Message-ID: <40243asstr$1041642605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 03 Jan 2003 15:36:08.0808 (UTC) FILETIME=[D636AE80:01C2B33D] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2003 09:36:08 -0600 Subject: {ASSM} Playing the Game II: Playing to Win, Ch. 26 (mf rom) Date: Fri, 3 Jan 2003 20:10:05 -0500 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: gill-bates, newsman And now, the newest installment of our story... 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 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather) E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you. --------------------------------------------------------------------- PLAYING TO WIN: PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II by Reverend Cotton Mather - 26 - ANXIOUS TO GET BACK TO THE GAME Just before practice on Monday, Coach Neville called me into his office. "How are you feeling, Mr. Porter?" He sat back in his chair, taking his glasses off. "I feel pretty good," I replied. "Your doctors have given you their permission to resume playing?" "Yes, sir. My only real restriction from the doctors was to stay out of the weight room for a couple of weeks after the stitches came out." He smiled briefly, knowing full well that I was only an occasional visitor to the weight rooms, anyway. "And they warned me that my ribs would take a long time to completely heal, but they would provide their own method of restraint." "Which has proven to be the case," he said. "Yes, sir, but I have been running more and more, and they've either gotten better, or else I've been learning to control it better." "That's good. That's very good. Now, I don't want to hurry you into coming back into the lineup until you are ready, so I am relying on your judgment to let me know when you want to try playing. As you know, this week's game is the last game of the regular season. The playoffs start next week. I would like to get you into a game, if even for just a few minutes, by the first playoff game. We're going to need you to be as strong as you can be by the second round of the playoffs, so I'm giving you almost three weeks to get ready." "I don't need three weeks, Coach. I want to play this Friday." "Sean, I don't know..." "Let me at least start the game, Coach, and if I'm having trouble, you can take me out. But I think I'm almost ready now, and I know I'll be ready by game day." He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses dangling from his little finger. "That's very optimistic, Sean, and I should tell you, I've been getting some telephone calls these past few weeks. There are a lot of scouts who want to watch you play. I've been trying to put them off, but it's getting harder to make them readjust their schedules to accommodate ours. You would best be served if they could see you at full strength." "Scouts? You mean, besides Pickett Cropper?" He looked startled. "You've talked to Cropper?" "Well, yes, I have. He called me a couple of weeks ago." He gave me a tight smile. "Coach Cropper is a very forceful personality," he said a little ruefully. "He squeezed a lot more information out of both me and Dr. Osgood than either of us wanted to give." He grinned openly. "He's got his sights set on you, I think. His interest will bring even more focus on you, and on your teammates. Hopefully, some of the spotlight will spill onto Mr. Abbott and Mr. Johnson, too. They deserve a chance at playing at the next level." "Let 'em come, Coach. I'm ready to play. I can't tell you how buzzed I am, just thinking about getting back into a game." "Well, you'll get your chance this Friday, Mr. Porter, if that's what you'd like," he finished. He stood up, and put his glasses back on. "Shall we go out to practice?" "Yes, sir!" I hopped up, pumped about getting ready for Friday. I was really anxious to get back to the game. It was painful, but I worked hard on Monday and Tuesday at practices, and Kayla and I increased our distances in the evenings, and I was running or jogging the whole way around by then, with no rest stops. If I needed to catch my breath because of a short faster section, I just slowed my pace until I could jog comfortably and wait for my breathing to normalize. I felt great, a feeling that was no doubt enhanced by the presence of the girl I was now admitting, at least to myself, was my girlfriend. Wednesday's practice, however, did not go quite so well as the earlier days. It all started at the end of practice for the day, when Coach Neville stepped into the locker room, as we were taking off our soccer shoes and shin guards. "If I may have the team's attention for just one moment," called out Coach. He waited for the general hubbub to quiet down. "For this Friday's game, we are reverting to our original starting lineup." A lot of the players were looking at each other, not sure quite what Coach meant by his statement. He could tell that his announcement wasn't very clear, so he explained. "That is, Sean Porter will be returning to his customary position at right defense." Kevin said loudly, "All right!" There was a buzz of happy agreement from my teammates, which made me feel pretty darn good. "Bullshit!" barked Adam Prince. He was in the next row over from me and most of the rest of the team. "That's my position!" Coach peered over toward Weasel over the top of his glasses. "It was yours on a temporary basis, Mr. Prince, and you know it." "No, I didn't know it!" shouted Prince. "You gave it to Ingrams when Porter went down, and I won it from him, fair and square!" That set up a lot of grumbling among my teammates. "So?" said Eric. "All that means is that you won the temporary assignment." "No fucking way," yelled Weasel. "I won the position, not the temporary assignment." "One more outburst like that and you will be benched for the remainder of the season," warned Coach. "This is not your decision to make. Mr. Porter is our starting defenseman. End of discussion." I stood up. "You know what, Coach? Maybe it would be a fair test for me." I walked over to the next row of lockers, where Weasel was sitting. He was, for all intents and purposes, sitting by himself. The nearest player was four or five lockers down from him, another bench player. Nobody else, it seemed, wanted to be near him, even just to change clothes. "Okay, Weasel, I challenge you for the position. If you can find another player who's willing to defend for you, that is. If nobody stands up for you, you lose by default. Deal?" "You're fucking toast, Porter," he mumbled. He made sure, though, that he said it soft enough that Coach didn't hear him. "What did you say?" I asked. He was starting to really irritate me. I took a step closer to him, and Rich Ingrams, of all people, stood up and stepped in front of me. "I said, you've got a deal," spat Prince. "Tomorrow at the beginning of practice, then?" I turned to Coach, who gave a reluctant assenting nod. "Eric?" I looked over my shoulder. "You want to help me teach this young 'un a thing or two about the game?" I got a chuckle from most of the team. Eric came around and stood next to me. "It will be my pleasure, my good man," he said in his best British accent. He flipped Weasel the bird, and sauntered back to his own locker. I followed him back to my own, and sat down to finish stripping off my sweaty uniform. I was committed. My starting position depended on beating Weasel the next day, and I felt I was ready. On Thursday, Eric and I jogged out of the locker rooms and over to the track. I was pretty confident that Weasel wasn't going to be able to talk any of our teammates into playing with him on the challenge, especially after hearing from a lot of them during the course of the day, offering encouragement and support. After our first lap, however, Coach waved us off the track and over to him. He had a disgusted look on his face. "Your challenge match awaits," he said. He gestured over toward one of the far practice fields. Eric and I looked over. One of the figures was definitely Weasel, but I couldn't tell who the second person was. Coach was silent as we walked over toward the field. Whoever Weasel had talked into playing was going to get an earful from me, and was going to be run off his feet by Eric, who was walking next to me, scowling. I didn't even recognize the kid waiting with Weasel. Coach Neville did the introductions. "Gentlemen, the defenders are Adam Prince and Larry Endicott. The challengers are Sean Porter and Eric Johnson." Coach turned to Eric and I. "Mr. Endicott is a freshman from the Junior Varsity team." "What?" I asked incredulously. Was he serious? Endicott turned to Weasel. "What's going on here, Adam? You said you wanted me to play with you, that it was a challenge match, but you didn't tell me I'd have to play against Sean Porter and Eric Johnson." His face was a little pale, and he was shaking with nervousness. "I mean, it's, like, the two best players in school. I don't belong here." Weasel turned on poor Larry ferociously. "You agreed, Larry. Besides, didn't you want to show Coach Neville you're good enough to play Varsity? Now's your chance." Eric turned to Coach. "This ain't right, Coach," he pleaded. "This kid's been roped in by Weasel, probably through no fault of his own. ú**** it off." Coach looked at each of us in turn, his stare lingering on Weasel's face a moment longer than anyone else's. "No," he declared. "Play the challenge." He set out the simple rules, and gave Eric and I, as challengers, the first offensive attempt, from the hash mark denoting the midfield of our playing area. There were two temporary nets set up across the width of the field, our respective goals. Weasel was still trying to talk persuasively to Endicott, standing next to him in the middle of their side of the field, their backs to us to keep us from eavesdropping. He was probably explaining to him what he might see from us, paying absolutely no attention to his opponents, or to Coach, who blew his whistle to start the match without waiting for Weasel to finish up. I tapped the ball forward to Eric, who immediately took off down the sidelines, leaving both Prince and Endicott scrambling to try to catch him, an impossibility with his speed and his head start. It took less than 5 seconds for us to tally our first score. On the restart, Weasel tapped the ball to Endicott, but Eric had started less than 10 yards from him, and as soon as the kid touched the ball, Eric dropped his shoulder and shoved him off the ball, easily taking it away. He lofted a pass over Weasel's head into open space, where I picked it up, and practically strolled to the goal, for a 2-nil lead. Prince looked over at Coach, expecting a foul to be called on Eric, but Coach just stood impassively on the sidelines, arms folded as he looked on. I could see Prince muttering to himself as he trotted back to retrieve the ball I had left in their net, and he had a determined set to his face as he dribbled it up to reset an offensive try. This time, Larry passed off to Weasel. Eric called for a switch, and he ran at Weasel as I moved over to cover Larry. Weasel had just taken a few steps with the ball when Eric reached him and pushed him down hard. Weasel tumbled as he fell onto the grass, rolling over a couple of times. He scrambled up, cursing, and looked like he was going to run up to Coach and jaw at him for not calling the charge and the push. "Play on," called Coach, signaling a legal play with his arms. Coach resumed his position, legs apart and arms crossed, looking at Prince, waiting for him to complain. Seeing Coach standing there and staring at him changed his mind, however, but by then it was too late. Defenders were down 3-0, just like that, and had hardly even entered our territory, much less mounted an attack. Before restarting, Weasel conferenced with Larry for a moment. I was sure he was telling Larry to get physical, since it was obvious that Coach was going to let us play a wide-open game. Larry was at least 20 pounds lighter than Eric, and shorter even than Weasel. He didn't look like he was very pleased about having to play more physically against us. He showed some grit, though, and stepped up to the ball and tapped it to Weasel. Prince took the ball a few steps down the field, and tried lofting the ball back over to Larry. Eric leapt up and tried to head it off, but the ball just glanced off the top of his head and behind him. Larry managed to corral it, and swept in and shot the ball at our goal as I tried to close with him. I could almost hear the sigh of relief from Weasel, that he wasn't going to be skunked, as I ran over and pulled the ball out of the net and took it up to midfield for our restart. Eric tapped the ball to me, and took off downfield, Larry hot on his heels. Weasel closed on me. I could see the panic in his eyes, and when he shifted his focus for just a second, I knew what he intended. I steeled myself for the elbow he threw into my ribs as I stepped away from him just enough to take some of the force off of his blow. A flare of pain drove up my side, anyway, but I was able to absorb it, eat up the pain, and shake off the attack. As he closed with me, either intending to throw another elbow at me or to shove me off the ball, I stepped down hard on his instep, and he tripped over his own feet, crashing to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He rolled onto his back and clutched his ankle in pain, but I wasn't about to stop. Unimpeded, I headed for their goal. Endicott came toward me, but it was impossible for him to keep the ball out of the net, and he knew it. He made his choice, going back to keep Eric from taking a pass, and they both stopped and watched as I powered the ball into the goal and through the bottom of the net from about five meters out. The ball skidded under the bottom edge of the net and skipped across the grass, and ended up resting against a parking lot bumper about 20 meters away. Endicott just looked at Weasel disgustedly, and walked back to midfield with Eric and me, pointedly leaving the ball for Weasel to retrieve. Prince stared at the three of us for a moment, and then limped over to get the ball. He carried it back and threw it down on the ground. "Enough yet?" I asked him. "No!" he spat. He flailed at the ball, just clipping it off the side of his foot, and he took two painful steps in the direction the ball had spun, when he was knocked to the ground again by Eric, who stood to the side, over him, hands on his hips. "Enough yet?" Eric asked quietly. I could see anger flaring in Weasel's eyes, and he scrambled to his feet, only to be pushed back down again by Eric, who straddled him this time. "Enough." This time it wasn't a question that Eric asked, but rather a statement. Weasel's eyes were blazing, but then the uselessness of the situation set in. It was like somebody let the air out of an overfilled vinyl toy as he kind of collapsed in on himself. Lying there, he finally conceded defeat. "Yeah, all right, enough," he acknowledged. Eric stepped aside and held out his hand to help him up. Weasel looked surprised, but took the outstretched hand, perhaps half- expecting Eric to trick him and drop him as he pulled himself up, but he got hauled to his feet. Eric brushed him off, and then clapped him on his back. "Maybe next year," he said with a slight grin. "Nope," I said. "But maybe the year after that." Prince didn't look too happy about that, but he nodded in acquiescence, anyway. The four of us walked over to Coach, still standing stoically on the sidelines, as a group. That evening, I told Kayla about the challenge match as we jogged around the neighborhood. "I'm a little surprised that Adam gave in like that at the end," she said. "That's right, you know him, don't you?" I asked. "Isn't he a good friend of Bronson's?" "Brandon," she automatically corrected. She knew I was doing it on purpose, but she wasn't about to give me the satisfaction of appearing irritated. "How well do you know Weasel?" I persisted. She glanced over at me as we ran. "Well enough to know that he has temper issues," she said. "Yes, he does," I agreed. "But, judging from today's practice, maybe he can find a way to work through those issues." "He's a nice enough boy," she said. "He just needs to find a way to redirect his anger." "Hey," I said. "Maybe he can redirect his anger toward Kleenex." She looked at me, a puzzled expression on her face. "Well, that way, he'll have tissues issues," I said blandly. She stuck her tongue out at me and sped up, leaving me to scramble to catch up to her. "I told you before, don't point that thing at me unless you intend to use it," I said, puffing a little from the sprint. She gave me a teasing glance. "Oh, I intend to use it," she said. "Some day. Maybe. If you're a good boy." And she took off again. I didn't have the reserves to chase her, though, and she sped ahead of me. She finally relented about a block later, and stopped, jogging in place while I caught up, smiling at my discomfort the whole while. By the time I had dropped Kayla off and jogged home, it was almost too late, but I decided I could call over to Lori's house before I jumped in the shower. She answered on the third ring. "Lori? It's Sean." "Sean! What a pleasant surprise! It's great to hear your voice. How are you feeling?" "I feel really good," I said. She sounded really happy, happier than I had heard her, practically since I had known her. "I'm back playing," I continued. "I'm starting in the game tomorrow evening, in fact. Do you think the boys can come?" "Oh, they'd love to, Sean. Thank you for thinking of them." "I want them to be team ball boys, is that okay? They can sit on the bench and hand out water and stuff to the team, chase down balls that are kicked out of bounds, that kind of thing." "That's just wonderful! I know they'd love it." I arranged to meet her and the boys by the gate to the field before the game, so I could take Davey and Kip with me into the locker room and introduce them around. "Sean, that's lovely. Thank you so much," she said. "Like I've always told you, Lori, they're great kids. I like having them around, and I've missed them." "And they've missed you, Sean. And so have I," she added. "In fact, I..." I didn't want to get into a conversation that might take us to places better left unvisited, so I quickly interrupted her. "Have you seen Molly lately?" I asked. "As a matter of fact, I have," she replied. "She calls me every couple of days, and she's back to being my regular sitter again." "That's great," I said. "Thanks for giving her another chance." "She deserves it," she said. "And she knows it was you who gave her the opportunity." "It wasn't me," I said. "She did it herself. All I did was walk with her sometimes. She did all the heavy lifting." She laughed, a throaty sound full of amusement, with just a hint of interesting possibilities. "You are one of a kind, Sean Porter," she said. "Yep," I agreed. "They broke the mold after they made me, but only because the cracks in it made it pretty much useless." Coach Neville must have been a busy guy on Wednesday and Thursday. He also must have been quite confident about the outcome of the challenge match, because he called the list of scouts and coaches who were interested, and let them know what our schedule was for the next couple of weeks. He also called Matthew Hartigan, and gave him an interview over the telephone, casually mentioning that I would be in the starting lineup again for the last game of the regular season. As a result, the headlines in the sports section of our local paper on Friday morning were just the opposite of the previous paper. The bigger headline read "Porter To Start Tonight", and the sub-head was "Bears Soccer To Try for 14-0". While every athlete loves to see their name in the sports section, I was a little dismayed that the emphasis was on my start, rather than on the team's undefeated season. I also knew that I would rake in a fair amount of good- natured grief from my teammates after school. About an hour before the game, I met Lori and the boys at the main gate. "Sean!" "Sean!" Almost a chorus, Davey and Kip were jumping and waving as I walked up to them. "Hi, guys! You want to come into the locker room with me?" I asked. "You bet!" "Yeah!" Lori took hold of both their hands, turning them to her as she knelt down to get their attention. "Now you cowboys mind what Sean says, do you hear? He's the boss. Okay?" "Yes, Mom," said Davey. "Sean's the boss!" shouted Kip. She stood and smiled warmly at me. "Thank you again, Sean, for being such a good friend to these two. And to me." I took her hand for just a moment. "They'll mind just fine. Don't worry about them." The boys and I headed back toward the school. They raced ahead of me as I turned back to Lori. "Will you be at the game?" I asked. She smiled, her eyes glistening. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said. I took the boys in and introduced them around. They already knew Jorge, from when he had been helping their team's keepers, and they ran around the locker room in high gear, kicking soccer balls down the rows between the lockers, until the noise was just too much, and I had to restrain their enthusiasm, especially when Coach Simonson poked his head out of the office to see what the ruckus was all about. Davey and Kip jogged out onto the field with the team when it was time. I had instructed them about their duties as ball boys, and once we were into "game mode", they paid attention and did their best. They walked around with cups of water, and asked each member of the team if they would like one, and they lined up the game balls off the sideline so they would be ready for use. They were friendly little kids, and the entire team took to them right away. The announcer's routine of introducing the starting lineups began. I glanced up into the stands, and was surprised to see that they were full. Hartigan's article seemed to have brought out the crowds. I couldn't see Lori anywhere, but Kayla's pale blonde head was easy to find. She was sitting in the student section with some friends, talking animatedly, her hands in constant motion. I looked over into the parents' section, and my mom and my dad both waved to me. Michael was somewhere in the stadium, and I assumed that Stephen was there, also, probably mingling with the high school kids. I was completely taken by surprise when the announcer got to the defensive players, because he seemed to skip right over my name. Normally he either went in alphabetical order, offense and then defense, or else by position, right to left, but this time, after ú****ing out the players on the offensive team, he announced Anthony Rogers on the left, Mikey Evanson as sweep, Brett Oldman as stopper, and Jorge Mendoza as keeper for the defensive team. I thought maybe he had forgotten me, but then, with the volume cranked up, he announced, "And playing in the right defensive position," and the rest was nearly lost as the crowd started yelling and whistling and stomping their feet, the sound rolling across the field as the announcer finished, "A junior, Sean Poooorrrrterrrr!" I ran out onto the field, joining my teammates already there, stunned about the introduction. They were clapping and yelling, along with the crowd. I was grateful everybody was welcoming me back onto the field, but I wished they would hold their enthusiasm until they saw how I played. That was the real question, after all. We took the field, and at the referee's whistle, our opponents, the River Oaks Lions, started the game with a pass back to their midfielders, and they spread out their forwards, trying to take advantage of the entire width of the field. Possession of the ball see-sawed back and forth, nobody mounting a real challenge, for the first ten minutes or so. I was feeling pretty good, loose and warm, even though the temperature was not that much above freezing, and I felt like I was seeing the field and the path of the ball very well. I relaxed a little, some of my worries dissipating with the plumes of my breath. About midway into the first half, the left midfielder for the Lions sent a ball high down the sidelines, trying to hit his forward. I moved into place to try to intercept, and the forward jumped in front of me to keep me off the ball. I shuffled back around him, and we both went up for the ball, our shoulders and arms bumping. I had a height advantage, and I was able to overreach him. The ball came down toward my forehead while I was at the apex of my leap, and I snapped my head to the side to head the ball back over toward Kevin. Pain flared in my rib from the impact and the jostling, but by the time I landed back on the ground, I knew it was just a short spasm. It passed as quickly as it had hit, and another small, niggling worry was dispelled. At halftime, Coach asked me how I felt. "I feel good," I said. "Good enough to play." "That's all I needed to hear," he said, and he walked over to talk to his offense. Davey brought me a big paper cup of water. "Here you go, Sean," he said, handing the water to me. I drank it down gratefully. "Thanks, Champ," I said. "Make sure everybody else gets some water, too, okay?" "You bet," he said, and he raced off to grab some more cups to hand out. I only played about twelve minutes of the second half. Coach pulled me out and put Weasel in the game. We were up 3-0 by then, and I only had about 8 or 10 touches on the ball. Coach was pretty confident we were going to win, and he didn't want to tax me on my first outing back, so I kicked back and watched the rest of the match with Davey and Kip from the bench. The boys still had to keep an eye on the ball, since one of their duties was to chase down out-of- bounds kicks, but they still were able to sit with me for most of the time. After the game ended, Lori came down out of the stands and collected her boys. "Did you guys have fun?" she asked. "Yeah!" "It was great, Mom!" She looked up at me. "You played well, as usual," she said. "There wasn't much for me to do out there tonight," I replied. "Probably just as well, anyway." "Thank you for giving Davey and Kip this opportunity to be with you, Sean." "They were a lot of fun," I said. "Maybe, if we can get a little further into the playoffs, I can talk Coach into letting them sit by me again." "I wouldn't want them taking away from your concentration," she said. "Your coach might not want the distraction." "We'll see," I said. She gathered up her kids and, amid rowdy goodbyes, herded them off toward the exit. I was kneeling down, packing up my gear bag, when Coach Neville walked over. There was another man walking with him, talking to him in a deep southern drawl. When they got to me, Coach said, "Sean, I'd like you to meet a fan of yours." The man stuck out his meaty hand for me to shake. "How you doin', son? I'm mighty glad to finally make your acquaintance on a face to face basis." I smiled and shook his hand. "Glad to finally meet you, too, Coach Cropper," I said. "Ah, hell, son, everybody just calls me Pick, and you should, too," he said with a wide grin. (Continued in Chapter 27) _________________________________________________________________ Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 -- 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+