Message-ID: <47268asstr$1081167004@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <revcottonmather@hotmail.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Originating-Email: [revcottonmather@hotmail.com] From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Original-Message-ID: <SEA1-F160kU6XnDSadZ00015a01@hotmail.com> X-OriginalArrivalTime: 05 Apr 2004 04:24:36.0370 (UTC) FILETIME=[E73E0F20:01C41AC5] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2004 23:24:35 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 1-5 Lines: 1580 Date: Mon, 5 Apr 2004 08:10:04 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2004/47268> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, IceAltar So that we might all catch up, here is a repost of Chapters 1-5. Enjoy! --------------------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring this material. (copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather) E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you. --------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 % _________________________________________________________________ Persistent heartburn? 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