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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 1-5
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Date: Mon,  5 Apr 2004 08:10:04 -0400
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So that we might all catch up, here is a repost of Chapters 1-5.

Enjoy!



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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
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long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
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(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




- 1 -

MY PARENTS GAIN A BEDROOM


You wonder, sometimes, how you get into these situations.  Looking
back, I have to believe that, somewhere along the timeline of my
life, I was led to this point, that I would be here no matter how I
led my life.  But I digress...





Sometime during the summer after my senior year of high school, I
stopped thinking of myself as a high school kid.  Maybe it was the
business I had set up, and maybe it was the anticipation of playing
soccer at the college level.  Or it could have been that I was
getting more mature, the third and least likely possibility.  One
thing was certain, though, and that was my girlfriend, the luscious
Kayla Lehigh, was somehow directly responsible.

And just when I needed her, she was not with me.  I was in my
parent's car, headed down to the University of Florida.  My dad was
driving, and my mother was calmly knitting in the shotgun seat.  My
brother Stephen was zoned out with his headphones on, listening to
something obnoxious, and I was sitting next to him, holding my soccer
ball in my lap and missing my girl.  My older brother, Michael, was
still at home.  He was working full-time and couldn't take time off
to come with us.  Actually, he was probably just as glad that he
couldn't come along.  It would have been a tight squeeze with one
more person in the car anyway.

It was a two day trip to Florida for us, which seemed to make it
even more painful, as I had nothing better to do than to think about
stuff.  I missed Kayla so much there was an ache in my solar plexus
that felt like it would never be healed, and yet the thought of
playing soccer for Pickett Cropper and the Florida Gators left me
with a mild case of vertigo.  How had I, a middling defensive player,
managed to win a scholarship to one of the elite soccer programs in
the country?  It was still a mystery to me.  I had a lot of hours in
the back seat of the car, watching the flat farm fields of Illinois
and Indiana slowly turn into the lush green pastures of Kentucky and
the worn hills of Tennessee and North Carolina.  By the time we
reached Georgia, I had tired of so much introspection, and had taken
to alternating between reading and gazing out the window as the
landscapes and small towns rolled by.

My family and I made it to Gainesville without incident, other than
a little lingering depression on my part over what I was leaving
behind.  My parents had two rooms at a Holiday Inn near the campus
reserved for two nights.  My parents took the room with the queen-
sized bed, and my younger brother Stephen and I would share the
second room, one with two twin beds.  We checked in after dark and
found a small restaurant within walking distance, where we could grab
some dinner.  None of us felt much like getting back in the car to
drive to get something to eat, so we made do with what we could find
nearby.

Moving day, when we would set up my new living quarters, was the
next day.

We got up the next morning and walked down to the same diner we had
eaten at the night before.  Dad ordered pancakes, Mom had a bagel and
some fruit, and Stephen and I ordered French toast, a real treat for
us.  We didn't often go out for breakfast.

There were only a couple of dorms where the athletes were going to
live, and the streets around them were busy with kids and families
shuffling for the prime parking spots for unloading vans, trailers,
and cars.  We decided we would wait until after lunch before we would
join the fray, so Stephen and I got to be lazy in the morning.  We
took advantage of the pool at the hotel, and then we piled into the
car once again for the short trip over toward the center of the
university grounds.  We wandered around campus during the late
morning, admired Lake Alice, and stopped for lunch at Reitz Student
Union, just soaking up the university culture.

Right after lunch we pulled our U-Haul into a designated spot on the
street, and the four of us started carting my stuff up to my third-
floor dorm room.

I knew my roommate's name was Weston Bridges, and I knew that he was
from the Atlanta area, and he was on the swimming team, but that was
about all I knew.  Since swimming was a winter sport, he didn't have
to be on campus early like I did, so he wasn't moving in for another
few days.  I took the opportunity to get my stuff put away without
having to worry yet about sharing space.  It was a small room for one
person, much less for two, but I hoped we would be able to work it
out okay.

My mom organized my closet for me while my dad and I put together
the framework to loft our beds.  Stephen was in charge of hanging my
posters and pictures on the walls.  By dinnertime we were pretty much
finished, and I clambered up onto my bed, now six feet up in the air,
and carefully pasted a photo of Luscious on the ceiling, right above
me.  I wanted Kayla to be the first thing I saw every morning, and
the last thing I saw every night.

Jesse Wilhoit came up to my room as we were finishing up, and he
came to dinner with us that night.  He brought along his roommate,
another soccer player by the name of Bryan Watkins.  Jesse and Bryan
eased my transition from home to college life that evening with their
stories about their freshman year at school.  It kept my parents, and
especially my mother, from getting too emotional about packing off
their middle son.

The next morning my family headed back home.  Dad shook my hand,
Stephen pretty much ignored me, and my mother hugged me fiercely,
tears running down her face.

"Aw, Mom," I said, as embarrassed as only a new college freshman can
be.  "Don't cry.  Don't think of it as losing a son, think of it as
gaining a bedroom."

Well, that didn't seem to help much but, finally, she let me go and
reluctantly got in the car.

Dad slipped me fifty dollars when Mom was turned away, as he shook
my hand once more.

"Don't forget to write your mother often, son," he reminded me.
"Make my life easier, would you please?"  He grinned ruefully and
opened his car door.

Stephen apparently had been hanging back for a reason, looking
around as if he didn't have a care in the world.  When Dad got in and
closed the door, he turned to me and awkwardly hugged me.

"I'm proud of you, Sean," he whispered roughly.  "I'm never going to
be able to go to college, so you're gonna have to have fun enough for
both of us."

I hugged him back, surprised and gratified at his gesture.  "What do
you mean, you won't be able to go to college?  Get your grades up and
you'll be fine."

"Nah," he said as he let me go.  "I've got my own family to take
care of, as soon as I'm out of high school.  Tara and the baby."

"You can take care of them best by being the best you can be.  If
that means going to college, then that's what you have to do,
Stephen."

He shrugged.  "We'll see," he answered.  He hopped into the back
seat and adjusted his earphones for the long ride home.  Just before
he closed the door, he gave me a quick grin and a thumbs-up.  It gave
me some encouragement that he was going to be okay.

My parents finally pulled out, and I was on my own.  With luck and
some diligence, I hoped I would make the most of this opportunity,
and not fuck up too much.



*****



Soccer tryouts and team meetings began that afternoon.  We all met
at the fieldhouse, and Coach Pick put us through his paces with laps,
dribbling and passing drills, and free kick shots on net from
different distances out on the field.  I got the feeling that he and
his staff had already decided on their starting lineups, and all that
was left to do was evaluate some of the walk-ons who were trying out
for the team.

After about three hours of working in the Florida heat and humidity,
I was wiped out.  As I looked around, I could see that I wasn't
really in any worse shape than anybody else, which made me feel a
little better.  About the only ones who looked like they could keep
going were Jesse Wilhoit and Martin Flauget, a junior defenseman from
France.  Both Jesse and Martin had been playing with the Under-20
National Team, and had spent the summer in North Carolina at the USSF
training facilities.  Because of their experiences over the summer,
they were both in exceptional shape, having honed their skills in the
heat and humidity that North Carolina provided during June and July.

At the end of that first practice day, the coaches led us off the
practice fields and into the fieldhouse.  We all filed into a meeting
room next to our locker room.  There were backless benches around the
walls, and the middle of the room was empty.  We all either sat on a
bench or flopped to the floor as Pick and his assistants conferred.

Finally, Pick called for our attention.  "Listen up here, fellas,
I've got a few announcements."

He waited a moment for us to settle down.  "You boys who have been a
part of this here program have heard this speech before, but that
don't mean I want you to not pay attention again.  Okay?"  He didn't
bother waiting for any answers.  "You freshmen and transfers, here's
the bottom line on what you're committing to here.  Your priorities
are as follows: classes and grades first.  Got that?  I'll repeat it
for you, just in case you thought you didn't hear me right.  Classes
and grades come first.  If you ain't passing your classes, you ain't
playing soccer, so classes and grades have got to come first.  Right
behind them is the team.  Okay?  With me so far?"

He looked around the room.  His attitude was one of not expecting
any questions, and he got none from us.

"If'n you have any spare time after that, you come see me.  I'll see
to it you keep busy."  There was a scattering of groans from around
the room, mostly from older guys.  Pick continued, "During our
season, you should be so busy you won't have time to get into any
mischief.  Come springtime, maybe then you can cut loose just a
little, but until then you belong to the University and to me, in
that order, and between the two of us, we will demand about ten
percent more than you have to give, so plan now on going home dead
tired every damn night."

Jesse was sitting on my right, and Spencer Goldman was on my left.
Jesse nudged me and nodded.  "He's not kidding," he murmured.

As Pick was talking, one of his assistants was passing out
schedules.  There were three pages stapled together.  I was expecting
to get a one-page summary, listing our games and times, but what we
got was a game schedule, a weekly schedule for the first four weeks,
and daily schedules, individually set according to our class
schedules.  We had full team practices, defensive and offensive units
had their own practices, and there was individual instruction for
each of us.  Our individual instruction page included scheduled
weight room times, and there were some one-on-one and two-on-two
drills set up for us.

As I was reading my sheet, there was an rhythmic and annoying
bumping of the bench going on.  I glanced around Jesse, and saw
Martin stretched out on his back on the bench, his arm holding his
head up so he could read, and his foot tapping the bench.  Jesse
glanced over at him also, and, with an exasperated look on his face,
swept Martin's feet off the bench.  Martin nearly lost his balance
and fell to the floor, but managed to catch himself in time.  He
glared at Jesse but didn't say a word.

"Prima Donna asshole," muttered Jesse.  It was the first negative
thing I had ever heard him say about anybody, and it took me by
surprise.

Pick dismissed us after going over what he expected of us over the
next couple of weeks, and Spencer and I headed toward our dorm.  He
was on the sixth floor, so he accompanied me up the stairs.  We had
made a promise to each other that we would avoid the elevator as much
as we could, but I had the feeling Spencer would break that
particular vow long before I did.

I unlocked my door and let it stay open as I flopped down on my bed.
I intended to write a letter to Luscious, but I wanted to read over
my soccer schedule once more.

It was brutal.  Eunice, Pick's office assistant, had typed in my
work schedule, meshing it with my class schedule and my workout and
practice schedules.  I had zero spare time during the week, and very
little on the weekends.  I had Sunday mornings free, and Sunday
evenings generally were open, but that was about it.  I flipped
through the pages, and saw that it would probably continue right
through Thanksgiving break, into December.  At least three months
before I would even have a day off, and there was no way I was going
home before Christmas.  Even Thanksgiving dinner was going to be a
dorm meal.  That was depressing, but even worse was the realization
that I would not see my family or friends for months.  My picture
hanging over my bed would be the closest I would come to seeing Kayla
for at least seventeen weeks.  I was going to have to keep my nose to
the grindstone and not think about it.  It was the only way I would
be able to make it.

I hoped my Kayla would understand.





(Continued in Chapter 2)





- 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)




- 3 -


A FASTER GAME



Westy Bridges turned out to be an asshole.

He disguised it pretty well, but inside that great-looking swimmer's
body, beyond the sharp eyes and the long, wavy hair and the puckish
charm, lurked an arrogant, supercilious and disdainful male slut.

He readily admitted to me he had a girlfriend back home in Atlanta,
a very nice girl his parents adored.  A rich girl whose father liked
him.  A girl who, according to Westy, was a sweet Georgia peach to
everybody, a pleasant and demure girl who dressed right, led instead
of followed, belonged to all the right groups, volunteered at the
local hospital, and carried herself with dignity and confidence.
Everybody thought of her as the epitome of the modern Southern belle.

"Everybody except me," he confided.  "With me, she's the dirtiest
little trailer trash tramp you could ever hope for.  Ain't nothin'
she won't do for me when we're alone in the bedroom, Sean," he
leered.  "And there ain't nothin' I haven't done to her.  In the
bedroom, in the back seat of her father's car, in the park in the
fuckin' grass.  She ain't a virgin anywhere, man."  Westy oozed of
confidence as he talked big.

In fact, his parents were barely out onto Interstate 75, on their
way home, when Westy began trolling.  He paced around the women's
dorms, he cruised the lake and the Student Union, and he checked out
the areas around the sorority houses.

By Sunday night he had bagged his first conquest, a hapless freshman
girl who was probably away from home for the first time, and was
unfortunate enough to have bumped into my roommate.  Westy came
stumbling into our room with his arm around her, and tried to
introduce her to me.  He had an opened beer in his other hand, which
he waved around as he talked.

"Hey, Sean ol' buddy, meet..."  He turned to the girl, a mousy
little thing with thick glasses and a downturned, thin mouth.
"What'd you say your name was, sweetie?"

"Eleanor," she said, gazing at Westy's imposingly broad shoulders,
and dropping her eyes to take in his swimmer's chest, down to his
impossibly narrow waist.

"Yeah.  Meet Eleanor.  Elly, this is my roomie, Sean.  Say goodbye
to Sean, Elly, he was just leaving."  He gave me a significant look.

"Sure," I said.  "I was just leaving."  I stared back at Westy,
trying to let him know I was not happy about this situation.  "But
I'm planning on coming back in about an hour," I said.

"An hour's plenty of time for us," said Westy, holding on to poor
Eleanor.  She probably thought he was being protective.  I thought he
was being possessive.  I picked up the letter I was trying to write
and left them alone, heading up to Spencer's room.

When I got to the sixth floor, the music pumping out of rooms up and
down the hall was nearly painful.  Country was competing with blue-
eyed soul, Southern rock was prominent, and there was a smattering of
a new sound, a primarily spoken type of music called rap.  I got to
Spencer's door and heard good old Led Zeppelin pounding out the
speakers.  I poked my head in and saw Spencer at his desk, and his
roommate, a soft-spoken baseball player named Arlen Jones, on his
back on his lofted bed, his hands propping up his head and his feet
moving in time with the music.

"Hey," I shouted, trying to be heard over the music, "mind if I camp
out here for awhile?"

Spencer glanced up.  "Come on in," he said.  "What's up?"

"Westy's got a chippie," I said.

"So?" asked Spencer.

"So, he wanted a little alone time with her, so I got kicked out for
an hour."

"Ahhh," he said knowingly.  He gestured toward Arlen's desk chair
and reached for a deck of cards.  "How about some gin?" he asked, a
glint in his eye.  "Penny a point?"

Just looking at him, I knew I was in trouble.  What the hell, I
thought, how much can I lose in just an hour?  I nodded.



*****



About ninety minutes later, I stumbled from Goldman's room in a
little bit of a shock.  I was already down over six bucks.  Spencer
was magnanimous about it.

"We'll just keep track here in this," he said, pulling a notebook
from his bookshelf.  He smirked just a little as he carefully wrote
down the date and the amount I owed him.

I trotted down the three flights of stairs to the third floor, and
back to my own room.

Westy was there, alone.  He was sitting on the couch, desultorily
rubbing at a stain on the coverlet.

"Fuckin' bitch was a cherry," he muttered when he saw me.  "She
fuckin' bled all over my couch.  My mom's gonna have a kitten when
she sees this."

I looked at him, thoroughly disgusted.  "Don't worry about it," I
said facetiously.  "That stain will probably be buried by plenty of
others before the year ends."

He brightened.  "Hey, you're right, roomie," he said.  He actually
took me seriously, which bothered me even more.  "Hell, between you
and me, we'll probably bust the springs right out of this bastard,
won't we?"

I didn't even bother to grace his comment with a reply.  I took the
letter to Kayla I was working on and climbed up into my bed to try to
write.




*****



On Monday, Coach Pick finally put us into teams and had us
scrimmage.  Jesse and Spencer were on Team Alpha, and Martin, Bryan
and I were on Team Omega.  Martin was a leftie, so he was a natural
to play the left defensive side.  I was defending on the right, and
Bryan was the forward on my side.  Our keeper was Rick Rogers, who
was a senior and the team's starting keeper.  We had Brad Rickman as
our stopper, another senior and a starter for the team.

We played a full 90-minute scrimmage.  I knew we would be pressed
hard by having to defend against both Jesse and Spencer, and that was
proven less than ten minutes into the scrimmage.  Jesse, in the
center, and Spencer, playing on the left, kept on challenging us,
pressing us through the middle and on our right, into my territory.
I ran hard and concentrated on getting the ball out of the way.  With
Brad's help and Rick's direction, we managed to deflect all but a few
thrusts into our area before the coaches restarted.

I thought I was prepared to fight for my position as right defender.
I was determined to battle for the starting position.  What I didn't
really realize until that first scrimmage was how fast the college
game was, compared to the high school level.  Everybody on the field
was a high school star, and the pace of the play increased
dramatically over what I had been used to seeing.  I had to scramble
to keep up at first, until I got more used to the speed of the
players and the velocity of the passes.

The other aspect of the game that was surprising to me was how much
of the game was played in the air.  In high school, lofted passes
were common, but we played the game on the ground for the most part.
In college play, the ball stayed in the air longer, and headers,
juggling, and using vertical spaces also provided advantages and
strategies I had rarely seen before.  In fact, I watched in amazement
as Martin Flauget, in a defensive maneuver, used his head, shoulders,
and chest to keep the ball in the air, all while he was moving
upfield at a healthy trot.  Up until that moment, it had never
occurred to me to even try to do that.  It kept his opponents
sufficiently off the ball, however, and he was able to move the ball
out of our red zone.  He finally let the ball drop down to his feet,
powered it off his shin guard and off the Alpha midfielder's leg and
out of bounds, giving us time to reset on the throw-in.

Flauget wasn't the only one, either, to carry the game up into the
air.  Midfielders on both sides tended to use their heads on the ball
much more often than I had seen before.  It was something of a
revelation.

After practice, I mentioned it to Spencer.

"Yeah, I was surprised, too," he admitted.  As a midfielder, he had
been burned by our Omega challenger a couple of times, who elevated
and took the ball out of the air as Spencer was waiting for it to
drop.  He learned quickly, though, and adjusted.  By the second half,
he, too, was leaping up, challenging for the ball.

Jesse, sitting across from me in the locker room, interjected, "I
probably should have told you about that.  It took me a little while
to get used to the speed and the trajectory of the ball at this
level.  Everybody plays a little faster, kicks a little harder,
pushes it as much as they can to try to build an edge.  You'll do the
same in a little while."

"It is a faster game here," I said.

"Everybody was a hero back home," Jesse reminded me.  "Here, you've
got to step it up if you want to be noticed."

"I'll say."  I hoped I had something in my repertoire to step up to.
Otherwise, I would find myself sitting on the bench a lot more than I
wanted to do.



*****



Bryan Watkins, Jesse Wilhoit's roommate, was a member of the Phi
Kappa Phi fraternity.  His girlfriend, Melanie Forsythe, was a
walking dream.  She was on the Florida cheerleading squad, she was a
member of the Hellenic Council, and she had been a finalist the
previous year for Homecoming Queen.  She was also the princess of the
Phi Kap fraternity, and unofficial leader of the Phi Kappa Phi
Auxiliary, a loose-knit organization of girlfriends of Phi Kaps whose
purpose was to help the Phi Kaps with their school-sanctioned parties
and receptions.  They also provided help organizing the house for
Greek Rush Week, along with providing attractive decoration during
the recruitment phase.

Bryan had asked me if I was interested in rushing.  He was willing
to stand for me with the Phi Kaps, nearly ensuring that I would be
invited to join their pledge class.  I didn't feel like I was the
fraternity type, however, so I declined as politely as I could.

"Hey, it's no problem at all," Bryan assured me.  "Hell, I couldn't
even get Jesse to join up.  It's not like nobody will talk to you if
you aren't Greek."

"Well, thanks anyway," I said.

"Just do me a favor, will you, Porter?  Come to the fraternity house
the first night of Rush.  I'll introduce you around, you get to scarf
up a lot of free food, the guys will see I'm out there trying to
recruit.  You decline when they send out the invitations to come
back, everybody's happy.  Okay?"

"Do I have to sign up for Rush?  I really don't want to put on a
glad face at all those fraternity houses," I said.

"Nah, don't sign up," he said.  "Just show up at the Phi Kap house
the first night of Rush.  I'll have it all set for you."

"Sure," I said.  "I can do that."

"And," he added as an incentive, "Melanie wants to meet you.  I
think she's got something cooking you might like."

"You know I've got a girlfriend at home, right?" I asked, a little
worried.  "I hope this doesn't have anything to do with fixing me up
or anything."

"I told her about it," he replied.  "Trust me, she's got a head on
her shoulders.  Beauty and brains."

"In that case, okay.  I'll be there," I told him.

And, just like that, I made a seemingly simple decision that would
end up having a tremendous impact on my life for the next several
months.




(Continued in Chapter 4)




- 4 -


A VERY GOOD DEFENSEMAN



Our first game was a non-conference away game at the University of
South Florida.  I was preparing for a very long bus ride, thinking
USF was located around Miami or Fort Lauderdale, until Jesse
corrected me.

"Sorry to disappoint you, freshman," he said with a chuckle, "but
the University of South Florida is in Tampa.  It's not even three
hours away, man."

"Tampa?  I don't think anybody would consider Tampa to be in
southern Florida.  What's up with that?  It must be a really old
school, then.  I'm assuming the name was picked because Tampa was
considered to be way south, what, maybe a hundred years ago?"

Jesse laughed out loud.  "You'd think," he said.  "The school's not
even thirty years old, Porter.  The state legislature, in the
infinite wisdom that political bodies all over the world consistently
demonstrate, decided that the University of South Florida was a
perfectly appropriate name for an institute of higher learning
located smack dab in the central part of the state."

I must have looked very confused, because Jesse just shook his head
and chuckled as we loaded our gear bags into the baggage compartment
of the bus.

We filed onto the bus and settled in for the ride to Tampa.  I took
along a backpack filled with books and homework assignments.  I was
already falling behind on my schoolwork, and I owed Kayla about four
letters.  In her last couple of letters, she mentioned how she had
grudgingly accepted not getting a letter every day.  She also
pointedly wrote about how she felt when she went two or three days
without hearing from me.  Even that guilt trip couldn't manufacture
things to tell her, however, and my letter-writing frequency was
dropping again.

Schoolwork first, I reminded myself.  I sighed as I reached into my
backpack for my English assignments.

I had worked very hard during practices, both on the field and in
the weight room, trying to increase my chance of earning a starting
position.  Right from the beginning, Pick had been very encouraging,
urging me to try my best and not be afraid of failure.

Just that little statement alone put the fear of God into me, and
spurred me on to work even harder.  I did not want to fail.  What
would my parents say?  What would Kayla say?  What would I tell
myself?

So I pushed.  I ran further, tried to run faster, did more reps on
the machines, and lifted free weights in an attempt to strengthen my
legs, my traps, and my pecs.  These were the areas I felt needed the
most attention, especially for playing at the college level.  I
needed more support from my upper body if I was going to be heading
the ball with any force or direction.

I took Coach Pick's admonishments to mean he still hadn't decided on
his starting lineup, particularly at the right defensive position.
There was a junior named Dan Ortega on the team who was pretty good,
and I knew he was my main competition for the starting job.  Dan was
bigger and stronger than me, but he was slower on his feet.  He
handled the distance runs pretty well, though he tended to lag toward
the back of the field.  Additionally, his sprint work was terrible.

I had heard about some research that was being done on the leg
muscles of men and women who ran track events, and preliminary
results indicated that there were two types of muscle fibers.  Slow-
twitch fibers suited long-distance runners, and fast-twitch fibers
were predominant in sprinters.  Dan's legs had to have been made up
of nearly one hundred percent slow-twitch, because he ran sprints
like he was carrying fifty-pound weights in his hands.  His best time
at the 100-yard dash was something over 15 seconds, and his 220 and
440 times were even worse.

He was a strong defender, however, and experienced.  It was nearly
impossible to push him off the ball, and he could power the ball
downfield on throw-ins much further than I could.  It was his third
year playing on the team, and even though he was a role player and
not one of the stars, he functioned efficiently on the field.

Dan was as easygoing a guy as I had ever met, though, and he took my
eagerness to compete completely in stride.  In fact, he often met me
at the gym and partnered up on working with the weights.  He
encouraged me, and even gave me a fair amount of advice on the
Florida system of playing.

One day, as we were resting between battles with the lat machine,
Dan said, "Here's kind of what's going through Pick's mind, Sean.
You know how football is divided up into the NFC and the AFC?"

"Sure," I said.  I took a gulp of water and stretched out my upper
arms.  I might have overdone it working my triceps, I thought.

"Okay, the NFC has always relied on the running game and defense,
right?  And the AFC likes to run and gun."

"Right," I said.  "Joe Montana loves the running game."

"Okay, there are always exceptions, smart-ass," he retorted.  "But
listen up for a second.  Pick's teams are like the NFC.  He believes
defense wins games.  And he's been pretty successful so far operating
on that premise.  But, just like the Forty-Niners, he's not going to
object too much if he happens to have a little firepower in his
offense, too.  Know what I mean?"

"And that's where Jesse fits in," I said.

"Yep," he agreed.  "And maybe your buddy Goldman, too."

I glanced over at him, and then stood up to attack the lats again.
"Dan, you know I'm going to try to win the starting spot on the
right."

"Of course, freshman," he said with a small smile.  "I'd expect
nothing less from an All-American.  But you'll have to go through me
to get onto the field."

I was puzzled.  "So why are you helping me so much, then?"

He slapped me on the back, and then gently pushed me toward the
Nautilus machine.  "I'd like that starting job, too," he said as I
settled myself into position.  "But soccer isn't my be-all and end-
all.  If you make the team stronger by being on the field, then you
should have the starting spot.  Go," he said, pointing to the weights.

I started working my reps again.  "I'm not going to lay down for
you, freshman," he continued.  "But if you win it fair and square,
I'll be your biggest supporter.  Because it will mean we're fielding
the best team we can."

Dan played on Team Alpha in practices, and he played hard.  He
lumbered around and got in anybody's way who dared attempt an
incursion into his little kingdom.  He rebuffed every offensive set
in his direction, clearing the ball out of bounds or moving it over
to Rick in the net.  He was easy to run around, but he always seemed
to have the angle on any penetration, and his center support was
always there to lend a hand.

In short, he played like a man who deserved to start on a Division 1
team.  His game was stifling, if not very flashy.

It was a bit of a surprise to me, then, when Coach Pick named me as
the starter for the first game.

We got to the USF campus and found our way to the soccer complex.
The USF team was already on the field warming up.  It was a hot day,
into the nineties and pretty humid.  I hoped the team managers had
put plenty of Gatorade on ice for us.  We would need it on this day.

Spencer and Jesse were anchoring the offense, and Martin, Rick,
Brad, and I were holding down our end of the field.  Nobody on either
team wanted to run full out during the opening minutes, preferring to
save something in reserve for the second half, so the ball never got
much beyond midfield in either direction.  Occasionally there would
be an incursion by an offensive unit, but there was never a much of a
threat mounted against either goal.

It became kind of obvious, however, that Martin Flauget really was
the Prima Donna that Jesse considered him to be.  Every time he got
the ball, instead of passing it or moving it up, he would hold his
position with the ball, waiting for an opponent to challenge him.  He
would then use his tricks and skills to move around the opponent.
Then, once he was finished dazzling the onlookers, he would pass the
ball off.  Occasionally the USF forward or midfielder would attempt a
slide tackle, and a couple of times they were able to knock the ball
away from Martin, usually out of bounds.  It didn't bother Flauget,
though, since it almost always resulted in a throw-in for us.  He
would trot over to the sidelines, grab a ball, and toss it.  Even his
throw-ins were tinged with an insouciance, and perhaps even
nonchalance, that was grating to his teammates, and must have been
infuriating to those assigned to guarding him.

He was a very good defenseman, despite all that.  He followed the
direction of his keeper, kept himself well positioned between the
ball and the goal, and in general disrupted the flow of USF's
offense.  His passing was acute, and he could move the ball in one
fluid kick halfway up the field and hit his target with startling
accuracy.  I couldn't help but be grudgingly impressed with his play,
despite the grandstanding.

On the bus back to Gainesville after our 3-1 win, I found an excuse
to wander up to the front of the bus, where Pick and his assistants
were spread out.  I slipped into the seat next to Coach.

"Can I ask you something, Coach?"

He glanced over at me.  The intelligent look in his eye made me
think he already knew what I was going to ask.

"Why, shore, son, fire away," he said.

"What's the deal with Flauget, sir?  I would think his showboating
would make you angry."

He glanced quickly over to one of his assistants, a tall and gangly
graduate student named Eddie Whitehead, and just as quickly looked
back at me.

He lowered his voice as he explained, "Well, it doesn't please me, I
don't mind telling you, Sean.  Eddie, here," and he nodded his head
in the direction of his assistant, sitting across the aisle from us,
"found him playing club ball out of New York City.  Graduated from
high school a year early, and was havin' a good time just playin'
soccer in Central Park.  His daddy's a bigwig at some Frenchy company
with an office in Manhattan, his mommy fancies herself as a jet-
setter, so he was just kinda left on his own a lot.  His social
skills was just plain awful, I tell you."  He chuckled softly at the
memory.

"So Eddie found him?" I prompted.

"Oh, yeah.  Eddie's got contacts up in the New York area, and he
heard about this here Frenchy fella who could play.  Brung him down,
gave him the tour, done the whole dog-and-pony show for him and his
papa.  Momma was too busy to join 'em, I guess."  He grunted as he
reached down and shoved the newspaper he had been holding in his lap
into his overstuffed briefcase.  As he was bent down, he looked over
at me shrewdly.

"Tell me what you saw out there, Sean," he said, smiling
enigmatically.

"I saw a guy who needs somebody to sit down on him and give him a
large dose of humility," I said.

Pick's smile grew wider.  "Yup," he agreed.  "What else?"

"The guy's a hell of a ballhandler."

"Yup, that he is.  And he's always happy to show you all about it,"
Pick said.

"And he plays the position as well as anybody I've ever seen," I
admitted grudgingly.

Now Pick was smiling broadly.  "Yup," he said.  "'Member when I told
you about certain projects I was willing to take on occasionally?"

I nodded.

He jerked his thumb toward the back of the bus.  "That's one of my
bigger ones.  And he's improved quite a bit.  You shoulda seen him a
couple a years ago, son.  You would have really hated him then."

"Jeez, no thanks," I said.  He was worse?  It was hard to imagine.

Pick Cropper was giving me the eye.  I knew him well enough by now
not to be fooled by that Southern cracker exterior he enjoyed
exhibiting.  Behind the buffoonish act was a sharp, no-nonsense mind
intent on producing the best soccer players and the best graduates
for the University of Florida that he could.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Oh, nothin', son.  I'm just ruminatin' on some idears.  Don't mind
me."  He stretched back into the cushions of his seat and closed his
eyes, signaling the end of our conversation.  I got up and made my
way back to my backpack and my latest letter home to Kay.



*****



When the team got back on campus after the game and our long bus
ride, I wanted nothing more than to take another shower and crawl
into bed.  Spencer and I walked back from the fieldhouse to our dorm
together, and made plans to meet up for breakfast the next morning,
Sunday, before we had to report for our team meeting.

I unlocked my dorm room door and opened it.  Westy glanced up at me
from the couch in surprise, clearly not expecting me back as yet.
Neither did the plump and pimply girl who had her legs wrapped around
him.

Westy barely missed a stroke.  "Hey, Sean," he said with a wink, and
he bent back and continued pounding into the girl.

"Ah, fer chrissakes," I muttered.  I grabbed my towel and my shower
kit out of my closet and slammed the door on my way down the hall.
Seeing Westy's naked ass sticking up was certainly not the most
pleasant of sights upon opening my door.  I was going to have to have
a long talk with the boy.

I took a long time in the shower, just letting the hot water stream
down on my shoulders and rinse away the tension that had appeared
there.  Once I finished, I dried off and slipped a set of sweats on.
I gathered up my stuff, tossed my damp towel over my shoulder, and
shuffled back down to my room, hoping against hope I would find the
room empty.

No such luck.  At least they were done, and I only had to put up
with the smell of sex that permeated the room.  My roomie was sitting
on the couch in his underwear, his arm casually around the shoulder
of his latest conquest.  She was a homely girl, going to fat and with
splotches of acne on her chin, her forehead, and her chest.  She had
put her bra and panties on, and was tolerating Westy's arm around her.

"Look, Westy..." I began.

"Sean, this is Doreen," interrupted Westy.

"Maureen," the girl corrected.  "Are you really Sean Porter?"  Her
eyes tracked my every move as she sat there next to Westy.

"Uh, yeah," I said.

"I've heard of you," she said.  "You're the soccer player."

"I'm just a soccer player.  Not the soccer player."

She twisted to get away from Westy's arm, and then stood up.  The
tops of her heavy breasts quivered in their encasing bra as she moved.

I don't think I've ever seen an industrial-strength bra before, I
thought to myself.

"I'm Maureen Saunders," she said as she sidled up to me.  I backed
off hurriedly and turned to my closet to hang up my towel.  I was
very uncomfortable, and she made me even more jittery when she
grabbed my arm.

"I know all about you," she said.  "I've read about you."

"Really?" I said.  She was making it tough to be polite, hanging on
me the way she was, but I was determined to do my best.

"Sure.  My... friend back home played soccer.  He played forward,
though.  He even played against you."  She giggled and turned shyly
away.  I thought she was going for a coquettish look, but it didn't
work.  "He hated you, I think.  But I thought you were wonderful."

"I played against him?  Where are you from?"

"I graduated from Lincoln Valley," she said.

"Lincoln Valley?  Really?  Home of the Bozo Brothers?" I asked.

"The Bozo Brothers?  I don't know them," she said, an odd look on
her face.  "But my... friend's name is Bruce Willits, and he played
on the varsity team."

"Bruce..." It couldn't be.  Could it?  "Did your boyfriend have a
teammate named Jack something?"

Her eyes lit up.  "Sure," she said brightly.  "Jack Adamski.  That's
Bruce's best friend."

"Ah," I said.  Jack and Bruce were Bozo One and Bozo Two, the two
inept Lincoln Valley players I had the misfortune to play against
through most of my high school career.  Great, I thought.  And now I
have the bad luck to meet up with Bozo One's girlfriend.  "So, where
are the Bozo... I mean, where are Jack and Bruce going to school?"

She still hadn't let go of me, and Westy, sitting alone on the
couch, was looking a little steamed about it.  "Bruce is going to
community college, and Jack is in the Army."

"No kidding.  Well, the Army will probably do him some good," I
said.  Maybe the Army could knock a little discipline into him, even
if his soccer coach couldn't.

Westy finally got tired of sitting by himself.  "Hey, Maureen, come
over here," he said, patting the cushion beside him.  "Papa's getting
lonely."

She glanced at him, but made no move to join him.

"I went to all their games," she said, pointedly ignoring Westy.  "I
watched you play, too.  Even though you played against us, against
Jack.  I thought you were really good."

"Thanks," I said.  I tried disentangling myself, but Maureen wasn't
going to let go so easily.

"Hey!  Maureen!"  Westy was getting irritated.  "How 'bout a blowjob
before you leave?  And one for my man Sean, too?"  He gestured toward
her, and then pointed to his crotch hopefully.

"Go fuck yourself," she said with some venom.  "You got what you
wanted, and I got what I wanted.  So fuck off."

Westy was genuinely hurt.  "Aw, that's not fair," he pouted.  All of
a sudden, he realized what she had said.  "Hey, what did you mean,
you got what you wanted?"

Maureen finally let go of my arm and turned to face Westy.  She had
her fists propped on her meaty hips as she stared balefully at him.
"You got your rocks off, didn't you?  And I got to meet your
roommate.  It's a fair trade, I'd say."

Westy looked puzzled.  "A trade?"  Recognition dawned in his eyes.
"You mean you came up here with me because you wanted to meet Porter?"

Maureen favored him with a tight smile.

"You are a cold bitch, ain't you?" he said heatedly.

"Yeah, like you're one of the great saviors of mankind," she spat.

Westy hopped up angrily.  I hurriedly stepped between them.

"Grab your clothes," I said to her.  "You'd better leave."  I turned
to Westy.  "And you," I continued, pointing directly at him, "you
need to sit back down and shut the fuck up."

Westy had about two inches in height on me, and his shoulders were
muscled and bunched.  He probably outweighed me by thirty pounds, but
I was not about to be intimidated by this asshole.  I stood my ground
and stared him down.  Finally, he dropped back to the couch and
looked away, slouching against the back and the armrest.

Maureen slipped around me, slid along the dresser on the opposite
wall from Westy, and gathered up her clothes.  She clutched them to
her stomach as she came back over by me to get dressed.  As she
pulled her jeans on, she gave me a look I couldn't read.  I didn't
say anything, or even acknowledge her, until she was dressed again
and slipping into her sandals.

"I'll walk you out," I said, and I opened the door.  As we left, I
turned back.  "Leave this open," I said to Westy.  "I don't have my
keys."

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled.

Maureen and I walked in silence to the stairwell.  We went down the
flights of stairs until we reached the outside door.

I opened the door and stood aside to let her pass through.  She took
the opportunity to throw her arms around my neck and try to kiss me.
I turned my head away in disgust.

"Thanks anyway, Sean," she said as she let me go.

"You probably don't want to get involved with him," I said.

She snorted derisively.  "Westy?  No way.  It was a one-time thing.
You heard me, I wanted to meet you, and he was the quickest way."

"Well, I don't know why you wanted to meet me.  I think you got the
worst of that bargain."

She laughed out loud.  "Nope," she said.  "I got laid, and I got to
meet the All-American.  I'd say it was a pretty successful afternoon."

I just shrugged and turned to go back upstairs.

"Sean?"

I turned back and caught at the door before it closed.  "What?"

"I'm in Thomas Hall.  Will you call me sometime?"

Now it was my turn to snort derisively.  "I don't think so," I said,
and I let the door close as I headed back upstairs.





(Continued in Chapter 5)





- 5 -

THE CONVERSATION ON A SWING



Greek Rush started the next Monday evening.  I had promised Bryan I
would go to the open house at the Phi Kappa Phi house, so after a
long day in class, and a long day on the practice field, I put on
some actual dress-up clothes.

I was standing in front of the tiny mirror in my dorm room, trying
to remember how to tie a Windsor knot, when Westy came in from taking
a shower.

"How come you're all duded up?" he asked as he toweled off his hair.

"Rush," I answered.  "I'm going over to the Phi Kap house to meet a
friend."

"Hey, no kidding.  Wait up for me, would you?"  He dropped his towel
onto the arm of the couch.  "I'm going to rush, too.  I'll walk over
there with you."

I glanced at him through the mirror.  "Are you rushing, too?"

"Yeah," he replied as he began digging through one of his dresser
drawers.  "I thought it would be a hoot.  Meet some guys to party
with, maybe find some chicks who want to ball a frat guy."

Oh, great," I muttered.  "Just what you need is more opportunity to
trash your couch."

"That's the spirit, Porter," he said exuberantly.  He began
rummaging through his closet.  "So, I take it this is kind of a
formal party?  I mean, I shouldn't wear cut-offs or anything, right?"

"I would assume so," I replied.  I finally got the knot of my tie,
and I propped myself against my desk to wait for him.

"Do me a favor," he said as he bent down to put on his socks.  "Go
across the hall and knock on Jason's door, would you?  Him and me
were going to go together.  Make sure he's ready, okay?"

I levered myself up and opened our door.  I walked over to the room
diagonal from ours, where Jason Emerson and Craig Nevers lived.
Jason and Craig were part of the general freshman population of non-
athletes who were scattered around our dorm.  Jason, from New Jersey,
was majoring in business, and Craig, a native Floridian, was in pre-
med.  I rarely saw Craig without his head buried in a textbook, and
already, hardly started into his college career, he looked harried
and fretful.  I was glad I wasn't in such a tough area of study.
With my schedule, I was having a hard enough time keeping up as it
was.

I knocked on their door, and Jason opened it up.  He was dressed in
torn and ratty jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt.

"Dude, tell me you aren't going to go to Greek Rush dressed like
that," I said.

"Why?  What's wrong?"  He looked genuinely perplexed.

"You look like a fugitive from a bad 70's flashback," I said.  I
pushed him back into his room.  As I expected, Craig was at his desk
studying.  He looked up distractedly as I guided Jason over to his
closet.

"Look, the whole purpose for these parties is so you can make a good
impression on the members of the fraternity," I said.  I started
going through his clothes hanging in his closet, looking for
something appropriate for him.  "Wear the ugly shirt after you get
in, not when you're trying to get in."

I pulled out a button-down oxford shirt and a pair of pressed slacks
I found in the back of his closet and tossed them to him.

"Change," I commanded.

He complied, but he obviously wasn't happy about it.

"Sean, these just aren't comfortable, man," he complained.  "Are you
sure I gotta wear this shit?"

"Yes, he's sure," answered Craig for me.  He didn't look like he was
very happy with the interruption.

"I've got even worse news for you, dude," I said.  I tossed a pair
of wing tips onto the floor beside him.  "You've got to wear these,
too."

"Oh, man," he whined.  He tossed his old clothes up onto his bed and
reluctantly put on the shirt and the slacks I had found for him.  He
opened one of his dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of dark socks.

Once he was dressed, we headed out to the hall.

"You sure you don't want to come with us, Craig?" I asked one last
time.

"I'm sure," he answered distractedly.  He waved in our direction
without taking his eyes off the page he was studying.

Westy was just coming out of our room.  He cleaned up pretty good, I
thought to myself as we walked toward the stairway.  Now if only I
could get him to clean up the rest of his act.

It wasn't a long walk from our dorm over to Greek Row, where many of
the fraternity houses were located.  Both Westy and Jason were
scheduled to go to Lambda Mu first.  Westy was visiting the Phi Kaps
second, and Jason was going to be there during the third session.
They walked up to the Lambda house together, and I continued on to
the Phi Kap house, further down the block.

I got there just as the first party was getting going.  They had
some of their Little Sisters greeting everybody at the door.  They
had been supplied with the names of the freshmen who were scheduled
to be at each of the parties beforehand, and they checked them off
and directed them to various rooms to talk to the fraternity members.
I walked up to the table set up on the porch, where two very
attractive girls were stationed.

"Hi, I'm Sean Porter," I said.  A brunette with long hair and
piercing blue eyes smiled at me.  She raised one shapely eyebrow
enticingly.

"Hello, Sean Porter," she said with a slight southern drawl.  I
could really get to like living here, I thought.

The other girl was a sleek redhead.  She had starbursts of freckles
on her high cheeks that were muted but not extinguished by her
makeup.  She checked her manifest, and looked up at me quizzically.

"I'm sorry.  Did you say Sean Porter?  I don't have you on my list,"
she said.  She actually looked and sounded sorry.  Man, these girls
are good, I thought.

Another girl, a tiny little thing with short black hair, turned from
the doorway when she heard the redhead's comment.

"Did you say your name was Sean Porter?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, nearly dazzled by the hundred-kilowatt smile that
lit up her face.

"Bryan's been expecting you," she said.  She leaned over to the
girls at the table.  "Special case," she said to them.  "I'll take
him in."

The two girls at the table turned to the guy standing behind me and
turned on the charm for him.  I was quickly forgotten by them as they
continued with their duties.  I mentally shrugged.  Easy come, easy
go.

"Hi, I'm Alexandra Wallace," she said, holding out her hand for me
to shake.  "My friends call me Alex, though."

"It's nice to meet you, Alex," I said.  I tried not to fumble with
her hand too much, but she really was very small, and my hand seemed
to envelop hers.  I hoped I didn't squeeze it too hard.

"Bryan's been expecting you," she said, turning toward the open
front door.  There was electronic music coming out of the big
speakers in the front room, Kraftwerk or some offshoot.  I thought it
was kind of an odd choice of music for a big function like this, but
it soon slipped into the background as the crowded rooms broke down
into smaller groups of conversation.

Alex threaded her way through, and I was happy to follow her.  We
made our way through the front parlor, a large television room, and
into the dining room.  Bryan was standing by the table, talking to a
couple of other guys, when he saw Alex bringing me in.

"Porter!  Over here!"

I thanked Alex and walked over to Bryan.

"Sean, I'd like you to meet the president of our fraternity, John
Huff."

John was tall and stood nearly at attention.  He had a strong chin,
a steely gaze, and a firm handshake.  He looked like he should be
president of a bank or something.

"I've heard a lot about you, Sean.  Good to meet you."  His voice
matched the face, deep and resonant.

"Thank you," I said.  I was unsure just what he could have heard
about me, but I was willing to go with the flow for Bryan's sake.

"What do you know about Phi Kappa Phi fraternity?" asked John.

"Well, uh..."

Before I could embarrass myself, Bryan jumped in.  "Sean's just
doing some preliminary skirmishing, Captain.  Will you excuse us?  I
see Melanie over there, and I think she's looking for us."

He hustled me away.  John looked indulgently pleased as Bryan
steered me out of the room.

"Captain?" I asked as we stepped back into the television room.

Bryan had a sour look as we took up a spot against the wall.
"Jack's an idiot, but he's a good face man."

"Now I'm completely lost," I said.  "Jack?  And what's a face man?"

Bryan chuckled.  "He hates to be called Jack.  He insists we call
him Captain Huff.  He's in ROTC, and thinks he's going to be an Army
general someday.  Truth is, he's captain of the ROTC drum and bugle
corps.  The only fighting he's likely to see are the battles at the
front lines during the VFW Happy Hour."

"Okay, that explains the 'Captain' part.  Why does he hate to be
%

_________________________________________________________________
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