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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 9
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And here we are, at what might be considered the first really meaty chapter,
the longest yet of Book 3.
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
www.ruthiesclub.com
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**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**
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<1st attachment, "CE9.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
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(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 9 -
A SELF-INFLICTED PROMOTION
They're killing me.
That was the only thought I had left by Friday. It was a conspiracy
among my professors to fry my brain, work my poor fingertips to the
bone, and make sure I had absolutely no energy left for anything even
resembling fun.
I had so many papers to write that week I thought I was going to
burn out my typewriter. I probably went through most of a bottle of
White-Out, making corrections. Of course, each correction added to
the time it took me to get everything typed out correctly, adding to
my frustration.
Westy wasn't helping. He didn't bring a typewriter, and he kept on
wanting to use mine.
"You can use it when I'm in class or at practice," I said. "Don't
bother asking me for it when I'm here, because I'm going to need it."
"Shit, man, I've got classes too, you know," he pouted.
I gave him a sour look. "Maybe you should stop prowling the Quad
and concentrate on getting some of your work done early," I suggested.
"Hey, just because you ain't gettin' any doesn't mean I should go
without," he retorted.
"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," I grumbled.
"Hey, if you want, I can fix you up..."
"With somebody like Maureen?" I replied, disgusted. "Thanks, but no
thanks."
"Maureen the Blowjob Queen? Nah. Did her once, that was enough.
She's got a talented mouth, though, I will say that for her."
"I thought you just screwed her the one time here," I said.
"Well," he said, looking at me a little sheepishly, "I just screwed
her once. But I did run into her again last week."
"Really? Where?"
"Why, Porter? You interested?"
"Christ, no!" I shuddered at the thought.
"I know she'd be over here in about two seconds flat if you were.
She's really jonesing on you, dude."
"Yuck," I replied.
"I think she's hanging around our dorm every now and then, because I
saw her last week. She was just wandering around, like she was lost
or something, so I took her back to the Union and bought her a Coke."
"Jesus, Westy, you actually went on a date with her."
He turned a little pale when he heard that. "Don't even say that,
Porter, Christ! You're gonna make me lose my lunch!"
"Hey, you're the one who bought her the Coke," I reminded him.
"Well, yeah, but she repaid me. Big time. I took her into one of
the men's johns, and she gave me a blowjob in a stall."
"No shit?" Now it was me who felt like losing his lunch. "That's
as disgusting a thing as I think I've ever heard."
Westy laughed. "Stick around, my naive friend. I can get way more
disgusting than that."
I grimaced. "Ugh. Maybe I don't want to know about it," I said.
"Hey, Maureen's pretty good with that mouth. You just need to make
sure she keeps her clothes on, and maybe you want to carry around a
paper bag to slap over her head. One with a cutout for her lips.
That way you can imagine it's that Melanie bitch from the Phi Kappa
house who's blowing you, instead of having to look at Maureen while
she's doin' it."
"Hey!" Now he was pissing me off, and I felt like reaching for his
throat. "Leave off with that shit about Melanie, okay?"
He took a step backward and held up his hands. "Easy there, Sean, I
was just joking," he said by way of apology.
"Not funny, shithead," I said.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said. "No harm meant." He made sure he
was out of my reach when he continued, "I think she's way out of your
league anyway, pal. But don't give up on your dreams."
He was still chuckling as I slammed the door on my way out.
*****
We had a home game on Sunday, so at least I didn't have to face any
long bus rides on the coming weekend. Reggie and I were going to a
sorority get-together on Friday night after I was done with soccer
practice. On Saturday, we had soccer practice in the morning, and
then I was scheduled to work in one of the gift shops during halftime
of the football game. After the game I was supposed to meet Dan in
the weight room. I hoped to have enough energy to get some homework
done after that, and maybe even get another letter off to Luscious.
I was falling behind in my letter productivity again, having only
written to her once that week.
At practice on Friday afternoon, Coach once again broke us down into
our Alpha and Omega scrimmage teams.
"I got a change here," he announced, just before we were going to
take up our positions for the scrimmage. "Dan Ortega and Sean
Porter, switch teams."
That didn't matter much; Dan had been on the Alpha Team, and I was
on the Omega Team. We switched our practice jerseys, but Coach
wasn't finished yet.
"Stuart Early and Sean Porter, I want you two to switch positions,"
he said.
Stuart, the right midfielder for Alpha Team, looked at me in
surprise, as if I was supposed to know what Coach was thinking. I
shrugged to let him know I was as confused as he was, and we headed
out onto the practice field.
I had Bryan opposing me for a change, in the middle, and I was
startled to realize I had Martin Flauget defending against me, on my
side. I knew I wasn't much of an offensive threat, but I was looking
forward to locking horns with the Frenchman.
There's a story about a basketball player by the name of Jerry
Sloan, who was an expansion pick by the Chicago Bulls when they were
created in 1966. Sloan was a workingman's player, a defensive
specialist who had little tolerance for showboating on the court. In
fact, he was known to occasionally punch an opponent in the stomach
if they had the audacity to attempt to dribble between their legs
against him. Sloan would gladly take the penalty in exchange for
inflicting his own brand of court justice on what he considered to be
poor sportsmanship and a lack of respect in opposing players. My dad
and my older brother were both big fans of Jerry Sloan's. As I
trotted out onto the field, I thought I just might try a little bit
of Jerry Sloan's defensive tactics on my Frenchy friend, if he
started running his tricks on us.
And, to almost no one's surprise, Flauget did. The first time he
showed off I let it pass. He gave me just a quick glance as he made
his way back into his defensive territory after passing the ball off
before I could move on him, just to let me know he had no respect for
my game. The second time he did it I also gave him a bye. I wanted
him comfortable, confident, and unwary. He was haughty, insolent,
and completely unaware of the Sloaning he was about to receive.
The third time he started with his showboating was the one. On a
high, looping serve downfield into open space by Alpha, Flauget
picked up the ball. Instead of moving it upfield, he lofted it,
balanced the ball on his foot, and flipped it up to his shoulder. He
let the ball ride on his shoulder for a few strides as he started
upfield, and then he hunched and jumped, pushing the ball into the
air.
My forward, Luke Severin, was a sophomore reserve, and he was
flummoxed by Martin's antics. He practically stepped out of the way
while Flauget diddled with the ball. I engaged, running up to
intercept, and Martin saw me coming. With an insolent smirk, he
headed the ball up and over my head. What he didn't understand,
until it was too late, was that I didn't give a damn about the ball.
I lowered my shoulder and drove it, at nearly full speed, into
Martin's unprotected midsection. I heard the air whoof out of his
lungs, and he dropped like a sack of stones. I leapt over him,
skidded to a stop, and turned back to retrieve the ball.
As I trotted over to where the ball was bouncing to a stop, I became
aware of the resounding silence around me. Play had stopped, and all
my teammates were standing, watching in amazement. Even the coaches
stood as if mesmerized.
I mentally shrugged and dribbled the ball back over to Martin, who
was just struggling to his knees. I held out my hand to help him up,
and he batted it away and came at me, murderous fury in his eyes.
His knees were still a little unhinged, however, and I stepped away
from his lunge. He went past me and slid on the turf, nearly
tumbling back down, and was about to charge me again when both his
arms were grabbed. Spencer was holding his right arm, and Bryan his
left.
"Hold up there, cowboy," said Bryan to Flauget.
Martin struggled against the two holding him. "Did you see what he
did?" he growled.
By then, most of the team had gathered around, and the coaches were
all coming over.
"Sure, I saw," said Bryan. "He took you off the ball and took you
out of the play."
"Le b tard a essayé de me tuer!" spat Flauget.
"What? In English," said Bryan.
"The mother-fucker tried to kill me," he shouted.
"Oh, that might be a bit of an exaggeration," said Pick as he pushed
his way through the crowd.
"Did you not see what he did?" asked Flauget, his eyes practically
bugging out.
"I shore 'nuff did, and if'n I was a referee, I would've slapped a
card on him right quick," said Pick, giving me the eye. "Why'd you
do it, son?" he asked me.
It was my turn to give him the eye. He knew full well why I did it,
and he probably planned on me doing it in the first place.
Otherwise, why move me up to play in the midfield?
"I just thought it was time to Jerry Sloan him, coach," I said.
Spencer guffawed, and Jesse burst out laughing. They knew what I
was referring to, it seemed.
"What the hell is that?" asked Eddie Whitehead, one of Pick's
assistants.
Pick, barely able to hold back his own laughter, turned to Eddie.
"You don't follow basketball, do you, Eddie?" he said. He clapped
his assistant on the back. "It's all right, you're a soccer nut.
That's why I like you." Pick turned to me. "You'd better explain to
these unenlightened, Sean," he said expansively, indicating most of
the team. Nearly everybody was looking at me strangely, except for
Jesse, Spencer, Bryan, and a few others who understood the reference.
"I just decided that Frenchy here had shown me enough," I explained.
"So I thought I'd show him a little bit of a defensive maneuver of my
own, something I kind of improvised from watching Jerry Sloan play
basketball."
Spencer and Bryan had let go of Martin, but he wasn't in a
threatening mood anymore. I thought that, with the adrenaline
wearing off, he might have been stiffening up. He was certainly
moving carefully.
"Porter, I'm not saying he might not have deserved it, but in a game
situation you'd have drawn a card, for sure," said Rick Rogers, our
defensive captain.
"True," I admitted. "And it might not have just been a yellow. But
if an opponent is desperate enough, sometimes they might think it's a
chance worth taking. If our opponent is in a position where they
have to resort to extreme measures to get back into a game, they just
might target somebody like Frenchy." I turned to Flauget. "Tell me
true, Frenchy. How likely are you to work your tricks on me again?"
He lowered his head, staring at me under his brows. If there hadn't
been witnesses, I might have been in trouble, but he finally shook
his head.
"I don't think I could, after a shot like that," he reluctantly
admitted.
Nearly everybody laughed at that.
"Okay, that's it for today," called out Pick, dismissing us. He
looked back at me and Martin. "You two, Flauget and Porter, come
with me. Rogers, you might as well join us." Pick strode off the
field, heading toward the fieldhouse. Martin and I followed along,
keeping a wary distance between each other, and Rick stepped in
beside us, filling the gap. Rick looked questioningly at me, but I
didn't have an answer for his unspoken question. Martin just trudged
along, still a little bent over, but he had finally managed to catch
his breath. When your heart rate is elevated and somebody comes
along and hits you hard enough to knock the breath out of you, it
takes awhile to recover.
We got to Pick's office, and he ushered us in before closing the
door. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes as the three of us
stood around uncomfortably.
Pick looked up at me. "Mr. Porter, you are about the last person I
expected that sort of behavior from." His southern accent was
substantially diminished. I took that to be a bad sign. "An attack
on one of your teammates, even in the guise of a scrimmage, will not
be tolerated. In fact, I've half a mind to throw the fuckin' book at
you for this. Another incident like this and you will be out of this
program so fast, your shoes will be smoking. Do I make myself clear,
Mr. Porter?"
I tried to swallow into a suddenly very dry throat. Finally I was
able to croak out, "Yes, sir."
Flauget was just beginning to smile and relax a little, obviously
pleased that I was the one being dressed down. His smile was erased
from his face when Pick turned to him.
"And you, Mr. Flauget."
"Me? I was the one who was attacked..."
"I don't believe I was finished speaking, Flauget!" shouted Pick,
standing suddenly as he drowned out Martin's protests. Once he was
satisfied he had Martin's full attention, Pick sat back down again.
"I have tried to help you for two years here, Mr. Flauget," he
continued in a calm voice. "I thought we was makin' some progress
here. This year, however, there seems to be some backslidin' goin'
on."
I noted distractedly that Pick's accent was creeping back into his
speech. What did it mean? I had no idea.
"Frankly, Mr. Flauget, I'm gettin' almighty tired of all your
showboatin', and I just won't put up with it for one second more. Do
you understand what I'm tellin' you, boy?"
"Oui, yes I do, but..." Martin didn't have a prayer of finishing
that sentence, as Pick stood again and leaned over his desk. Without
saying a thing, he managed to shut Martin off in mid-sentence.
Martin looked like he had swallowed a fish, but he nodded and
stammered, "Yes, sir, Coach Cropper. I understand."
Pick sat again, and looked back and forth between the two of us.
"You are both damned fine players, and I would hate to lose either
one of you. But I will not tolerate dissention of this sort on this
team. Now, I ain't expecting you two to be bosom buddies or nothin',
but while you are playing for me, you will get along. Let me
emphasize that for you. You will get along."
He waited to see our reactions. I shuffled around, trying to figure
this whole scene out, because something didn't feel right. I decided
to take the conciliatory path Pick had opened for me, and I turned to
Flauget.
"I'm sorry, Martin," I said. I held out my hand. He just looked at
it for a moment, and then, rather reluctantly, he shook it. "I guess
I kind of lost my temper out there, and I apologize," I said.
"Apology accepted," he said, but his demeanor was still angry and
stiff. He tried to pull his hand back, but I held on.
I stepped up close to him. "But don't do it again, Frenchy," I said
quietly. Something flared in his eyes when I called him Frenchy. He
glanced over at Pick, perhaps looking to see if Coach was going to
berate me for elevating the problem again, but Pick sat at his desk,
watching us impassively.
"You don't scare me, Porter," he gritted.
"No, I don't suppose I do," I said, maintaining my grip on his hand.
"But if we're lined up opposite each other again sometime, you
remember what happened today. And you play your game accordingly."
I stepped back and let go of his hand. He stood there, absorbing
what I had said, and then turned back to Pick.
"Did you hear him, Coach?" Martin was almost beside himself with
anger.
Pick had chosen to hear what he wanted to hear, though, and he let
Flauget know. "Shore," he said, before Martin could go off any
further on his tirade. "I heard him apologize, and I heard you
accept his apology. Ain't that right?"
Martin's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.
"I said, ain't that right, Mr. Flauget?" Pick said softly.
Martin reluctantly nodded. "Yes, sir, that's right," he said with
clenched teeth.
"Hit the showers, Frenchy," said Pick. "I've got a few more things
to say to Mr. Porter, here."
Martin turned and opened the door. He flashed a small, triumphant,
and malicious smile at me just before he closed it behind him.
I glanced at Rick, and turned to face Pick's wrath.
Pick, however, didn't seem to be angry.
"Mr. Rogers, do you think these two can play together as a defensive
unit?" he asked.
Rick smiled. "They'll probably play better together now," he said.
Pick nodded, and then he, too, grinned. "That was a helluva hit you
put on poor Frenchy," he said, beginning to chuckle. "Damnedest
thing I ever did see."
Now I was totally confused. Why was Pick laughing? He had been
angry enough with me to consider kicking me off the team - or so he
led me to believe.
Pick got up and walked over to the door. Opening it, he hollered
out toward the locker rooms. "Eddie! You out there, Eddie
Whitehead?"
I heard the echo of Eddie's voice wafting back through the hall.
"Coming, Pick!"
A few minutes later Eddie appeared at the door.
"Come in and close it," said Pick.
Eddie closed the door and sat in the chair neither Rick nor I dared
to sit in without an invitation.
"What do you think, Eddie?" asked Pick.
Eddie glanced at me, at Rick, and at Pick. He knew what Pick was
referring to, especially seeing Flauget absent.
Eddie smiled. "It was a beautiful hit, worthy of the name of
football," he said.
"Yeah, well, maybe American football. It didn't resemble no
European football play I've ever been witness to," Pick reminded him.
"True," said Eddie. "What you really want to know is if it'll give
us a handle to work with on Martin."
I looked at Eddie with new respect. Not much got by him, obviously.
"And?" Pick was patient.
"And we'll have to see," said Eddie. "One thing, though. Players
can do stuff to get under his skin a lot easier than coaches and
advisers can. Maybe what Sean has started here will work to our
advantage."
I was getting very confused, and a little impatient with it all.
"What are you guys talking about? Coach, maybe I've gotten the wrong
idea, but when you moved me to Alpha and up to midfield, I assumed
you were looking for somebody to try to find a way to neutralize
Flauget. Am I wrong here?"
Pick favored me with another of his enigmatic smiles. "Well,
kinda," he finally admitted. "What I was doin' was testin' the
waters for a little slippery business comin' up in the Georgetown
Invite. I wanted to see how you extemporized, playin' up for awhile.
Eddie Whitehead and Stan Harvard and me, well, we came up with a
screwy little plan, and we was anxious to see how crazy our plan
really was. That's why we moved you around some."
"Uh..." I felt like it was my turn to apologize for leaping to
false conclusions again, but Pick didn't give me an opportunity.
"Your scheme of whackin' Frenchy was an extra added bonus," Pick
continued. "Frankly, it never occurred to me you'd take something so
extreme onto your own self, consequences be damned." He smiled at me
indulgently. "You surprised me today, Sean Porter, and by Christ I
thank you for it. I think you done this team a huge turn out there."
"But Coach, I thought you were mad at me for..."
"Oh, that was just the official line, son," said Pick. He brushed
imaginary dust off his desktop, as if he was whisking away bothersome
"official lines." He looked back up at me. "I had to dress you
down, because it was a foolish, dangerous ploy you concocted.
Between you, me and the fencepost..." He paused, looked around at
the people in his office, and continued, "And Rick and Eddie, too...
I got to thank you for takin' Mr. Frenchy down a notch."
I wisely kept my mouth shut. I was learning.
Pick turned back to Rick. "Now, as co-captain, I'm counting on you
to keep the peace from here on out." Rick nodded. "Porter
apologized, and Frenchy accepted it. You might have to remind him of
that upon occasion," continued Pick. "Let the team know about what
transpired in here earlier, and you can let your co-captains and our
key players know what the real score is."
"Can do, Coach," said Rick.
"Now, I know Jesse and Bryan and you carry the weight on this here
team, Rick, so I'm counting on you three especially to keep this team
unified. And that includes our Frenchy friend. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir," said Rick. "Jesse and Bryan are on Sean's side in this
already, and I know most of the rest of the team will see it that
way, too. A little propagandizing, a little posturing, and some
cooperation from Porter here, will be what we need."
"Sean?" Pick turned back to me. "Can you follow Rick's lead on
this?"
"Yes, sir, I can do that. I'll be as humble as you need me to be,"
I said, wanting them to know I would be on my best behavior.
"No, no, don't be humble," corrected Pick. "Frenchy won't respect
humble. You be as arrogant to him as he's been to everybody else.
You might have to feint on him a time or two, just to remind him.
When he sees the rest of the team falling in line behind the
leadership, he'll have no choice but to follow. It's him we want
humbleized, son, not you."
"I don't do arrogant very well," I said, "but I'll try."
"Atta boy," said Pick with a smile.
*****
Almost immediately the campaign within the soccer team began to
roll, and it quickly acquired considerable momentum, even before
everybody dispersed from the locker room after practice. By then,
Flauget found himself nearly ostracized as he posed and postured and
tried to paint himself as a victim of an unprovoked attack. Nobody
was buying it.
Bryan and I were double-dating that night. We were accompanying
Melanie and Reggie to one of the Omega Sigma Theta's semi-formal
parties for their pledge class. Bryan picked me up at my dorm, and
as we drove the few blocks to Reggie's dorm, he started to fill me in.
"Jesse and Spencer have been double-teaming guys, but it sounds like
everybody understands what's going on," he said.
"Well, explain it to me then, because I'm confused as hell," I
complained.
He looked at me, a little surprised. "What's going on is that Pick
is always looking to the future. It's part of what makes head
coaching in Division One such a tough job. As a head coach, you can
only spend a certain amount of your time enjoying the fruits of your
labors in recruitment during any given season. Instead, you've got
to constantly be looking two, three, four years ahead, recruiting,
grooming, training for the transition to the next team."
"Okay," I said. "I can see that. What's that got to do with what
happened this afternoon?"
Bryan chuckled. "In a nutshell, what's going on is that you are
being stepped up to represent Pick's future team," he said. "You're
now one of the big guns. A team leader, and as a freshman, too."
Bryan just shook his head, as if he could hardly believe it. He
could hardly believe it? I was having trouble figuring out all the
nuances of what should have been seen as just a physical play against
Frenchy. Where did all these undercurrents come from? I didn't want
to get embroiled in politics; I just wanted to play soccer.
"What? Because of today?" I was having trouble taking Bryan at his
word on this. It was all just too flabbergasting.
"Today was just the capper," he said. "Pick's been chewing on this
for a long time, trying to come up with a way to make it happen. And
here you come and create a nearly perfect situation for us, solving
two problems with one timely hit." We were stopped in front of
Reggie's dorm. "Go get her, and we'll pick this up later," he said.
I opened the door and walked up to the lobby of the dorm, in a kind
of state of shock. My head was buzzing from all Bryan had told me.
I used one of their house telephones to call Reggie's room. Her
roommate answered, and said Reggie would be right down, so I sat in
one of the overstuffed chairs scattered throughout the room to wait,
trying not to think about soccer. Reggie didn't need to hear about
all this melodrama.
Reggie came through the door, and nearly took my breath away. She
had on a little black dress that only came to about mid-thigh, with
spaghetti straps and a slightly daring neckline. Her hair was pulled
back into a ponytail, with wisps of curled strands artfully undone,
framing her lovely face.
I stood, and she came over and took my arm.
"Hi, Sean," she said with a smile. "Thank you for accompanying me."
"I'm the one who should be thanking you, and thanking Melanie.
Having you by my side will make even me look good," I said.
Reggie favored me with an even bigger smile. I suddenly wasn't so
tired anymore.
I walked her to Bryan's car, and we took off to pick up Melanie at
her apartment, and then headed over to the banquet hall, where dinner
would be served.
The purpose of the party was so the sisters of Omega Sigma Theta
could get to know all of their new pledges better, in a social
setting. Everybody was all smiles and handshakes, until the smiles
began resembling grimaces. My own smile, plastered on my face, felt
like it had been painted on, and I was looking forward to being able
to get back in Bryan's car and massage feeling back into my facial
muscles.
As we were sitting at our table with glasses of wine after dessert,
Melanie said to me, "You look like you're in pain, Sean. You can
stop smiling anytime now."
"I don't think I can," I said. "I think my face has finally frozen,
just like my mom warned me."
"At least it didn't freeze with your tongue sticking out and your
eyes crossed, like my mother warned me," said Reggie. I couldn't
even imagine Regina Coverdale like that. That pretty girl, so lovely
and yet so sensible, sticking her tongue out? I don't think so.
Sensing my thoughts, Reggie said, "Oh, yes, I did make horrible
faces. You might not believe it now, Sean, but I was an awful tomboy
when I was younger."
"A tomboy? You?"
"Sure," she said with a smile. "When I was eleven years old, I was
convinced I was going to be over six feet tall. I was nuts about
basketball, and I just knew I was going to be a big college
basketball star."
"Really? What happened?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I stopped growing," she said. "I never stopped
loving basketball, though."
"Then you probably are familiar with... what was his name, Sean?
Jerry Sloan?" asked Bryan.
"Jerry Sloan! God, I loved watching him play," exclaimed Reggie.
"He played defense like nobody I ever saw." She glanced around the
table. "Did you know he's now an assistant coach for the Utah Jazz?"
I was impressed that she would know that, and I thought it pleased
her to know she could impress me. "What made you mention him,
Bryan?" she continued.
And off Bryan went, telling the tale of practice that afternoon. He
made it sound much more interesting and amusing than I remembered it,
so I was kind of drawn in to the entertainment, right up until both
Melanie and Reggie turned to look at me, astonishment in their eyes.
"You really did that, Sean?" asked Reggie.
I turned away. I didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes
that I was sure was there.
Melanie said, "That was this afternoon?"
"Yep," confirmed Bryan.
I could feel Melanie looking at me. The force of her personality
made me look up at her, but it still took me by surprise to see her
smiling.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Sean," she said.
"Huh? What promotion?" I asked. Had she heard something I hadn't?
"If what Bryan says is true, and I have no doubt it is," she said,
glancing at her boyfriend for just a moment and touching his cheek,
"you have just managed to leapfrog over almost everybody else to
become one of the top two or three players on Pickett Cropper's
nationally ranked soccer team."
"What?" She was saying words, sentences, but they made no sense at
all to me. I glanced over at Reggie, and noted she was following
Melanie's comments with shining eyes. Not at all sad or
disappointed, her expression seemed eager and happy, not upset at all.
"You really don't see it, do you?" Melanie shook her head in
disbelief. "You have just vaulted into the role very few people can
choose for their own, and fewer still can fulfill. You are now one
of the leaders of this team, the role model for your teammates, and
the example Pick is going to use as one of his prime recruiting
tools, Sean. And as a freshman." She shook her head again, this
time in wonder. "And you really didn't see that coming, did you? It
may be self-inflicted, but it's still a great promotion into a
leadership role. Like I said, congratulations, Sean. You are
unique."
"Yeah, I'm unique," I grumbled. "Just like about four billion other
people on this planet."
Melanie laughed, and Bryan and Reggie followed suit. I looked at
them in surprise, and then realized what I had said. I couldn't help
but join in with them. Hey, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can
you laugh at?
Melanie surprised me that night, however. Later on, reflecting on
that conversation, I came to the realization that Melanie was either
the sharpest, most intuitive person I had ever met, or the most
delusional. Only time would tell which one was correct.
(Continued in Chapter 10)
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