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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 23
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Date: Tue, 11 May 2004 18:10:03 -0400
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After an unavoidable delay, I am back with Chapter 23 of the story of Sean 
Porter.

Enjoy!

RCM


Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
www.ruthiesclub.com

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**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**

<1st attachment, "CE23.txt" begin>


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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 23 -

REBUILDING


My friends left pretty early on Monday morning.  As much as I liked
Trent and Eric, and as much as I enjoyed their visit, I was glad to
watch them pull out of the parking lot and head back out of town.  I
didn't think I could take another day of intervention and
intoxication.  As it was, I wanted nothing more than to grab some
breakfast, and then go back to my rack and bag some more sleep.

Their efforts were not in vain.  They had opened my eyes to the
obnoxious and irresponsible way I had been acting, and I owed
everybody involved in the weekend's activities a huge debt.  I vowed
I would not forget it.

I climbed back into bed and slept for three more hours, feeling much
better than I had any right to feel when I woke up.  I was energized
and ready to get to work.  I called Eddie Whitehead and arranged to
meet him to watch the film of the kid from California, and then I got
busy with my own homework.

Later that day, Eddie and I watched the first of several films of
Harlan Lightfine, the midfielder from Simi Valley, California.  He
had led his team into the state tournament three years in a row, and
he also played on an elite club team based in West L.A.  We had a lot
of evidence of his skills at hand, but it was obvious, after watching
some of his games, his greatest attribute was his speed with the
ball.  I couldn't remember seeing anyone run with the ball in control
with anything approaching Harlan's quickness, not even Eric Johnson.
I quickly began to think of him as 'Lightspeed' instead of Harlan
Lightfine.  He was going to bring a whole new dimension to the Gators
soccer program, and I was really looking forward to seeing what we
could become.

Over the next three weeks, I adjusted to the routine.  I studied
hard, determined to keep my grades up.  I worked with Eddie many
afternoons, and I practiced with the team every day except Sundays.
I did my best to keep my head down, concentrating on doing what
needed to be done.

It was a hard lesson, but I hoped it was one I had learned well.
The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint anybody ever again.  I
had lived my miserable life disappointed in myself for many months,
and now that my friends had put me back on the road, I struggled
against my natural inclination to bury my head in the sand.  I wanted
to stay the course, and I worked hard to overcome what I knew, better
than anyone else, were my most serious flaws of character and
judgment.

About a week after Trent and Eric left, I got my first letter from
Kayla.  I opened it with trepidation, but no poison gases emanated
from it.  I held the few pages of paper gingerly.  She had apparently
written to me in her spiral notebook and then torn the pages out.
She trimmed the frayed paper with scissors, and the pages were
covered with her feminine, lovely handwriting.

She wrote of mundane, everyday things around school and her house,
and it made my heart ache with sadness.  She carefully avoided
mentioning anything about my past idiocy - idiocies? - and the tone
of her letter was deliberately neutral.

I read it three times in a row, and put it carefully in my desk
drawer for safekeeping.  I pulled out a spiral notebook of my own,
and I began my letter back to her.  I tried to keep my tone as
careful as she had been, and several times I had to scratch out
sentences and phrases that reeked of the pitiable fool I had become.
I kept at it, though, until I had a reasonably coherent reply.  I
read it over several times, making minor revisions, until I was
satisfied it didn't sound too awful.  I copied it onto fresh sheets,
tore them out, and I trimmed the edge with scissors, just like Kayla
had done.  I knew she would notice I had used the same kind of paper
as she had.  It was something I knew she would see right away, and it
felt like the right thing to do.  I dropped it into the outgoing mail
slot in the lobby of my dorm, less than twenty-four hours after I had
gotten her letter.

Another bridge to rebuild.  I had a lot of them, and each one
required a lot of work.  I hoped I had the stamina to bring it all
off.


_____________________________________________________________________


A couple of weeks later, we were in the showers after a long
practice.  We were leaving the next day to head over to a weekend
tournament in Jacksonville, and Pick had been working us pretty hard
all week to prepare for it.

"Hey, Porter."  Jesse's voice came to me through the steam in the
shower room.

"Yeah?"

"Have you got your summer clinics set up yet?"

Oh, shit.  I had not done anything about them at all.  Would my
clinics still be a draw?  "No," I admitted.  "I'd better see if
there's still interest.  I'll drop a note to Danielle.  She's got the
lists from the last couple of years."

"You were talking last year of expanding.  You still gonna do it?"

"Yeah, I guess I'd like to, if there's a demand."  I looked around.
"Spence?  You still in here?"

"Over here," he replied.  I had shampoo in my eyes, and couldn't see
a thing.  His voice came from my other side.

"What do you think about working the clinics again this summer?"

"I just assumed you were going to run them," he said.  "I was
planning on working them."

It struck me that my problems were just that: they were mine.  They
didn't extend too far beyond me, and didn't affect the kids I had
been working with at all.  It was a struggle for me to look beyond my
own insecurities and shortcomings, and Spencer's simple declaration
blindsided me with the realization that others didn't necessarily
share my internal agonies.

"Okay, then," I said.  I turned my face into the water, washing away
the soap and the tears that were forming.  "I guess I'm running the
clinics."

Jesse's voice was closer.  I glanced over, now that I had washed out
my eyes and could see again, and he was standing in the middle of the
floor, away from the spray from the showerheads.  "You want some
help?"

"Sure," I said.  I was startled by his offer, though.  "Aren't you
going back to the U-20 National Team?"

Jesse chuckled.  "I would if I could, dude," he said.  "But I'm
twenty-one now."

"Damn, that's right," I said.  "Why don't you try out for the big
one?  Go for a spot on the National Team."

"Not good enough," he said.  "Hell, even for the U-20 team I was
only a role player.  Split my time with three other guys.  It was a
great experience, but I know I can't take it to the next level yet."

"Shit, if you can't make it, there would be absolutely no hope for
me," I said.  "Not that I had even considered it."

Jesse looked at me.  "You'd make the U-20 team if you worked hard
and did a little campaigning," he said.  "And knowing you, you'd make
the most of the opportunity.  But I think you're doing a lot more
good running your clinics."

"It is a lot of fun," said Spencer.

I grinned.  "Yeah, it is," I agreed.  "There's something about
watching a kid's skills improve, and watching them realize it."

I turned the shower off and reached for my towel.  The three of us
stepped carefully out of the showers to our lockers.

"So, your reputation precedes you," said Jesse.  "You're already a
popular teacher in your area.  You want to expand?"

"To down by you?" I asked.

"Sure," he said.  "We'll use your name and structure, I'll run the
clinics just like you're doing up north, and the combined draw of
Sean Porter Clinics and Jesse Wilhoit instruction ought to bring 'em
in."

"Sounds good to me," I said.  I began to get dressed, my mind
working on the logistics of getting my organization set up for Jesse
in his hometown.  I had to write to Danielle right away, so we could
get moving on it.  Spencer would be available again, and Eric, and
Trent.  I had to call Posey Smith, and get in touch with Weasel,
and...

So little time, so much to do.


_____________________________________________________________________


I ended up having to burn up some of my money I earned working for
Pick and Eddie on long-distance calls to Danielle, Trent, Eric, and
Posey.  I figured I would see Weasel and Jorge Mendoza when I got
home.  I would be home almost a month before they got out of high
school, time enough to get my staff organized and the clinics
advertised.

When I called Danielle, she surprised me.

"I got a couple of interesting letters a couple of weeks ago, Sean,"
she said.

That statement worried me.  Who wrote to her about me?  Kayla?  Mrs.
Lehigh?

"Okay, I'm ready," I said, even though I really wasn't.  "Who from?"

I could almost hear her smile at my discomfort.  "AYSO groups in
Merrillville, Indiana, and South Bend."

"Really?  What did they want?"

"They want Sean Porter clinics," she said.

"What?  You're kidding."

"Nope.  They've been organizing, and Merrillville already has
signups for about forty kids each in three different age groups."

"Wow, that's amazing," I said.  "How did they find out about us?"

"Apparently the word got around at the regional AYSO meetings," said
Danielle.  "The officers from our own organization really talked up
the benefits."

"And you said South Bend, too?"

"Yes, can you believe it?"

"Isn't that where Notre Dame is?  They've got a great team there.
Why didn't they just get a couple of those players to run clinics?"

"Like I said, the word is out.  The Sean Porter clinics are the hot
item now, so they contacted me."  Danielle paused, and then said,
"Sean, are you thinking about expanding, like we talked about last
summer?"

"Well, Jesse wants to run a version in his hometown, and if we're
being asked to come into Indiana, I guess we might as well.  Will you
have time to work on it?"

She laughed.  "I already am, boss."

"You anticipated me, didn't you?  You are a tricky lass, Dani."

"Oh, I had a feeling you wouldn't mind taking on a few more cities,"
she said.  "You're too ambitious to turn down opportunities that come
your way."

That was the first time I could recall ever being described as
ambitious.  I didn't quite know what to think of it, even though I
knew Danielle didn't mean it at all negatively.

"Well..."  I was trying to formulate a response.

"Don't worry about it, Sean," she said with a chuckle.  "I'll handle
it.  You just have to find your instructors."

Oh, was that all?  Where was I going to find instructors in
Merrillville and South Bend?


___________________________________________________________________


Jesse and Spencer tried to get me to go out with them most weekends,
but I begged off most of the time.  Jesse had Brittany, and Bryan had
Melanie.  Spencer was dating a couple of girls, but I just didn't
want the complication.  Plus, I got to feeling like the odd man out
too often.  I was just more comfortable sitting in my dorm room or
weaving around campus with my soccer ball.

Finally, one late Friday afternoon, I got a call from Alexandra.

"We're going out tonight," she said.  "Put on your dancing shoes,
boy."

"I don't think so..."

But she would brook no dissent.  "It's not like you have a choice,
Porter," she informed me.  "I'm picking you up at nine."

I tried sighing theatrically, but she was unmoved.  "Where are you
taking me?" I finally asked.

"You remember Sha Na Na?" she asked.

"Sure," I replied.  "Doo-wop.  Played at Woodstock, featured in
'Grease' if I remember right."

"That's them.  Well, that's not who's playing, but it's a group like
them.  They do Fifties and Sixties stuff, great fun to dance to.
We're gonna twist the night away, you and I."

Actually, it sounded like fun, something that was really lacking in
my life.  "Okay," I said, my spirits picking up.  "I'll see you
downstairs at nine."

True to her word, Alex was in the parking lot when I went downstairs
a few minutes before nine.  I got in on the passenger side, and
looked at her curiously when she didn't drive off right away.

"What?" I asked.

"You've got to get the engine going," she said, smiling.

"Huh?"

She beckoned with a finger, and I leaned over to her.  She pursed
her lips, and I kissed her.  I wanted to make it kind of a brotherly,
noncommittal kiss, but Alex's lips were much too soft and pliant for
that plan to work.  The kiss lingered, and I found I really didn't
mind at all.  Not at all.

"Rrrrowwrrr," she growled.  She threw her head back and laughed.
Then, with a big grin, she dropped her car into gear and punched it.
I was thrown back against the seat, caught off balance, and Alex just
laughed.  At me, at life, I wasn't sure.  She was completely
involved, completely at ease.  I might have envied her at that moment.

Alex drove fast, and she drove casually, her hand draped over the
steering wheel at the top.  When she turned a corner, she grabbed the
wheel with both hands and yanked, sending the small car caroming
around the bend, practically on two wheels.

After the third such turn, I muttered, "Jesus H. Christ in a bucket."

Alex glanced over at me and flashed me a happy smile.  "Havin' fun,
Porter?"

"Not exactly," I gritted as I hung on for dear life.  "How many
people have you killed with this car?"

"Oh, nobody recently," she said.  "I have one simple driving rule.
I watch out for what's in front of me.  Nothing else is worth
worrying about."

"What about people beside you?"

"They're never there long," she said with a laugh.

I didn't doubt her one bit.  If I was unlucky enough to be driving
alongside her, I would give her as much room as she required.  In the
meantime, I was hanging on and hoping I survived.

The club Alex was taking me to was a converted warehouse space on
the edge of town, away from campus.  There was a crowd milling around
outside, and a couple of beefy guys in black tee shirts were guarding
the door.  Alex wheeled into a spot I would have sworn was too small,
even for her little Toyota.  She made it, just barely.  I had to
squeeze out my side, trying not to knock her door against the big
pickup truck next to us.  She slipped her arm through mine as we
walked toward the door.

"Hey, Alex," said one of the bouncers after we had threaded our way
through the people waiting to get inside.

"Hi, Chugs.  How ya doin'?"

"Aces, girl.  How you?"

"Top shelf.  Meet my friend Sean.  Porter, this here is Chugs.  Do
not - I repeat, do not - ever challenge this guy to a beer drinking
contest."

"I wouldn't even consider it," I said.  "I take it that's why you're
called Chugs?"

Chugs just grunted in affirmative.

"Can we get in sometime tonight, Chugs?" asked Alex.  Did I see her
actually batting her eyes at him?

"Sure," he said.  He stepped aside and ushered us into the doorway.
"Have a good time, girl.  Sean, you mind your manners around this
here girl.  She a friend of mine."

I looked him over.  He towered over me, and his shoulders were broad
and muscular.  He rivaled Tiny Harrison and Lamarr Elliott in size,
and I would have bet my meager life savings he was every bit as
strong as they were.  "I'll tread lightly," I told him, but he had
already turned back toward the crowd.

I turned to Alex.  "Football player?" I asked.

"Used to be," she said.  "Blew out his knee his junior year, and
then he popped his shoulder doing bench presses during rehab.  He was
lifting four hundred pounds on a bet, and that was all she wrote.
Pro career down the tubes."

"Yikes," I said.

Alex laughed, glancing at me.  "Yikes is right," she said.  "But
he's happy doing this now.  Makes good money, and nobody gets into
more than one fight in this place anymore.  Chugs sees to that."

I looked around a little nervously.  "There many fights here?"

Alex looked at me and laughed.  "Don't worry about it," she said,
taking my hand.  "I come here a lot.  It's not as nasty as it seems."

"I'll take your word for it," I said, but I kept my eyes open, just
the same.

The band onstage was a Tom Petty wannabe, following in the footsteps
of one of Gainesville's more famous musical successes.  The band was
more enthusiastic than talented, but I figured enough beer would make
them sound just fine.  We wandered off in search of the bar.

I bought us a pitcher of beer, and we found a tiny table still empty
over against one of the cinderblock walls.  There were a lot of
lights flashing near the stage, but the industrial size of the
warehouse, combined with the black paint that had been sprayed over
the walls and the various pipes and vents high above us, made the
place seem like a huge cavern.  We sat for a few minutes, drank a
little beer, and then Alex grabbed my hand and began pulling me out
toward the band.  She wanted to be right in front of the giant
speakers so she could feel the pounding sound wash through her.  I
followed along, and I shucked and shimmied along with her, knowing I
looked like a spastic lunatic and not caring.

Alex didn't care, either, as she closed her eyes and let her body
move with the music.  She was a tiny girl, barely five feet tall, and
probably didn't weigh more than ninety-five pounds.  But she could
move.  She twirled, she jumped, she writhed, always around me.  I
turned in place, trying to keep her in front of me, because that's
how I learned to dance, but Alex had no such inhibitions.  She
pranced and danced through other couples, around me, and even moved
up and leaned over the makeshift stage, her enticing butt sticking
out in my direction.  She looked over her shoulder at me, her eyes
dancing, as if daring me to do something, but there was no way I was
going to embarrass either her or myself by jumping on her, there in
front of everybody, no matter how seductive she was.  Besides, Chugs
was at the door acting like the big brother, and I was not about to
challenge his earlier threat.

The opening act's set finished up, and we wove our way back to our
table.  I flopped down into the chair and reached for my beer.  I was
sweating a little, both from the exertion and from the heat in the
place.  Dancing was hard work, and the warehouse was cooking without
air-conditioning.

We finished our pitcher, and I carried the empty up to the bar and
got a refill.  That one went down easily, too, as Alex and I kicked
back and watched the bands switch their gear around.

By the time the second pitcher was gone, the headline act, BeBop
Devils, was set and tuning up.  There were five guys and a girl on
saxophone, and they started their set with a Chuck Berry medley.

The warehouse was now very crowded, and Alex and I had to push our
way through the throng to get anywhere near the band.  There was
little dancing room, but we made do, and we hand-jived, bobby-soxed,
twisted, and did the Locomotive until we were wiped out.

Between sets there was an exodus to get out of the warehouse to the
relatively cooler air outside.  Alex and I stepped out to cool down,
and I stood around in amazement as Alex greeted her friends and
acquaintances, who seemed to number in the hundreds.  The band took a
long break between sets, about forty-five minutes, so we had plenty
of time to cool off, talk to folks, and refill our pitcher before the
next set started.

By the time the third set was finishing, we were barely standing.
Me, Alex, the fans around us, and the six members of the hard-working
BeBop Devils were all drenched with sweat, panting and thirsty.  When
the music stopped, we gave them about a ten-minute ovation, and then
joined the crowd that was heading for the exit.  My ears were
ringing, my clothes were completely soaked, and I was ready for fresh
air.

Chugs was by the door with another bouncer, watching the crowd as
they left, making sure there was no trouble at the end of the night.
Alex waved to him, and he lifted his head and smiled at her for just
a moment.  He didn't want to be distracted, though, and he went back
to scanning the patrons.  Alex held my hand as we walked slowly over
to her car, and we stopped by the rear bumper.  She stood up on
tiptoe and kissed me, holding both my hands out to the side.  After
just that one soft kiss, she let go and unlocked her door.  She
reached over and unlocked the passenger side, and I sidestepped and
carefully crawled in.

She drove back to campus with the same insouciance, her hand draped
almost languidly over the steering wheel, but by then I was either
used to her driving or merely numb due to sensory overload.  Either
way, we made it back to the dorm parking lot alive.

Before I could get out, she grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled
me to her.  She kissed me hard, letting her tongue snake out to tease
me.  Just as I was cooling down, she managed to heat me back up
again, I thought to myself distractedly, but after that one searing
kiss she let me go.  I took a deep breath and looked into her
laughing eyes.

"See ya around, Porter," she said.

I stumbled from her car and stood there as she drove off, completely
mystified and dumbfounded.  What the hell had just happened?

Exhaustion was setting in.  I opted for the slow and creaky
elevator, rather than facing the daunting challenge of four floors of
stairs, and I stopped in the community bathroom before going to my
room.  As I was washing my face and hands, I looked myself sternly in
the eye.

"You don't have time for this girl," I lectured my reflection.
"Leave it alone.  You don't need the complications."  I stared into
my own eyes.  "You don't have time for this girl."

I couldn't tell if my reflection was convinced of my arguments.  I
just shook my head and headed for my room, and my lonely and
comfortable bed.





(Continued in Chapter 24)
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