Message-ID: <38662asstr$1033834202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 05 Oct 2002 13:30:23.0009 (UTC) FILETIME=[5B63A110:01C26C73] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 05 Oct 2002 08:30:22 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game Chap. 18/30 (mf rom) Date: Sat, 5 Oct 2002 12:10:02 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: kelly, newsman In advance of the release of new chapters in the continuing saga, I present to you the complete original story, to be posted over several days. Or weeks. Whatever. 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 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather) E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you. --------------------------------------------------------------------- PLAYING THE GAME by Reverend Cotton Mather - 18 - THE BULLS Our first varsity soccer game was at home on Friday against one of the smallest schools in our conference. They didn't have a very talented team, according to our scouts, so I was hoping for a little playing time in the second half. The stands were not even half full. Not many kids at school cared much about soccer yet, but we hoped that would all change as we tore through our schedule. Even before our first game we were whispering about going on to sectionals, and maybe even the state playoffs. We were cocksure, confident we could beat any other school head-to-head. Only a fluke could keep us from our destiny, the playoffs. And that fluke nearly happened during our first game. The team from Rockland High School won the toss, and elected to take the ball. They tapped the ball forward and passed it back to their midfielder, who passed it over to their right midfielder. He immediately launched a booming pass all the way across the field toward the left sidelines. Our right midfielder, Kevin Soranno, went up for the ball, intending to head it up the field. At the same time, Rockland's left forward also elevated. Everybody on the field heard the loud crack when their heads hit, and Kevin went down like a sack of potatoes. The ball went soaring back toward the middle of the field, where it was picked off by a Rockland player, who trapped it, dropped the ball down to his right foot, and launched a rocket at the far right post of the net. Our keeper was one step too slow in following the play, but the ball hit the post and bounced back out to our striker, who promptly cleared the ball out of bounds. By that time, Kevin was on his knees and holding his head with both hands, and the Rockland player he collided with was about five feet away from him, standing with his hands on his knees. I know he was trying to clear the cobwebs out, having just gotten his bell rung, but at least he was on his feet. The referee stopped the game and trotted over to check on the fallen players. Both of them shook their heads when asked if they wanted to come out. Kevin climbed to his feet and jogged a few steps, making sure all the parts were in working order, then walked over to shake hands with the Rockland player. Rockland took the throw-in, and the game continued. Neither team wanted to test the right side of the field yet, so the ball pretty much stayed away from Kevin and Skip for the rest of the half. Even so, by the time the half ended, we were up 4-0. Rockland never got close to our goal after that first unlucky shot. We started the second half by playing a little more defensively. Our offense was powerful, but we didn't need to score on the hapless Rockland team any more. They were done for, and they knew it just as well as we did. Skip showed a little razzle-dazzle the few times he managed to touch the ball, but mostly we were just playing keep-away with them. Finally, with about four minutes left to play, the score was 6-0. Our coach made some wholesale substitutions, so we benchwarmers got to play the last few minutes of the game while Skip, Theo, Kevin, and many of the other starters came out. At the final whistle, we subs had hardly broken a sweat. The team went into the locker room to shower and change. We were in a great mood, that first win under our belts, glad to finally get the season underway. Our head coach, Mr. Neville, was a history teacher, so many of his locker room speeches contained obscure references to battles and soldiers from the past. Half the time I didn't understand what he was talking about, but that night we interrupted his speech several times with good-natured cheering. The next week school was back to being a full-time grind. Some of my friends were really smart at school, breezing through on a combination of charm and native smarts, but I had to work hard just to maintain a B average. Molly and Tessa both seemed to get their homework done fast, while it seemed like I struggled just to stay in the same place. Finally, on Tuesday, the last bell of the day rang. The halls were crowded with kids jostling each other, everybody anxious to get outside while the weather still held. It was a beautiful late summer day, and it seemed like everybody, students and teachers alike, were chafing at having to spend such a great day inside. The physical education teachers were the lucky ones on days like this. They could take their classes out to the track or to the football field, enjoying the good weather while their co-workers were stuck in their classrooms. I met up with Jake and Josh on the way to the gym. We were taking the scenic route, leaving school by the front door and walking around the building to enter the locker rooms from the outside. We rounded a corner of the school and saw a small gathering of some of the rougher kids from our school, a group of about 7 or 8 guys with their hair slicked back and greased up, leather jackets with the collars pulled up, chrome chains and rings hanging from jackets and jeans. They were a group of troublemakers who called themselves The Bulls, I suppose in homage to their leader, a tall, gangly kid with a bad complexion named Richie Del Toro. Richie and his gang were standing in a loose semicircle around the wall. Their body language spoke of somebody inside their circle who was regretting being there. The three of us stopped as we took in the scene. We glanced at each other, and silently agreed that we should take a closer look. Without a word, we started walking toward the group. When we were about 15 feet away, I could see two smaller bodies inside the semicircle, their backs against the wall. Between the gaps in the crowd, I was surprised to see Jorge and Kristina Mendoza were the ones surrounded. Richie was the only member of The Bulls standing inside the group. He had a cowlick sticking straight up on top of his greasy head, an errant lock of hair that refused to be controlled by anything Richie put on it. He was derisively known as Alfalfa behind his back, and occasionally to his face. "I'll betcha you're a hot little tamale, aren't you? Are you a hot one, Conchita? Como esta blowjobs?" Richie was saying. He tentatively reached out toward Kristina, who flinched away. "Leave her alone, you piece of dog shit," yelled Jorge. "Close it, Jorge. Whore-Hay. What the fuck kind of name is that, anyway?" The group around them tittered as if they were witnessing a star performance on "The Tonight Show". Richie loved playing to the crowd, I noticed. "It's a better name than 'Alfalfa', Alfalfa," retorted Jorge. Richie lunged at him, perhaps intending to slap the smaller freshman around, but Jorge was too slippery. He ducked under Richie's arm and moved behind him. Big mistake, I thought. Almost immediately he was grabbed by the arms by two of Richie's pals and held tight. Kristina was pressed against the wall, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide and scared. This was just too much for me. The three of us pushed our way into the circle, and I grabbed Richie by the shoulder. He was about six inches taller than me, so I had to reach up to grab him, but at that point the size difference between us didn't matter much to me. I was mad. Richie whirled around as soon as he felt my hand on his shoulder, intending to teach whoever was touching him a lesson in manners, Del Toro style. "Well, if it isn't the Three Musket-Queers." There was that idiotic twittering again, coming from his pack of hyenas. "What the fuck are you doing here, Porter?" he spat. "Or do you want a little of what we're gonna give to this puny ninth grade spic greaseball?" "What have you got against ninth graders, Richie?" said Jake. "You seemed to like freshman year so much you went through it twice, if I remember right." The Bulls all got very quiet when they heard that. Richie didn't like being reminded of how he was held back, apparently. "What did you say?" he asked dangerously, staring daggers at Jake. "What's the matter with your hearing, Del Toro? I heard him just fine all the way back here," said a voice from beyond the fringe of The Bulls. Richie whirled around to confront this new intrusion, and the crowd parted as Skip, Theo, Eric and Kevin all walked up. "He asked what you had against ninth graders, since you seemed to love it so much before," said Skip. "Or are the crops you must be growing in that dirt in your ears making you deaf?" Richie's face turned an angry red, and he took a step toward Skip. Eric, Theo and Kevin on one side, Josh and Jake and I on the other, all moved in closer to Richie and his gang. Suddenly the odds didn't look quite so good to Richie and his cohorts. They began backpedaling away from all of us, muttering the whole time among themselves. They let Jorge go loose and pretty much forgot about Kristina. I walked over and put my arm around her shoulder protectively. She flinched slightly at the touch, but then sighed audibly and hung onto me, grateful for the support. When they were a safe distance away, Richie turned back to us. "Don't worry, Conchita. I'll be back for that el blowjob sometime soon, okay?" The group of them all burst out laughing at Richie's sparkling wit. Kristina burst into tears and buried her head against me. Jorge came over and hugged her from the other side. I could feel him shaking from the adrenaline rush that must have coursed through him during the altercation. "Thanks, guys. You got here just in time, man. I thought we were goners." Jorge looked around at all of us, the appreciation shining through his dark eyes. "We're a team, man. We've gotta stick together," said Skip. "I'm just glad we spotted you when we were over by the corner." "You've really gotta watch out for them guys," said Eric. "They'll always look for an opportunity, but they won't do anything if they don't have numbers. You know?" Jorge nodded his head. "I'll remember that. Thanks. I'll also remember that I owe that greasy slimeball a big one." "You can owe it to him, but don't go trying to pay it off by yourself, Jorge," warned Josh. "I won't. I know better than that," said Jorge. "Kristina, can you stay on the sidelines while I'm at practice? I don' want you walking home by yourself." "Good idea," I said. "The group of us can all go that way together." "Okay," she said. "If you don't mind my watching you guys." She looked around at all the guys around her and blushed a little. "No, of course not," said Skip. We all started walking to the back of the school. It was time for us to be getting to our respective practices. The coaches were on the sidelines, going over their notes, so Kristina walked over to one of the benches by them as we all filed into the locker room to change. She stayed there, studying most of the time, but occasionally setting her book down to watch us scrimmage. Her eyes followed each of us in turn, the five of us from the soccer team, plus her brother, who willingly stood up to her tormentors. A couple of days later, I was walking down the hall to my third period class with Jake and Eric. I saw Jorge and Kristina just ahead of me, walking slowly in the same direction. I didn't think a thing of it, until I happened to see Richie Del Toro walking with a couple of The Bulls toward us. He was engrossed in his conversation, oblivious to all around him. Unlike almost all the other kids in the hallway, Richie carried no books or papers, but instead strutted down the hall with his hands in his jeans pockets. It was to be his undoing. I saw Jorge move to Kristina's right side, so he would be between her and Richie when they passed. Richie was paying absolutely no attention to anything going on around him, confident that people would move out of his way. As the two parties met, Jorge stopped for just a moment and waited until Richie was two steps behind him. He whirled around, dropped to the floor, and swept Richie's legs out from under him in a classic soccer slide tackle. Richie's feet flew up into the air, and he landed square on his backside, his hands still in his pockets. There was a loud thump as he hit, and an echoing thump when his head met the tiles. He started yelling in pain. His friends just stood there and goggled at him, too shocked to take any action. Jorge hopped up, and then knelt down on Richie's chest while he was still flat on his back and grabbed him by his greasy hair. "Do you know why your eyes are so brown, Alfalfa? It's because you are so full of bullshit. Do you hear me?" Jorge was so angry, I thought sparks would fly out of his eyes as he talked softly to Richie. "We have a new word now in Spanish for bullshit, Alfalfa. We call it Del Toro Poo-Poo." With that, he hopped up, looked quickly around, and grabbed Kristina by the arm and walked swiftly away, never once looking back. Jake, Eric and I all burst out laughing. Soon the whole hallway was clapping and cheering, just as a couple of teachers came out to see what the commotion was all about. Richie was still on his back, groaning in pain, and everybody just walked around him, without offering to help him in any way. His two cohorts were nowhere to be seen, having abandoned Richie to his own fate. The three of us ambled on, our day suddenly much more pleasant. At practice that afternoon, the entire soccer team, varsity and JV alike, gathered around Jorge and heard the story all over again. When he got to the part about Del Toro Poo-Poo, everybody whooped and laughed. Jorge was a little embarrassed being the center of attention, but everybody enjoyed hearing about the fall of Alfalfa, now better known as Del Toro Poo-Poo. "So, what was Richie's reaction later in the day?" asked one of the younger players. "Anybody got him in a class in the afternoon?" "I do," said another of the junior-varsity players. "But he wasn't there. I don't think he went to any of his classes afterwards." "That's odd," said Theo. "I wonder why?" "Maybe he was just too embarrassed to show his face," said Kevin. "Yeah, maybe," I said. "And maybe not. Watch yourself, Jorge." "I will, amigo. Don' worry. I'm a Latin lover, not a fighter," he said. We all laughed at that. Just then the coaches called us back out to continue with practice, and we all just kind of forgot about poor Poo- Poo for the rest of the day. The next day at school, I saw Richie first thing in the morning. He was moving slowly and carefully, like an old man. He was a little hunched over, and he was taking small, shuffling steps. People were not quite as careful about staying out of his way as they had been just the day before, but he was concentrating so hard on his walking that he didn't hardly notice. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and his errant cowlick was waving all over the place. Between first and second period, Josh came walking up to me. "Can you believe it?" he said excitedly. "Del Toro's got a broken tailbone. He can't hardly walk, he can't stand up straight, he can't even sit down without hurting, and he's in pain, man. It's just too funny!" "A broken tailbone? No shit. Well, I guess he won't be bothering Jorge and Kristina anytime soon, will he?" I said. And so Richie became known as Del Toro Poo-Poo, or Poo-Poo for short. And nobody was afraid to call him that to his face. I thought that our troubles with him and The Bulls were over. I was wrong. (Continued in Chapter 19) _________________________________________________________________ Send and receive Hotmail on your mobile device: http://mobile.msn.com -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+