good to know at least one part of the old home would be going with me. That afternoon, I remember hugging Anna, the first true physical contact we had allowed each other, and she demanded that I repeat her phone number one more time, and wanted to hear all about our new place. I told her that she'd better not find a new guy to be her best friend and forget about me. "I've never had a friend like you... don't you find some girl that makes you heart go all a-flutter and forget about me either." She replied, the southern accent creeping in, showing how much this affected her, too. I felt the same way. I didn't want to forget my best friend. Eventually, I got in that car, and even though the trailer we were towing blocked my sight out the window, I looked back in my dad's window's reflection, as we pulled away. I watched until she was out of sight. Just before we turned, I saw her give me a little wave. And then she was gone. But I knew I'd call her the second my folks allowed me on the phone. It wasn't goodbye; it was instead so long for now. But for now, I had to look forward. It was time for a change. And as the saying went, the change would do me good. --- Author's Note: Well, 1 chapter down, the next one's being worked on: I have a pre-readers group (not just for my own stories, but several other new writers) at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotica_Read_And_Write/ I'd like to thank Tony, Paul, Girl Friday and especially Cat for reviewing this, and making good suggestions (and making my stuff halfway readable), Chapter Two should be out soon. David "SirFozzie" Yellope -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+