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From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 11-15
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Date: Mon,  5 Apr 2004 08:10:06 -0400
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So as to get caught up once again...

Enjoy!


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(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III


by Reverend Cotton Mather


- 11 -

FURRY BUNNIES CRAPPING ON MY TONGUE


It was a good thing we were playing an afternoon game, because I was
not in any shape to get up any time before noon.

Westy was already home and asleep by the time I crawled in.  I had a
hard time figuring out how to get up into my bed, and once I was
there I couldn't get the room to stop spinning.  I ended up climbing
back down, stumbling down the hall, and barfing into a toilet to get
rid of the poisons that were fucking up my system.  I rinsed my mouth
out, found my way back to my room, and collapsed down onto Westy's
couch, where I pretty much passed out for the rest of the night.

Sometime around eight in the morning I woke up, needing to piss like
a racehorse.  I drank about a half gallon of water in an attempt to
wash the tumbleweeds out of my mouth, and fell back into a troubled
sleep again on the couch.

Westy tried rousing me for breakfast, but I batted his arm away and
rolled over.  I heard him grumbling, something about lushes not able
to hold their liquor, and then he left the room, and blissful silence
fell again.  I managed to go back to sleep for a few more hours,
unconscious to the guilts that were waiting for me, just out of sight.

By just around noon the noise in the hallway had reached a level
that made it impossible to keep sleeping.  I crawled up out of the
couch.  My eyes were nearly pasted shut by stuff caked in the corners
and across my eyelids, and it felt like about a thousand nice, furry
little bunnies had crapped all over my tongue, and then died in my
mouth.  It was a good thing Westy was gone, because I didn't think I
could utter a word.  I fumbled for my shower kit and felt my way down
the hall to the johns.

The shower made me feel somewhat more human, but I had a long way to
go before I would feel ready to play soccer.  I went downstairs to
the cafeteria and filled my tray to capacity, but I was only able to
choke down a little overcooked and mealy spaghetti.  I washed it down
with three glasses of orange juice, another UF specialty, on the
theory the vitamin C would help me out.  I was beginning to worry
that something had better help me out, or my so-called rise to the
lofty heights of team leadership would be overshadowed by my even
more spectacular fall from grace.

I decided the only way I was going to be able to purge myself was
through sweat.  I had two hours before I had to be in the locker
room, so I grabbed my gear bag and headed over to the gymnasium to
work out my demons.

For the next ninety minutes I did a rotation of Lifecycle, Nautilus,
treadmill, and free weights.  I forced myself to move from one
station to the next, with only a three-minute break between.  It was
tough discipline, but I did it.  At the end, I sat on a bench, my
forearms holding me up as they braced against my knees, feeling
pleasantly tired.  I just hoped I hadn't worn myself out so much I
couldn't run for the duration of our game.

I hopped in the shower and let the stinging water from the jets
pound on my shoulders and back.  By the time I was done, I felt like
I just might survive the day.  I grabbed a Gatorade from the front
desk and jogged over to the soccer complex, my gear bag bouncing and
banging against my leg the whole way.


*****


Coach put us in his standard 3-4-3 lineup with Rick in goal.
Frenchy, Brad and I lined up on the defensive side from left to
right.  Offensively, we had Bryan on the left, Jesse in the middle,
and Juan Maria Sandoval on the right.  Jeremy Peters was our left
midfielder, Spencer played up in the middle, Stuart Early was on the
right, and Tad Artichenkoff, a senior from the Ukraine, played
sweeper, or defensive mid.  We were lined up against the University
of Tennessee, a conference opponent.  Tennessee, a team with a long
history of good teams in many NCAA sports, this year was fielding
what our scouts reported as one of the weaker teams in the SEC.
Because it was a conference game, however, we played them with our
strong defensive formation.  We had enough firepower up front, but we
didn't want anything unexpected to happen on our side of the field.

All I wanted to do was concentrate on the game and get out
unscathed.  I was feeling pretty good at game time, but I didn't know
how long that would last.  Fortunately, the recuperative powers of an
18-year-old athletic and fit body were very good, but I still didn't
have a lot of confidence that I would have an abundance of energy to
spare.  I told my teammates I would take the throw-ins and corner
kicks on the right side, figuring I could catch my breath and rest my
legs a fraction more that way.  I would let my teammates battle it
out in front of the goal on the corners, and I could avoid a lot of
the pushing and jockeying for position on the throw-ins, too.

The Volunteers didn't come to fight.  They did a proper job of
playing the best they could, but it really was no contest.  In fact,
Pick enjoyed an early, nearly insurmountable lead, and was able to
play everybody on the bench for some significant minutes.  Many of
the starters, including me, got to ease down.  I was happy to turn my
spot over to Dan Ortega and watch the end of the game from underneath
my damp towel.

By the time we had finished with our showers and team meeting, I was
ready to collapse.  I still had two papers to write, but I decided I
would get up early, instead of trying to slog through the evening on
sheer willpower.  I ate dinner with Spencer and Jesse, managing to
deflect Spencer's questions about my evening by asking him about the
movie.  He launched into a rehash of the funniest bits of Woody
Allenry, almost making me wish I had gone with him to see it.

By the time we finally said goodnight, it was after seven, and I was
dog-tired and barely able to keep my eyes open.  I gave it up very
soon, and crawled into my raised bed.  I found I was a little
reluctant to look at the picture of Luscious taped to the ceiling
above me.  I rolled over and closed my eyes against the light coming
from Westy's desk lamp.  I knew I could use the sleep.

The only other benefit to ending my day early was that I was able to
put off the onset of a crushing case of the guilts until Monday.


*****


And, right on schedule, the guilts did invade.  I had set my alarm
for six in the morning so I could work on my papers.  The insistent
rasping of the buzzer finally roused me from my bed, and I clambered
down and slapped the damn clock to shut it up.

 From his side of the room, I heard Westy complain, "What are you
doing, Porter?  Can't a guy sleep around here?"

"Sorry, dude," I said.  "I'll try to keep it down."

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbled as he slid back down into sleep.  Lucky
bastard, I thought as I opened my notebook from my World History
class to begin transcribing notes into something resembling order.

Even that early in the day, and with a good night's sleep, I had
trouble concentrating.  My mind kept on sliding back, trying to
remember details of Saturday night, but everything seemed dreamlike
and unreal.  I could, however, vividly recall, with startling
clarity, the moment of my climax.  Something like that just isn't
dismissed lightly.  Besides, all I had to do was look on my
bookshelf, where Amari's headband lay bunched up, laying right where
I had tossed it when I got home that night.  Just gazing at it made
the entire evening coalesce into something more substantial than the
alcohol-induced smoke and mirrors the beer had relegated it all to in
my mind.

Jesus H. Christ in a bucket, I thought to myself.  How was I going
to justify what I had done?  It all felt like a betrayal toward
nearly everybody I knew.  My teammates, especially Spencer and Luke,
who were starting to look to me for leadership; Bryan and Melanie,
for their obviously misplaced trust; Reggie, even though we were
merely friendly companions.

Kayla.

Hoo, boy, my head reminded me.  That famous Porter streak of self-
destruction shows itself again.


*****


I handed in some pretty poorly constructed work later that day.  I
just couldn't get it together enough to give a rat's ass about why
Attila the Hun withdrew his armies from Italy after meeting with Pope
Leo in the fifth century.  I also had to write a three-page paper for
English, and only managed to expand a weak idea into just over two
typewritten pages.  Try as I might, I just couldn't work up enough in
the way of enthusiasm or concentration to do any better on that day.

It was a good thing we didn't have practice the day after a game,
given my levels of energy.  As a result, I had kind of an easy day,
just the kind of day I normally would use to write to my girl.  But,
on this day, my heart just wasn't in it.  I couldn't sound cheery
when I was so busy beating myself up over my indiscretion, so I just
gave it up.

I decided I needed company to keep my head from dwelling on my fuck-
ups, so I jogged over to Jesse and Bryan's apartment later, after
classes were done.  Bryan wasn't home, but Jesse was, so we ordered a
pizza and sat around watching the tube for most of the evening.  He
didn't bring up Saturday night, and I didn't see any reason to
mention it.

It was good to have friends, I concluded.


*****


By Tuesday I was seeing a little clearer.  I had pretty much decided
that what had happened Saturday night was the result of alcohol and
opportunity.  Besides, I hadn't heard anything from Amari or from
LaShonda, so I had to assume it was all fun and games from her
perspective, too.

The only concern I really had over the incident was to make sure
Dantrell Sinclair wasn't pissed off at me.  I didn't know if Amari
was his girlfriend or not, but I didn't want to make a serious
mistake, just in case, by calling Amari.  No use riling still waters,
I thought.  And I really didn't want somebody like Dantrell or
Lamarr, who could probably break every bone in my body and still have
plenty of strength left to tie my jellied legs into square knots, mad
at me.

During my Biology lecture I began a new letter to Kayla.  I threw
away the first draft because it sounded relentlessly cheerful and
forced, and I began again, trying to relax.  I told her about meeting
Lamarr and Dantrell and the other football players at the Monkey, and
I described the game against Tennessee.  I told her we were taking a
long bus ride the coming weekend, traveling to Baton Rouge to play
Louisiana State.  We were leaving Friday morning for a Saturday game,
and wouldn't be back until late Sunday.  The letter was only a modest
success, but I was willing to take any personal wins at that point.

At practice on Tuesday, Pick set up Alpha v. Omega scrimmages again,
and assigned me the midfield spot once more.  I was starting to feel
pretty comfortable up there, though I was beginning to wish I was
playing sweeper instead.  I would have a better vision of the field,
roaming in the middle, but our sweeper position, taken up by starter
Tad Artichenkoff, was well established.

At least I can keep an eye on my Frenchy friend, I said to myself as
we took the field for practice.

Eddie Whitehead, acting as referee, put the ball in play, and the
game was on.  Play zigzagged back and forth, with first Alpha
controlling the ball, and then Omega taking over, but there were no
serious attacks by either side during the first several minutes of
play.  A couple of times I signaled to Max Ehrlinger that I wanted to
switch coverages with him, and I was able to go into the middle and
affect play a little more.  Once I accomplished what I had intended,
or observed what had caught my attention, I always made sure I turned
the position back over to Max.  I didn't want him thinking I was
usurping his territory; I always told him what I was looking for
whenever I asked him to switch, and he cooperated every time.

At one point during the scrimmage, I had just switched back with
Max, so I was in my position on the right, when I saw Brad Rickman,
our senior stopper who was playing for Omega, take the ball.

"Hey, Max," I called.  He glanced in my direction, perhaps wondering
if I wanted to switch again.  I saw a look of annoyance pass across
his face.

"Get ready to move to your left about ten meters," I said.  "Brad's
going to try to pass the ball up into that open space to Jeremy."  I
pointed toward Jeremy Peters, trolling behind Max.

Max moved over to cover Jeremy a little closer, and just as Brad
passed the ball through, Max anticipated beautifully, intercepting
the pass and moving it over to Luke, on the side.  Frenchy, caught
moving forward instead of back when Brad passed off, had to slide
tackle the ball out of bounds, and I ran over to take the throw-in.
I moved Luke toward the near post of the goal, and I heaved the ball
across the field, almost as if it was a short corner kick.  Rick, the
keeper for Omega Team, ended up coming out of the net to make a good
save, shouldering a couple of my Alpha teammates off the ball to get
to it.

As we were resetting for Rick's punt, Max gestured to get my
attention.

"Smart play, Porter.  Thanks for the heads-up."  He pointed his fist
at me in salutation, and I nodded to acknowledge it.

A little while later, Luke and Frenchy got tangled up again, and the
ball squirted out from between them and rolled out of bounds.  They
both ran after it, each thinking it was their team's throw-in, and
they ended up in a tug-of-war over the ball.  I could see Eddie
trotting over, raising the whistle to his mouth, so I ran to the
sidelines, where they were struggling with each other.

"Hey, guys, it's a scrimmage," I said.  "Give me the ball."

Luke let go, but Martin was unwilling to relinquish his hold.  I
reached for it and took it in my hands, but didn't try to yank it
away from him.

"Let it be, Martin," I said.  He looked at me, and decided this
wasn't the battle he wanted to engage in, so he grimaced, shoved the
ball out of my hands to the ground, and walked back onto the field.

Eddie had stopped to watch, and he stayed where he was once he saw
Flauget moving back into position, shoulders hunched in aggravation.
I picked up the ball and prepared for my throw-in, but instead of
tossing it toward the middle or over to one of my open teammates, I
tossed it lightly toward Frenchy's feet.

"Your ball," I said, and I stepped inbounds.  He put his foot on top
of the ball for a second, looking at me, and, with his trademark
smirk, he passed it gently back over to me.

"I believe it's your ball," he replied.

I shrugged.  "Okay," I said, and I passed it back to Stuart, so we
could start with a new offensive set.

I didn't know if it was a turning point in my relationship with
Frenchy, but I was happy to see him voluntarily defuse a situation
that could easily have been escalated instead.  He deferred, received
an advantage, and deferred again.  Maybe we were making a team player
out of him after all.

Most of the team had watched our interaction, and I could almost
feel the shift in attitude among my teammates.  The focus on the
field changed, and our game changed with it.  Only time would tell if
that change was positive or not.

By the time we were done with practice and out of the showers, it
was apparent, even to someone as dense as me, that I had assumed the
leadership role on the team that Melanie and Bryan had predicted.  I
wasn't very happy about it, being only a freshman, and because I knew
my own track record.  Somewhere along the line, it was all probably
going to blow up in my face.  But I had played out the part that had
been offered to me by the assembled cast of conspirators.  Pickett
Cropper, Jesse Wilhoit, Bryan Watkins, Rick Rogers, Eddie Whitehead,
and, unwittingly, Martin Flauget, had all contributed to this chance,
but only I could accept the blame if it didn't work out well.

Even when nobody else was pressuring me, I managed to find a way to
pile a little more onto myself, it seemed.


(Continued in Chapter 12)


- 12 -

HOMECOMING WEEKEND


For the next few weeks, things stayed in a routine.  An overworked,
stressful, pressure-cooker of a routine, but a routine nonetheless.
We played our games, and our practices also progressed very well.  My
professors kept on piling on the work, but we still found a little
time to goof off and relieve the pressure, if only temporarily.

We lost a non-conference game to the University of Miami Hurricanes
by an embarrassingly lopsided score, but we had an excuse.  More than
half the team was struck by the flu that week, and a few guys,
including Bryan and Rick, were so sick they didn't even make the bus
trip down to Coral Gables.  Even with every one of our available
bench players starting, we still had to field a team that included
three very ill players.  Pick tried to keep the sickest players out
of harm's way, but he had no choice but to put one of them in
midfield.  He tried to work out a substitution rotation that would
spell the ill players often, but with only one half-healthy
substitute, it just couldn't be done.

Martin and I were also down with the flu, though we did manage to
make the bus trip.  I would have been a lot more comfortable dying in
my own dorm room bed instead of trying to find a comfortable position
that didn't make my stomach do flip-flops on a swaying bus, but it
wasn't an option for a lowly freshman like me.  Even being a
freshman, though, Pick and Eddie could see I was way too sick to even
try to take the field.  What little food I was able to force down
didn't stay down, and even water was squirting out my backside like
floodwaters on the muddy Mississippi.  I was so miserable, I felt
like I would have to feel better just to be able to die.

Our backup keeper had also been stricken, and Pick was forced to
start Dan Ortega in goal.  Dan was a little unnerved, having not
played keeper since before high school, but he did his best.  With no
help from his defensive line, what with all three of us down, it was
a lesson in humility for him, and for us as a team.  Our small
consolation was that, looking at the film the next week, we all saw
where we could have exploited their weaknesses, if only we had been
at full strength.  As it was, losing 6-1 was about as good as we
could have expected.

Homecoming for the University of Florida was scheduled for an early
weekend of October.  Homecoming week in Gainesville was crazy.  The
entire campus, students and faculty alike, were going crazy all week,
and the town joined in on the celebration.  Local businesses put up
signs and banners, the bars were practically giving away beer, and
the streets around campus, and even into the downtown area, were all
decorated with flags and streamers in orange and blue.

Very little in the way of constructive schoolwork got in the way of
the festivities.  Naturally, we practiced every day, but classes were
pretty slipshod, there was very little work assigned, and everybody
seemed to look forward to the weekend.  Many of the professors looked
down their noses at what they probably considered to be undergraduate
foolishness, but behind the scowls and the gruff tones some of them
took during lectures, a tiny bit of indulgent amusement could be
detected.  This was underscored by the easing of the workload during
the week, even by the most cynical of instructors.  By the time the
end of the week was approaching, the entire area around campus was
overflowing with clumps of students, alumni, staff, and faculty, all
gearing up for the festivities of the weekend.

And what a weekend it was.  Classes had been cancelled for Friday,
so everybody could either march in the parade down University Avenue,
or watch the parade from a porch, curb, or lawn chair.  Bryan,
Melanie, Reggie and I watched from a table outside The Glass Onion,
courtesy of Skye and Stone.  Joining us was Jesse and his homecoming
date, Brittany Erickson, another sorority sister of Melanie's.  Just
before the first float slowly rumbled down the street, Skye came out
with two bottles of wine and six glasses.

"It's from our personal stash," Skye said with a sly wink.  "It's
homemade by some friends.  I think you'll like it."

Homemade hooch sounded a little dangerous, but I reached for the
bottle anyway.  What the hell, it's Homecoming, I said to myself.  I
filled each glass about halfway, and the six of us raised them in a
toast to a glorious weekend.

"Cheers!"  "Halleluiah!"  "Down the hatch!"

And I brought the glass to my lips.

It was very tasty, a sweet and fruity berry wine of some sort.  We
all made murmurs of appreciation, and I lifted my glass and saluted
Skye, inside her store, minding the counter.  She smiled and waved,
and Stone flashed us a peace sign from his window in the kitchen.

We cheered as the Phi Kap/Omega float went by.  Captain Jack was, of
course, in the pilot's seat of the nautically themed float, taking it
all way too seriously.  He waved down at us, looking imperial in his
Horatio Hornblower getup.  I got the feeling he really didn't
recognize us sitting there saluting him.  He turned and waved to
people on the other side of the street, never changing expression at
all as he swiveled back and forth in front of his big spoked wheel.
We laughed a lot at Jack's expense after the float passed us by,
fueled perhaps by the berry wine.  We sat back and enjoyed the rest
of the parade, watching the other floats rumble by, interspersed with
local high school marching bands putting on their displays.  We
jumped up and cheered when the UF marching band came strutting down
the street, blasting out the UF fight song, "Orange and Blue."  As
the last float rolled by, we joined the thousands of others who
filled the street, following the parade until it rolled into the
stadium.

Later that night, the six of us crammed into Florida Field for the
giant Homecoming pep rally, called the Gator Growl.  We were joined
by 72,000 of our closest friends in the newly renovated and expanded
stadium.  The festivities went on for hours, led by Albert and
Alberta, the Gator mascots.  The school always managed to bring in a
big name from the entertainment world for Gator Growl, and the
headliner for the evening was Bob Hope.  I was thinking he was kind
of old-fashioned for a college crowd like us, but he worked the
stadium like the old pro he was.  By about the fourth or fifth joke
in his routine, he had us on our feet, stomping and clapping and
laughing.

I should have expected it, actually.  It should have been obvious to
me that Hope loved college football.  Why else would he host the
College Football All-American show every year on television?  And
that observation was confirmed that night as he welcomed each starter
on the team up to the stage, and had a joke prepared for each one.

When Dantrell Sinclair was introduced, for instance, Hope said,
"Dantrell Sinclair, a junior halfback.  That's not to say he's a
junior, as in lightweight.  Look at those arms!"  Hope gave one of
his classic pauses, and then continued.  "Dantrell is fast, too.  In
fact, when I asked him how fast he ran, he told me he was so fast, he
had already played in tomorrow's game!"

As Lamarr Elliott stepped up to stand next to him, Hope gave him one
of his patented stares, looking up at Lamarr as he towered over the
comedian.  "The University of Florida has 30,000 full-time students,"
Hope said into the microphone.  "Lamarr is one of the reasons they
buy enough food for 34,000."

At the end of his show, the football team took the stage once again,
lining up behind the comedian, and off behind the stadium, fireworks
were set off across Lake Alice in a display to rival the Fourth of
July.

By the time the show ended, I was hoarse, deaf, and half-blinded by
the fireworks.  Reggie and I held hands as we shuffled out, flowing
with the tide of students out of the stadium, so that we wouldn't
lose each other in the crush.  Once we got out onto the street, we
stepped aside and waited for Jesse, Brittany, Bryan, and Melanie.

Once we all found each other again, I said, "Where to now?"  I was
too pumped up to want to just go back to my dorm room.

"Party at Jeremy's place?" suggested Bryan.  Jeremy Peters, one of
our midfielders, lived in an apartment with three of his fraternity
brothers.

"Sure," said Jesse.  "Sounds good.  That work for you, Seanster?"

I looked at Reggie, and saw agreement in her shining eyes.  "It
works," I said.

It was already kind of late, but we were all pretty wired from the
rally.  I wanted to stay out late and have a good time with my
friends.  The Homecoming game was in the afternoon, and I had to work
the gift shop the first half, but that was okay.  We were playing at
home on Sunday, so there wasn't any real pressure to get to bed early
on this night.

Reggie and I held hands and skipped down the sidewalk, feeling silly
and free.  Jesse and Bryan were laughing at us, and I could hear
Brittany giggling.  Melanie looked amused, but there was something
else in her expression I couldn't put my finger on.  I really didn't
care, though, and I wasn't going to let her spoil our exuberant mood.
Reggie and I outpaced them by about a block, and then waited for them
at the next corner.  The two of us were practically hopping around as
we waited, and as soon as the group caught up to us, we skipped off
again, leaving them behind to wallow in the echoes of our laughter.

On the last street corner, Reggie and I waited for the group, and we
all walked the last half-block together to Jeremy's apartment
building.  Jeremy and his roommates lived on the second floor, and we
climbed the wooden staircase that had been tacked onto the outside of
the yellow frame house, to the plain wooden door.  I had to look
twice to make sure the heavy bass beat pounding from inside the
apartment wasn't rattling the door in its frame, and I opened it and
was almost forced backwards by the wall of sound.  I held Reggie's
hand and forced my way into the apartment, and into the crowd already
there.

It was very warm in the apartment from all the hot, sweaty student
bodies crammed into the place.  There were a couple of window air
conditioners struggling to cool the air, but with the door constantly
opening and closing, and with all the people moving about, the poor
little units just couldn't keep up.  The door opened into the main
living room area.  Through the crowd I could see bright light
spilling from another room, and there was a second dim room ahead of
us, which I assumed was a dining room or, more likely, a television
room for the guys who lived there.

Our group kind of split up and found friends and acquaintances to
greet.  Many of the guys were teammates of ours, there with their
dates, and it was kind of cool to see everybody on a social basis,
and on their good behavior.  As Reggie and I made our way deeper into
the apartment, I was surprised to see Westy there, along with Jason
Emerson, the kid who lived across the hall from us in the dorm.  They
both had girls standing with them.  Westy saw me at the same time I
spied him, and before I could turn away, he was waving us over to
where he and Jason were standing.

"Yo, dude, what are you doing here?" shouted Westy over the music.

"Jeremy's a teammate," I said.

"No shit?  I didn't even know he was on the team."

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"All the guys who live here are Sig Taus," he replied.

Well, there you go, I thought.  I didn't even know Jeremy belonged
to a fraternity, much less the same one my roomie had pledged.  Small
fucking world.

Westy suddenly remembered his manners, and he turned to his date, a
short and busty brunette with big, thick glasses.  "Yo, Sean, this is
my date, Angelina Turner.  Angelina, this is Sean Porter, my
roommate."

"Pleased ta meetcha," said Angelina, thrusting out her hand.  She
had a twangy New Jersey accent that immediately grated on me.  I
silently asked myself, 'Why am I surprised Westy found somebody
irritating?  It really shouldn't come as much of a shock.'

I introduced Reggie to the group, and Jason introduced his date, who
was apparently Angelina's roommate.  She was a very large girl with
the unlikely name of Kitten Springerdale.  She was hanging on to
Jason's arm as if it was a turkey leg and she hadn't eaten in three
days.  The poor guy was hopelessly lost.  She had to outweigh him by
a good thirty pounds, and she wasn't about to let go of her prize for
the evening.  I could see the amusement on Reggie's face as she
watched the two of them, but she was much too polite to say anything.
I, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

"So, Kitten, are you and Jason enjoying yourselves?" I asked.

Kitten squeezed Jason's arm even tighter to her bosom, and Jason's
face got even redder from the pressure.

"Oh, it's so wonderful," she gushed.  "The... what do they call it,
Jason?"  She turned her flushed face to him, but just as he was about
to answer, she turned back to us.  "Gator Growl?  That's right, Gator
Growl, it was just so exciting, wasn't it?  Wasn't Bob Hope just the
most fun?"  The inflection of her voice rose with each syllable,
until it screeched almost into the ultrasonic.  It was nearly enough
to set my teeth to itching.

"We'll catch up to you later," I hurriedly said, backing away from
Kitten's screech and Westy's leers that were directed at Reggie.
"We're off to find where the bar is set up."

Jason tried to turn and point in the direction of the kitchen, where
the brighter light was spilling through a doorway, but his movement
was limited by what Kitten would allow.  We got the idea anyway, and
beat a hasty retreat in that direction.

We found Jeremy in the kitchen with Spencer and his date, Cynthia
Yamamoto, a girl from Sacramento he had been seeing since the
beginning of the school year.  Cyn had been an exceptional gymnast
all her life, but she got too burned out on it to continue beyond
high school.  She was trim and incredibly strong for such a small
girl, with long, silky black hair that nearly reached her waist, and
she had a perpetual smile.  Just being around her tended to cheer me
up, no matter what my mood, because of her upbeat nature.

Jeremy was acting as bartender, and he was really into his duties.
He even was wearing a bowler hat and a long-sleeved shirt with
garters on his upper arms.  He must have been dying, though, in long
sleeves, as there was a high sheen of perspiration on his flushed
face as he moved around, filling plastic cups with ice and sodas, or
beer.

He paused just long enough to recognize me.  He gave Reggie an
appreciative once-over.  "What'll ya have, there, pardner?" he asked
with a smile, turning his attention back to me.

I looked around, pretending confusion.  "Did we suddenly get
transported to the University of the Old West?" I asked.

Jeremy leaned over the long folding table that made up his makeshift
bar, saying to Reggie, "This young man seems to be a mite... tetched,
if you pardon me saying so.  Is he a suitor of yours, ma'am?"

Reggie laughed and blushed.  She held her hand to her cheek as she
answered, "Why no, sir.  He's just been following me around like a
little lost pup."

Jeremy waggled his eyebrows at her.  "Well, maybe I should jest he'p
you find a home for this little lost pup, and then you and I could go
spoonin'.  What d'you say, there, cutie?"

"Spooning?" I asked.  "Do you really know what spooning is?"

Jeremy, not taking his eyes off Reggie, said, "I know what it means
today, champ."

Reggie blushed even more furiously and took a step back.  Apparently
she, too, knew its current meaning.

"Hey!" I said.  "That's my date you're making suggestive remarks to,
barkeep."

It was enough to break the spell.  Jeremy looked embarrassed as he
stood up and resumed his duties.  "Oh, yeah," he mumbled by way of
apology.  "Sorry.  I just got a little carried away there for a
moment."  He glanced back over at Reggie.  "It's just that she's way
too cute for a homely, skinny soccer dude like you, Porter."

"Oh, I don't think he's too skinny," said Reggie with a smile.
"He's really kind of hunky, if you ask me."

"Well, if you're back on duty, how about drawing us a couple of
beers?" I said.  Reggie stepped closer to me and took my arm and
swung it over her head to rest on her shoulder.  She held onto my
hand as it draped over her while we waited for Jeremy to put heads on
our plastic glasses of beer from the iced keg on the floor behind
him.  He handed them to us with a flourish and a bow, and turned to
help the next people beginning to crowd the table.

Reggie and I turned and joined Cyn and Spence, who had watched the
entire interaction from the corner of the kitchen.

"I think he likes you," Cyn said to Reggie.

Reggie glanced back at Jeremy, now completely involved in handing
out drinks to the crowd.  "I just think he likes flirting," she said.
She leaned in toward Cyn and said in a stage whisper, "Jocks.
They're all the same."

"Hey!" said Spencer.  "I resemble that remark!"

We all laughed at that, and the four of us headed out to brave the
maelstrom of the party.

Reggie and I circulated, greeting friends, teammates, and
acquaintances.  Reggie knew a few people, mostly friends of Bryan and
Melanie, and I introduced her to the rest of my teammates who were
there.  It was interesting to see so many of the guys I only knew on
the soccer field in a more relaxed setting.  Most of them had dates,
but a few of them came to the party in a group.  There were a lot of
Sig Taus there, too, that I didn't know.  Jeremy or Westy introduced
us to a bunch, but, as usual, most of the names just slid off me.
There were too many new faces, too many new names, for me to ever
hope to recall.  I suspected Reggie felt the same way, though she
seemed to be a lot better at putting names to faces than I was.

We made small circles around the apartment, always with the kitchen
bar as our focal point so we could refill often.  I didn't want to
get shitfaced like I had at LaShonda and Amari's party, but I wasn't
averse to trying to maintain a happy comportment.  Reggie, too, was
willing to imbibe, and was feeling little pain.  As we refilled, she
would hold onto my arm in a friendly manner, and as the night
progressed she kept on either holding my arm or holding my hand,
always keeping track of me.  I enjoyed the attention, even if I did
feel a little guilty about it.

I also found myself gauging many of the girls at the party, in
typical college boy fashion, until it occurred to me that I had a
bona fide, one hundred percent female hottie at my side.  I then
began a more critical study of the girls, and discovered, almost to
my astonishment, that most of them paled in comparison to my own
date.  Melanie, one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen, was
certainly the most attractive at the party; an argument could be made
that she was the most beautiful on campus, and maybe even in the
state of Florida, for that matter.  And, to be honest, there were a
couple of other girls who were very easy to look at, here at Jeremy's
party, but Regina Coverdale could compare favorably with nearly any
of them.

And here she was, holding my hand.  I could feel myself puffing up
with beer-soaked pride.  Jesus, get a grip, Porter, I reminded
myself.  Remember Elvis?  Remember Kayla?  And don't forget that
Reggie certainly remembers both of them, so keep it platonic, you
untrustworthy and lecherous fool.

It wasn't much help, however.  Elvis wasn't in the house, and Kayla
was a thousand miles away, and the quite delectable Regina was by my
side.  It was all very ego-inflating, even if it was all innocence.

We had been there for quite awhile, and I was in the television
room, perched on a windowsill talking with Dan Ortega and Brad
Rickman.  Reggie, Melanie and a couple of other girls were on a
bathroom break, holding spots in line for each other in a back
hallway.  Jason sidled up to me, and he was alone, one of the few
times all night I had seen him Kitten-less.

He leaned close to me and whispered, "Dude, we got a thing going on.
C'mere, take a look."

He motioned for me to follow him, and he led me out the door and
down the stairs.

"Where are we going?" I asked, but he just shushed me.  He led me up
the driveway to the back of the house, into the dark back yard.  I
could just make out a few people standing around on the grass.

Jason took me by the arm and said quietly, "Got a chick over there
on a blanket, pulling a train.  She's taking on anybody who wants a
ride."

"What?  What are you talking about?"  I thought I knew, but I
couldn't believe it.

"Cunt's giving it away, dude.  Get in line, hop on, get your rocks
off.  I've already done her, and Westy's banging her right now."  He
was a shadow standing next to me.  "Get over there before she gets
too sloppy, Sean."

"Ugh.  I don't think so," I said.  I pulled away and headed back
toward the side of the house.

"Okay, your loss, dude," I heard him say.  "Me, I'm going back to
rip off another piece."

What kind of girl would allow something like that to happen? I asked
myself.  I couldn't even imagine what would be going through her
mind.  Alcohol does funny things to some people.  Or maybe it was
drugs.  It was a college party, after all.  Anything was possible.  I
shivered, despite the warm night.  Even thinking about the scene gave
me the creeps.

I got upstairs and saw Kitten and Angelina walking together, looking
around for their dates.  I was tempted to go over to them and let
them know where the boys were, but I thought better of it.  Leave
well enough alone, Porter.  It's not your place to try to fix the
world.

I found Reggie, along with Melanie and Brittany, in the kitchen,
getting refills.  I walked up and put my arm around Reggie.  She
hadn't seen me coming up to her, and I caught her by surprise, but
she looked up at me, smiled, and relaxed a little against me,
comfortable with my arm around her.  Her presence comforted me, too,
after seeing what was going on in the back yard.

Maybe an hour later, I saw Kitten and Jason leaving the party.
Kitten was in tears, and Jason looked like he was in pain.  I didn't
see Westy or Angelina anywhere around.

By about three in the morning, I was getting tired, and the crowd at
the party was beginning to thin out.  Spencer and Cyn had already
left for parts unknown, and Jesse and Brittany were saying their
goodbyes.  I looked at Reggie, and she just nodded, instinctively
knowing what I was asking.  We made one last trip to the kitchen to
say goodnight to Jeremy, but he had long since abandoned his post,
and we never did find him.  We caught up with Jesse and Brit as they
were leaving, and we walked down the flight of stairs with them, out
into the warm Florida night.  I couldn't help but glance back toward
the garage, but I didn't see anybody there.  That particular party
must have concluded.

The four of us walked comfortably down the sidewalk, each couple
holding hands.  Reggie and I were swinging our arms in big, loopy
arcs as we walked, just happy to be with each other.  Even though I
had to work the first half of the football game, we had made plans to
meet up and sit together with our friends during the second half, and
I found myself looking forward to spending another afternoon with her.

We split off when we got to University Avenue.  With the girls
promising to find each other at the student entrance to the stadium
before the game, Jesse and Brit turned and walked off in the
direction of Jesse's apartment, and Reggie and I crossed over to
campus, toward our dorms.

We got to the front door of Reggie's dorm, and I suddenly found I
didn't want the night to end.  I was enjoying myself with her, and I
got the feeling she, too, was having a good time.  We stood close
together, whispering to each other, keeping to the shadows by the
hedges that lined the front of her dorm building.  There were other
couples around us, sitting on the lawn or standing beneath a tree,
and a few other kids were lounging around the doorways of the big
brick building.

Finally, we ran out of things to say.  We were standing there, still
close together, but I was suddenly a little uncomfortable about how
to end the night.  A handshake?  Too insulting.  A hug?  Maybe, if I
pretended I was hugging my sister.  Disconnected thoughts kept on
jittering and bouncing within my typically empty skull.  I realized
Reggie was shifting around, too.  Perhaps she was thinking the same
thoughts.  My hands were sweaty, and I was getting nervous.

 From out of the gloom nearby, I heard a male voice.  "Fer Chrissake,
just kiss the lady, would ya?"

There was a tittering of laughter from all around us as I swiveled
my head around, too aware of all the people nearby, now watching us.
I put my arms around Reggie to draw her to me, and she lifted her
arms and put them around my neck, lifting herself up to me.  We
kissed goodnight softly, tenderly.  I felt her lips moving against
mine as we made our tiny adjustments, aligning ourselves against each
other, and the kiss became a lot less platonic.  By the time we broke
apart, we were both a little out of breath.  Reggie's eyes were wide
and surprised, and I was positive her expression was a mirror of my
own.

Her eyes dropped, and she let go of me.  She seemed flustered, and I
certainly felt that way.  What had happened to us tonight?

"I'd better go in," she whispered.  She glanced up at me, smiled,
and stood up on her toes and gave me a much more sisterly and quick
kiss on my lips.  She practically skipped off, turning just once more
before she disappeared into the doorway to give me a quick wave.

I walked slowly back toward my own dorm, my head swirling with
thoughts and memories of the evening.  I knew it would be a long,
long time before I would be able to find sleep that night.


(Continued in Chapter 13)


- 13 -

CAUSE AND EFFECT


The shit really hit the fan on Wednesday after Homecoming.
Fortunately, it was blowing in a different direction than at me.

Westy and Jason, along with everybody else from their pledge class,
got summoned to their fraternity house that evening after dinner.
They left the dorm thinking it was just another pledge hazing, joking
a little and complaining about the short notice.

They returned to their rooms three hours later pale, very quiet, and
still sweating.

I watched Westy rummaging around his desk, but he wasn't really
looking for anything.  He was just fidgeting.

"Westy, what's up?" I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder at me.  "Nothing, dude.  Just forget
about it, okay?"

"Well, it's obvious something's fucked up your head, man.  Don't
forget I've got to live in this room, too, so why don't you tell me
what's happening?" I persisted.

He sighed and shuffled over to the couch and tumbled down into it,
throwing his knee over the arm and leaning back to rest his head on
the back cushion.

"I fucked up, Sean," he said quietly.  "You know that party last
weekend?  Friday?"

I nodded.  "Where I saw you and Jason with your dates," I said.  I
was straddled across my desk chair, and I rested my chin on my hands
on the back of the chair, ready to listen to his story.

He snorted.  "Yeah.  What a hairball that date turned out to be."
He shook his head at the memory.

"What's the matter?  Didn't get lucky?"  I probably shouldn't have
said it, but he deserved anything that was coming down the tube at
him.

He gave a short, humorless bray of derisive laughter.  "Not with
what's-her-face."

"Angelina," I reminded him.

"Yeah.  Angelina.  Big tits, high morals, dried-up cunt."  He shook
his head as he remembered that night.  "What a fuckin' waste of time
and money she turned out to be.  Couldn't even get a fucking handjob
out of her.  What a cunt."

"So, she's your problem here?"

"What?  Angelina?  No, man, what gave you that idea?  She just
wouldn't give it up, is all."

"So what's got you all fucked up tonight, then?"  This conversation
was getting irritating.  I was fast losing what little sympathy I had
started with toward Westy.

"Ah, it was that other shit from that night," he said, now a little
hesitant.

"At the party?" I prompted.

"Yeah, that night at the party.  Anyway, I saw a girl there I'd been
out with before, you know?"

"A girl you'd been out with before?  Or one of your one-night boinks?"

He smiled, a flash of the old arrogant Westy again.  "It's all the
same thing, Porter."

"Maybe to you," I said disgustedly.  "Okay, so you saw her at the
party."

"Her name was Amy.  Shit, when I did her a couple of weeks ago I
thought she was a fucking tramp, but I didn't think I would ever run
into her again."  He looked a little puzzled for a moment.  "What do
they call it when something odd happens to you, like something
appears out of your past?"

"Serendipity?  Or do you mean deja vu?"

"Yeah, serendipity, I think that's it."  Westy settled in and
continued.  "I thought it was, like, serendipity, when I saw her at
that party.  I was a little buzzed, you know?  And my fuckin' date
was getting more and more uptight as the night went on, and I had the
feeling I was gonna be shut out on nooky."  He gave me another
glimpse of that Westy grin I had come to despise.  "Can't have a
Friday night without a little action, you know."

"Yeah, right.  My heart's bleedin' for you.  So you ran into one of
your old squeezes."  I tried to get him back on track.  I was really
regretting offering a sympathetic ear.

"Man, where do you come up with this shit?  An old squeeze.  Is this
all part of those sappy Midwestern values you've been saddled with?"

I stood up.  "Fuck you, Westy.  I'm here trying to give you a hand,
and all you've got for me are insults?"

He sat up straighter, and actually managed to look apologetic.  "Ah,
shit, Porter, I'm sorry.  You're right, I'm an asshole."

I sat back down, albeit reluctantly.  "Get back to the party, then.
I'm assuming this is all leading somewhere?"

His look turned sour and introspective again.  "Yeah, sorry.  It'll
all come around in a minute, you'll see.  Anyway, Amy was at the
party, hanging all over Arthur Burns - he's one of the Sig Tau
brothers who live in that apartment, you know?"

One of Jeremy Peters' roommates.  "Okay," I said.  I motioned for
him to go on.

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a knot," he said, a little
roughly.  He slumped back down on the couch and squirmed around to
get comfortable.  "Amy was there, I think she was stoned to the max,
and I was buzzed and horny, like I said, so I got this crazy idea.  I
cornered her one time when Angelina and Kitten were in line for the
can, and I sweet-talked her into a quickie.  We couldn't use the
bedrooms, because we'd have had to pass by the line waiting to use
the john, and Angelina would have spotted me, so we snuck downstairs
and found a blanket in the back yard."

I knew where this was heading.  It was like watching a car wreck in
slow motion, fascinating and morbid, but still irresistible.

"She peeled off her panties in about record time, Sean, it was
really something."  He smiled again at the recollection, and then
remembered the consequences, and he sobered up quickly.  "Anyway, she
was laying there spread wide, so I dropped my own shorts, hopped on,
and rammed home.  When I climbed off her, Jason was there, watching,
so I asked him if he wanted a ride.  Amy wasn't particular, so he
just pulled his dick out and hopped into the saddle for sloppy
seconds."

"Yuck," I said.

"What's the matter, Porter?  Never had sloppy seconds?"  His lip
curled.  "Wait'll you try sloppy sixths or sevenths, dude."

"Ain't never gonna happen, Bridges.  Skip the gory details, okay?
Then what happened?"

"Got a weak stomach, Porter?"  He saw the look on my face, and his
own expression was hard.  "Yeah, I know, I'm a degenerate.  So what?"

"Hey, what you do on your own time is your own business," I said.
"You want to be an asshole, go right ahead."

"I may be an asshole sometimes, but at least I'm not crying every
night because I'm young, dumb and full of cum," he said with a
knowing smirk.

"Nope, you're not," I said tightly.  "You're just hanging on at the
frat house by your fingertips.  What happened with the girl in the
back yard?"

He sat up a little straighter.  "Okay, anyway, so while Jason's
taking his turn with her, getting his rocks off, I run back upstairs
and let a few of my pledge buddies know what's going down, and
there's a line forming to the right.  I figure I'd better get back in
there before Amy gets too loose and squishy to be any good, so I do
her a second time, and Jason hops back on, and by the time she had
done everybody in line, that bitch had taken about twenty loads, and
she was still on her back, squirming around and moaning for more."

"Jesus Christ, that's disgusting," I muttered.

"Yeah, it is," Westy said, almost happily.  "Best damn night in this
rathole of a college yet."

"For Chrissakes, Westy," I said.

He waved me off.  "Anyway, the upshot of it all is that Kitten
caught Jason with his fly open, put two and two together, and flew
off the handle.  She told Angelina about it, and that was all she
wrote.  Angelina took off, Kitten grabbed Jason and dragged him off
to look for her, so I had no choice but to tag along."

The memory of that part of the night wasn't very pleasant,
apparently, because his expression was dour again.

"So, I found out later somebody found Amy wandering around dripping
cum all over the floor, and then Arthur and Jeremy and some of the
other brothers started asking her about what had happened, and they
found out about my involvement in it all..."  He paused, clearly
uncomfortable about telling this part of the story.  It figures, I
thought.  Consequences just aren't something an asshole like Westy
would consider before jumping in on something.

"And?"  I, on the other hand, was looking forward to listening to
him confess about the aftermath.

"And so tonight the brothers called the entire pledge class over to
the house, and they really reamed us out.  Me and Jason really got
hammered, not only by the brothers, but by the other guys in our
pledge class, too.  Shit!"  Westy pounded his fist on the arm of the
couch.  "It's not like they weren't willing to take their turn at
her, and yet it's like they're blaming me for getting them in
trouble!"

"The thankless bastards," I said facetiously.

Westy glanced at me, wondering if I was serious.  The look on my
face must have told him I wasn't.

"All right, so maybe it was kind of my fault," he grudgingly
admitted.  "Even so..."

"So how much trouble are you in with the fraternity?"

"On probation," he spat.  "Jason, too.  We ain't got no freedom at
all.  Starting tonight, the two of us have to spend every spare
minute either at the fraternity house, or in the company of a
designated brother.  Homework gets done there, and they're going to
check it to make sure it's done right.  If I gotta go to the library,
somebody will go with me.  I can't hardly go to the can by myself,
for Chrissake."

"So you're not going to be around here very much," I said.  Inwardly
I was smiling, though I was careful to not let it show on my face.
Things were looking up.

"Just to sleep," he said.  "From now until the end of the semester."

"Well," I observed, "it ought to keep you from finding mischief."

"It'll do that," he agreed.  "Besides that, training for the swim
team began this week.  I ain't gonna have energy to go sniffing
poontang during the week, anyway."

"You really have a way with words," I said sourly.  I felt like I
needed to take a shower, and that was just from talking to Westy.  He
got up and started rummaging around again.  If he was looking for a
conscience, he wasn't going to find it in his dresser drawers, I
thought to myself.  I did manage to keep my mouth shut, though, even
when he turned to me a little expectantly.  Was he looking for
absolution?  Understanding?  He wouldn't find it with me.  No way was
I going to shake his hand.  I almost looked around the room to see if
there was a ten-foot pole handy, just so I could say I wouldn't touch
him with it.

I suddenly felt the urge to call Reggie to see if she wanted to meet
me for coffee or something.  I needed to talk to somebody sane, so I
could rinse the Westy taint from my psyche.  I waited, watching as
Westy packed up his backpack with books so he could study at the
fraternity house.  He left a few minutes later, still grumbling under
his breath.  He left our door open and stepped across the hall to
pound on Jason's door.  Music was floating down the hall from several
rooms, so I didn't hear them leave, but I was sure they had plenty to
talk to each other about as they walked over to the Sig Tau house to
begin their probation.


___________________________________________________________________


Despite my feeling at that moment to call her, I resisted.  I tried
to concentrate on my own homework that evening, and for the next
couple of weeks after Homecoming I tried to cool down my association
with Reggie just a little.  Beer is a wonderful relaxing beverage,
but I had learned that both she and I were prone to being more...
attentive when under its influence, and in this instance,
attentiveness was not what we needed.  We still went out on the
weekends together, but we were both trying to fit back into the molds
we had originally made for ourselves.  Guilt, even implied guilt of
the soul, can sometimes be a blessing in disguise.

Even so, on our Saturday all-day bus ride up to the tournament in
Washington, D.C., I found myself thinking about Reggie.  It was a
little dismaying when I finally recognized the truth I had been
avoiding for a long time: I already missed her, and I had only been
away from her for about eight hours, having spent most of Friday
night with her at another party, this one at Jesse and Bryan's
apartment.

Christ, Porter, Reggie isn't the girl you're supposed to be missing.
What is wrong with you?

Which brought me to another naked truth: I had been away from Kayla
for so long, I barely missed her anymore.  This truth, instead of
setting me free, only made me sadder.  That was not what I wanted,
and I knew it was not what Reggie wanted, either.  It was just
another tangled knot my clumsy fingers would never be able to untie.

I wandered up and down the aisle of the bus, stopping to talk to
friends, hoping to find a conversation that was involved enough to
yank me out of my melancholy, but all I could achieve was a temporary
salve to my nagging conscience.  I decided the only way to purge
myself was to write a long letter to Kayla, so I propped myself up
against a window toward the back of the bus and pulled a notebook of
lined paper out of my pack.  I rummaged around until I found a pen,
propped my biology textbook on my knees, and began to laboriously put
together some coherent sentences.  As I began writing about the
mundane events of my college life, I deliberately left out any
mention of Reggie, describing instead the recent hard life of my
roommate, tales of Jesse and Brittany, and moaning about my continued
bad luck playing gin against Spencer Goldman.

A couple of hours later, I discovered I was in a much better mood.
The combination of concentrating on my task and knowing I was writing
to my girl back home created a surprisingly welcome ache.  I wanted
to see her, to touch her, to talk to her so badly it was nearly a
physical feeling.  When I realized what it was, though, I embraced
the wanting and the emptiness.  It was Kayla, just as it had nearly
always been Kayla.  I was almost happy in my misery, having
rediscovered that which had been missing.

I signed off on my letter, folded it carefully, and put it back in
my pack.  I settled back, crossed my arms, and let my head fall back,
ready for a nap.  With luck I would dream of my white-haired angel, I
thought lazily as I drifted off.


____________________________________________________________________


I wasn't quite that lucky.  No dreams of Kayla, or of any girl, for
that matter.  I did manage to sleep for a couple hundred boring
miles, but then I was up again, and faced with another choice: study
or try to win back some of my money from Goldman.  I opted to play
cards, and we acquired an audience of equally bored teammates as we
battled for four-suited supremacy.

For once, I walked away a winner, if only by a slim margin.  Spencer
was happy to mark down the fact that I outpointed him in this
particular contest.  He was undeterred, and with good reason, knowing
as well as I that he would recoup this loss another time.

The bus pulled in to the Capitol Hotel, our home away from home for
the next week, after dark.  We were all anxious to get off the bus
and put our feet back on solid ground again, and we piled off the bus
and stood around as Eddie and our driver crawled into the storage
space beneath the coach and started sliding our individual gear bags
and suitcases out.

I grabbed my stuff and lugged it into the hotel lobby, where Pick
was stationed.  He doled out room keys to the designated holders as
we checked in.  Pick had decided on who was staying with whom, and he
elected to spread everybody out.  Instead of rooming with Spencer,
Bryan, or Jesse, the teammates I was closest friends with, I was in a
double with Luke Severin.  Luke and I had hung around together on
occasion, and neither of us had a problem with it.  We could live
together for a week without getting on each other's nerves, I knew.

We all stowed our gear in our rooms, and then met in a reserved room
in the restaurant for a late dinner.  By the time the soup arrived, I
was ready to nod off, thinking longingly of stretching out between
nice, cool sheets.  Everybody else looked as wiped out as I felt.  We
finished up our meal and called it a night.

We had our first practice scheduled for the next morning.  Our bus
was waiting for us after we finished a light breakfast, and we rode
over to one of the practice fields at Georgetown University.  We
started slowly, walking three laps around the field, and then broke
into an easy jog for three more laps.  We stopped and stretched while
Pick, Eddie, Stan Harvard, and Marv Allison, our equipment manager,
got our practice balls and jerseys out and ready.

We broke out into our Alpha and Omega practice teams and took the
field.  Pick gave us some final instructions, and we spent the next
hour working.

By this time I was just as comfortable in midfield as I had ever
been in my typical defensive position.  Pick still started me every
game in my right back spot, but during every scrimmage I played up.
I moved over to the center, switching with Max, so often that we
hardly had to communicate about the switch anymore.  He would see me
start to move, and he would angle over to cover my territory,
practically on instinct.

Sometimes we would switch because of the movement of the ball or the
positioning of an opposing player, and sometimes we would switch
simply because of a gut feeling I might have.  Either way, our switch
nearly always rippled through both teams.  Cause and effect: when
Alpha and Omega saw Max and me move, adjustments were made all up and
down the field.  Perhaps an Alpha back turned and passed to a player
other than his original intended target, or maybe a forward
sidestepped and changed direction.  It wasn't long before these
changes in tactic became evident to all my teammates.

The biggest change, though, occurred early on in our practice
sessions when Max and I shifted.  My Omega teammates, watching what
we were doing, became much more fluid in their coverages.  The
willingness to change up or back, as well as side to side, made our
scrimmage team a lot more versatile, and we covered the ball much
better.  Sometimes, especially during the early learning phase, we
found ourselves bunching up, but shouted instructions from the
captains up and back usually corrected it.  Alpha was having a much
harder time creating space and moving the ball into a quality scoring
position.

Alpha Team was also observant, however, and they very quickly
adapted, especially when they saw Max and me shift.  They, too, began
to utilize speed and slippery coverages, adjusting to Omega's
changes.  Ehrlinger and Porter were the triggers, it seemed, and the
ripple effect spread through both scrimmage teams.  Once the
positions taken up by Alpha became as changeable as Omega's, the
complexion of the entire Gator team changed.  No longer could another
team concentrate on Jesse Wilhoit attacking from the middle, or
Frenchy defending on the left.  Anymore, Jesse could very well be
handling midfield duties from the left or the right, and Frenchy
could be found up and in the middle right next to Jesse.  It played
hell with other teams' scouting reports on us, I was sure, a fact
that no doubt tickled Pick.  He just stood on the sidelines with
Stan, looking like he had swallowed a canary, as he watched his team
transform on the field.

We finished up our practice and got back on the bus.  We had another
short practice scheduled for the afternoon, and our first game,
against George Mason University, was the next afternoon.  Our
practice in the afternoon consisted mainly of shooting and passing
drills, enough to put the ball on our feet but not enough to feel
like we were working ourselves to death.  We finished up with a two-
mile run around the practice fields and the stadium.  Just for kicks
we took practice balls with us and played passing games among us,
working on keeping the ball in the air as we ran.  It was good
practice, and it made running miles more fun as we did our laps.

After we got back to the hotel and had showered, I called the hotel
where the South Carolina team was staying and talked to my old buddy
from home, Trent Abbott.  He had called me a few days before to let
me know where they were staying during the tournament, and we wanted
to get together with Eric Johnson, who was staying in his dorm on
campus at the University of Maryland.  I got permission from Pick for
Jesse and me to leave the hotel for the evening, and we took a cab
over to Trent's hotel.  From there we all took the cab out to College
Park, so we could meet Eric at a pizza joint just off campus.

When we arrived at the restaurant, a local dive called Charlie's,
the three of us tumbled out of the cab and raced each other into the
dim interior.  I spotted Eric sitting in a booth against the wall.
He saw me at about the same time, and stood up as we approached.

"Porter, Goddamn, it's good to see you," he said, holding out his
hand.

I didn't bother shaking it, but instead I stepped in to him and
wrapped him up in a big bear hug.

"You're even uglier than I remember you," I said, my voice a little
husky.

"You always did have poor eyesight," he retorted.  He patted my back
as we hugged.

We finally broke apart, and Eric shook Jesse's hand.  "You keepin'
this young one in line?" he asked.

"You have no idea what a pain in the ass he can be sometimes," said
Jesse.  "Just ask his good friend Frenchy when you meet him."

Jesse and I had a good laugh over that one, and ended up explaining
a little about my history with Frenchy to Eric and Trent.

"Sounds like he could out-weasel Weasel," said Trent.

"Weasel had redeeming qualities," I said.  "Frenchy hasn't really
shown any as yet."

"He's a helluva player, though, you've got to admit," Jesse reminded
me.

"Yes, he is, and he'll be glad to show you when you run into him,
pal."  I pointed to Eric, who would no doubt be faced up against him
if we played each other later in the tournament.

"Sounds like fun," he said.  "Coach has been working on my takeoffs
and my sprinting speed.  Sounds like the kind of matchup I can test
myself against."

"Jesus, you mean you're even faster than you were last year?" I asked.

Eric just smiled, which was confirmation enough for me.

"Well, I hope it isn't us who lights the fire on you," said Jesse.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about it," offered Trent.  "Once he's
got a ball to worry about, it slows him up something considerable."

Even Eric had to laugh at that.

The four of us spent most of that evening in a sausage-and-cheese
pizza extravaganza, catching up on college life for each of us.  We
bragged about our teams, laughed over some of our teammates (of
course, tales of Frenchy were a big hit with Trent and Eric), and
brought each other up to date with news of home.

I asked Trent about his girlfriend, Danielle Nickerson, and he told
us they were moving into an apartment together next year.  They
didn't want Danielle's parents to find out about it quite yet, so he
asked us to keep the news to ourselves until they could break it to
her parents over Christmas.

Eric, in turn, said that he and Keisha had been having some
problems, and I probably wouldn't see her this week.  Something
didn't ring true, but he was so reticent to talk about it I didn't
press him.

In short order, though, we were back to being the three amigos once
again, goofing off and carrying on almost like high school.  Jesse
hung back just a little, content to let the three of us be ourselves
for the evening, smiling at us and laughing with us.  Perhaps he was
remembering his own high school friends, also, as he watched our
interplay.

Almost before we knew it, it was time for the three of us to head
back to our hotels.  It was nearly midnight, early for college kids,
but we still had a curfew to obey.  We promised to catch up with Eric
during the week at the tournament.  I really wanted to watch Maryland
play, not only to see Eric on the field once again, but to scout out
a potential opponent.  I was also planning on watching Trent's team
play the next day, since they were taking the field against Kentucky
right after our game.

Eric stayed with us outside the restaurant until the cab came.
Jesse, Trent and I tumbled into the back seat, shouting out to our
friend as he turned and, with a final wave, walked off into the
darkness, back toward campus.

We dropped Trent off at his hotel, and finally made it back to the
Capitol, just making our curfew.  Luke was already asleep in our
room, so I undressed in the dark so I wouldn't disturb him.  I
brushed my teeth and washed my face, turned out the bathroom light
and stumbled in the dark, stubbing my toe against the bed frame
before finally climbing into my own bed.  I sent out a silent prayer
to Kayla, and then rolled over onto my side.  Tomorrow was the first
tournament day, and I was looking forward to the week.


(Continued in Chapter 14)


- 14 -

TOURNAMENT WEEK


"Okay, team, listen up," Eddie called out.  "Coach has some
announcements and some last-minute changes."

We all paused as we were dressing for our first game.  Pick came
through the door into the locker room, ubiquitous clipboard in his
hand, and stood next to Eddie until he was sure he had our undivided
attention.

"Now, George Mason University is seeded fifteen in this here
tournament, but I don't want you boys to take them any lightly than
you do a conference opponent.  Y'all understand me?"

He waited until he heard us all shout out, "Yes, sir!"

"Sean Porter?  Ah, there you are, son.  You and Stuart Early, I've
got some special instructions for the two of you, and the rest of the
team needs to be aware of what you two are gonna be doing, okay?"

"Okay, Coach," I said.  What did he cook up now?  I wondered if
Spencer was going to not like this very much.

"First of all, I want to reiterate to all of you that I am really
likin' the way everybody is moving on the field.  You all are
playing' very fluid positions, and yet the entire playing surface is
well covered.  That's payin' attention to what's happenin' out there,
and I want you all to know that I like it a lot.  It's going to give
some teams fits, I know, when they're up against it."

He looked around, making sure we were all paying attention.  "That
said, I'm gonna throw another little firecracker into the powder
room.  Porter and Early, I'm starting you in your customary
positions, but I want you two to be particularly aware of each other
out there today.  I want Porter to follow the path of the ball and
switch with Early whenever practical, and everybody else can feed off
the results.  Stuart, you played a lot of defense before, so I'm well
aware you know your way around back there.  Just keep an ear out for
your keeper's instructions.  Understand?"

"Yessir, Pick," replied Stuart.

"Now, that ain't quite all," Pick continued.  "Porter and Spencer
Goldman, I want you two to play interchangeable midfield.  I want you
two to be constantly thinkin' about workin' a two-man game out there.
Anytime one of you happens upon the ball, the other had better be
considerin' how he's gonna be receiving it.  You know the drill,
boys.  Open spaces, give-and-go, blindside passes.  You two are to be
aware of each other every damn second out there.  Got it?"

"Coach?  You want us to provide your firepower in the middle?"  I
wanted to make sure I understood what he was expecting from me.  "I'm
not much of an offensive-minded player, which you know.  What are you
trying for here?"

I saw Max Ehrlinger nodding his head in agreement.  Even though he
was Spencer's backup, I knew he was thinking he didn't want to be the
third-position player at midfield if Coach Pick suddenly decided I
would make a better midfielder than defender for this particular
team.  With Dan Ortega pretty much locked in at defense, it was Max
who was looking at moving down to third-team status, and we both knew
it.  He was too smart to open his mouth and say something about it,
though.

"Good point, Mr. Porter," said Pick.  "Here's what I'm thinking.
George Mason's strongest players are in the middle, right down the
centerline.  Forward, midfielder, sweeper, stopper, keeper.  When the
Patriots are attacking our net, I want you back there in your
customary position, helping to keep them out of our goal.  When we're
on the offensive, I want you up and ready to muddy up the middle for
just the same reason.  Your defensive mindset will help us plug up
their field of play, and I'm hopin' you will be able to keep the ball
on our feet by harryin' their quality guys."

"Okay," I said doubtfully.  I glanced over at Spencer.  He looked as
uneasy as I felt about this experiment.

"Now, before you start raisin' objections, let me say that I'm
leavin' it up to you when to call for the switch.  I ain't expectin'
you to dash on over there as soon as the ball crosses midfield, but
if'n you see an offensive or defensive reason for you to be in the
middle, that's where I want you to be."

"Why don't you just start me in the middle, then?" I asked.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled.  "By gum, there's an idear I might
just have to use up sometime," he said, rather too smoothly.  "Nope,
I want them Patriots to find you where they are expectin' you at the
start of the game, Sean.  But I want 'em surprised by where you might
end up."

"We'll give it a try," I said.  It was a lot of field movement for
everybody involved in Pick's scheme.  I was a little concerned about
the weather and its effects.  It was unseasonably warm, and with some
humidity added in, I knew our legs would start to misbehave if we
found ourselves in a dogfight.  I turned to Dan Ortega and Max
Ehrlinger.  "Be ready to hop in, guys.  By the end of each half I'd
be willing to bet one of us will be ready to grab a breather."

"No problem, Sean.  I'll be ready," said Dan.  Dan was always ready.
I knew it, and he knew I knew it, but I felt more comfortable
communicating it, anyway.

"You got it," agreed Max.  He was just as anxious to play as Dan
was, and maybe more so.

Spencer's intelligent face was bright with anticipation.  "I think
this is going to work," he said.

Stuart shrugged.  "It's a lot of movement just to maintain our
coverages," he said.

"That's kind of the point, though, I think," I told him.  He thought
about it for a moment, and then nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, I guess it is, at that," he said.

I just happened to glance over at the coaches right then, and I saw
Pick and Eddie put their heads together.  Pick had a catlike grin on
his face, and Eddie looked like he had just put one over on somebody.
I hoped it wasn't me.

By game time it was sunny and almost hot, and there was a strong
wind blowing straight down the field.  Keeper punts and long, looping
passes were going to be tricky to judge, and corner kicks were going
to be especially dangerous in those conditions.  There didn't seem to
be any gusts that veered off the field.  The wind was relentless,
blowing from end line to end line.

We went through our warm-up drills and did our laps.  Going with the
wind I felt like there was a gentle hand pushing me along, but
running against the wind was a struggle.  Warming up wasn't too bad,
but I knew that as the game progressed, I would feel like I was
trying to push my way through cotton candy moving in that direction.
Another niggling worry was the way the wind seemed to rob me of my
breath when I was running into it.  Sometimes it seemed like I
couldn't fill my lungs, and I was concerned that feeling would hit me
sometime during the game.  I tried to shake off the feeling,
concentrating instead on feeling the wind on my skin as I jogged.

The Patriots won the coin toss and elected to start with the ball.
That gave us the choice of which side of the field to defend, and we
chose to defend against the wind to start.  The captains of the
George Mason team looked a little surprised that we were giving up
the advantage of the wind, but we had reasoned that it would take
them several plays to judge the force of the wind on the ball,
effectively reducing its advantage for several minutes.
Additionally, we wanted them to feel comfortable playing with the
wind at their backs during the first half, so that the struggle
against the wind in the second might take an even bigger toll on
them.  We were gambling that the wind would continue to blow for the
next two hours, but we all thought it was an acceptable risk,
especially against the bottom seed in our draw.

True to our plan, the Patriots started with the ball, and almost
immediately misjudged its effect on the ball's flight path.  Their
first pass sailed over everybody's head, and Rick came out into the
front of the box and gathered it up.  He held the ball for a moment
until he was satisfied we could move the ball fairly unimpeded, and
he rolled it over to me.  I passed it up to Spencer, who advanced the
ball to the midfield stripe.

Spencer sent the ball up to Jesse on our first offensive set, and
almost immediately he found himself double-teamed.  Jesse tried
moving the ball over, but when he did, we discovered the hole in our
grand design of taking advantage of the wind's velocity.

Our plan was only partially thought out, as we quickly discovered.
We, too, had trouble adjusting to how the ball was moving in the
wind.  Our passes were almost always short, and it was pretty easy
for our opponents to cut off even a vigorously struck pass.  Jesse's
first attempt to get rid of the ball resulted in a takeaway, and the
Patriots were on the move.  Their right midfielder tried a long pass
through the air, and the ball sailed way over the head of his
intended target.  It took three big bounces and ended up out of
bounds for a goal kick for us.

Rick played it smart, though, and he passed the ball over to me on
the goal kick, rather than taking a chance on having the ball fly
back into his face on a long kick.  I took the ball and moved up with
it, making sure I struck the ball a little harder than I normally
would as I ran.  The left forward for George Mason came up to
challenge me as I controlled the ball, but his angle was bad.  I
faked a pass over to Brad in the middle, which made the forward
stutter and hesitate as he considered changing direction.  It was
enough of an opening for me to be able to juke him and move past him,
toward the midfield stripe.

The Patriots center-mid and the left midfielder both converged on
me.  I used my right instep to cross the ball over to Spencer, and I
took off into the wind.  Spencer one-touched the ball back to me on a
give-and-go, and then he dropped back into my coverage as I picked up
the ball and took it into Patriots territory.

The Patriots players were not expecting me to advance the ball
beyond the midfield stripe, apparently, because they covered my
forwards and midfielders, leaving me pretty much alone.  Once they
saw their error, their stopper peeled off his coverage and moved up
to intercept.  Once more I passed the ball off on a square cross,
this time to Bryan, and again I moved upfield.  Bryan trapped the
ball, took a couple of sliding steps as he rolled the ball with the
top of his foot, changing its direction, and then he threaded a pass
back to me in the middle.  I was now behind the stopper, who had
followed the path of the ball from me to Bryan, and I picked up the
pass unobstructed.  I was only able to take two or three steps with
the ball before the Patriots stopper moved on me from behind and
their sweeper came up on me from in front.  I saw Jesse swinging out
into open space, and I powered the ball hard toward him.  Even with
as much foot as I put on the ball, it was starting to slow to a stop
by the time Jesse was able to pick it up, with the defender closing
on him fast.  Jesse managed to slip the defender just enough so he
could put the ball in the air, aiming for the net, but the wind
pushed the ball out past the eighteen-meter mark.  I desperately
leapt up, hoping against hope I could at least graze the ball into a
different direction with my head, but I missed, and the ball sailed
by me.  The Patriots stopper managed to jump up and scissor-kick high
enough to get his ankle on the ball, bringing it down to the ground.
Before he could do anything with it, though, I ran at him and slide-
tackled the ball out from under his feet.  We both tumbled to the
ground, with the stopper landing hard on my outthrust leg.

The Patriots stopper scrambled up, but my leg wouldn't work very
well.  All I could do was roll around on the ground, grimacing as I
tried to bend my knee to get some feeling back into it.  Brad had
gathered in the ball on my tackle, and he quickly passed it over to
Jesse, who kicked it out of bounds, stopping the game so Eddie could
come out and see what was wrong.

By the time Eddie trotted out to where I was, I was wishing I hadn't
wanted feeling to rush back into my leg quite so quickly.  It hurt a
lot, so much so I wasn't sure I could get up without help.  Eddie
crouched down, his face looking worried.

"Where's it hurt, Sean?" he asked, glancing down toward my knee
clutched in both hands.

"Everywhere, man," I groaned.  I had some movement in the joint by
then, and I flexed the knee.  Nothing seemed to be wrong there, and I
was beginning to think maybe it was just a delayed reaction to the
collision.  It seemed like, if I let it, my calf would start to
tighten up and bruise, but if I could get up and walk it off, I might
be okay.

"Give me a hand up, would you?" I asked.  By then, Jesse, Tad, and
Bryan were there, too, and four sets of hands reached out to help me
to my feet.  I tentatively put my foot down and put some weight on my
leg.  Miraculously, everything held together.  The referee came over
to ask if I needed assistance off the field, and Eddie shook him off.
I had to come out for at least one play, but I could walk on my own.
Eddie and I walked slowly off the field.  Dan Ortega started taking
off his warm-up jacket, but Pick motioned for him to sit back down.
I flexed my leg, and even jogged a few steps as we moved toward our
bench, and I heard a smattering of applause from the Patriots, a show
of sportsmanship.

Pick opted to play a man down rather than take me out of the game
until the half ended, so I walked the sidelines, loosening up my
abused leg and trying to keep my muscles warm.  George Mason took the
throw-in to continue with the game.  They passed the ball over to our
side in deference to the injury stoppage, and play resumed.  As soon
as he could, Pick put me back me back into the game.  By that point
Stuart had moved back to the right-side middle to try to shore up our
defense in the center of the field while we were playing short.  When
the referee waved me in, I took my customary spot defending on the
right.

We played them tight the rest of the half, and even managed to sneak
a goal in on a squibbed corner kick.  Frenchy took the corner and
tried to keep the ball low and hard, and he ended up hitting the
ground with his foot before striking the ball.  The ball rolled out,
and Spencer moved out to gather it up.  He tried to thread the needle
on a pass to Bryan close in by the goalpost.  Bryan was pushed from
behind, but he still managed to heel the ball, perhaps intending on
sending it over toward Jesse.  Instead, the ball ricocheted off his
instep, catching everybody by surprise, and ended up rolling into the
net right by the near post.  The Patriots keeper made a dive for it,
but was a half-second too late.  We found ourselves with a 1-0 lead
at the half, and the prospect of playing with the wind in the second
half.

As we huddled up before the whistle to start the second half, I
looked over at Spencer.  "You have any problem with me starting in
your position?"

He looked at me for a moment, and then turned to Stuart.  "You wanna
play more D?"

Stuart looked from Goldman to me.  "Okay by me," he said.

Spencer nodded, and then turned back to me and nodded again.  "Let's
do it," he said forcefully.

Pick, on the outside of the huddle, just watched and listened, not
saying a thing.  His body language spoke of complete agreement,
however.

We broke our huddle and trotted out to take our positions.  I looked
over at the sidelines as the Patriots lined up, and I saw Pick, Stan,
and Eddie standing side by side, studying the playing field and
talking to each other, presumably about their observations.

The referee blew his whistle to start the clock, and the game was
on.  Jesse took the opening tap from Spencer, and turned to pass the
ball back to me, fifteen meters behind them.  At the kickoff, Juan
Maria and Spencer had taken off down the right sidelines, and Bryan
and Jeremy mirrored them on the left.  If our plan didn't work, we
were going to be caught very thin in the middle of the field, but the
wind was in our favor.  I launched a pass up into the breeze toward
the right corner, and it sailed downfield, aided by the wind.  It hit
the turf in front of Juan Maria, and he had to sprint to catch it
before it bounced out of bounds.  His last-second effort saved it,
and he managed to juggle the ball just enough to get it back under
control before he was forced to pass it off to Spencer.

In the meantime, I had run right past the Patriots forward, who was
advancing a few meters into our space in anticipation, and their
front midfielder, who was also thinking offense.  Their sweeper
picked me up, but Jeremy, our left midfielder, angled in behind the
sweeper to get the attention of their stopper.  Bryan was being
covered by the defenseman on our left, but the fast play deep into
Patriots territory resulted in two of our players being left open.
Jesse, positioning himself on the left for a cross, was unattended,
as was Spencer, with the ball.

The defender who had forced Juan Maria to pass the ball had to make
a choice.  Either he had to stay with his coverage, or he had to peel
off and challenge Spencer, the ball handler, at least until their
midfielders could recover and fall back on defense.  The defender
opted to stay with Juan Maria, which meant either the sweeper or the
stopper had to move on Spencer.

The sweeper, probably reasoning that his midfielders could cover me
quicker than they could fall back to take over the stopper's lanes,
tried to check me with a shoulder before going after Spencer.  I
sidestepped and moved behind him, away from the approaching
midfielder, and Spencer let him commit to him before looping a pass
over his head to me.  Spencer aimed the ball a little behind me,
letting the wind push it up to the open space in front of me.  It
bounced twice and settled just as I was running up to it.  It hit it
in stride with the laces of my right foot, trying to keep the ball
low enough so that the wind didn't pick it up but still trying to
take advantage of its push.  The ball launched off my foot like it
was rocket propelled, on a low trajectory toward the net.  It was
traveling at warp speed as it passed over the ground, and it was
still rising as it fit in the miniscule space between the top rail
and the outstretched hand of the leaping keeper.  It was my first
tournament goal, a strike that felt just as sweet as it looked.  I
ran up to Jesse and leaped into the air, and he caught me around my
waist and held me up as he carried me in celebration back toward our
side of the field.  In moments, we were overrun by our teammates, who
piled on, until I found myself at the bottom of a mound of screaming,
yelling players, all wanting to pound my back and chest in
congratulations.

We finally untangled and resumed our positions for the restart.  The
fast goal lifted us up, and we played an inspired second half,
stopping George Mason cold before they could mount any serious
attack.  They were able to achieve only one modest breakaway, down
their right side, but Frenchy, pulling out the stops, put a quick end
to it, seeming to yank the ball right out from beneath the feet of
the Patriots forward who was dancing with the ball, seeking an
opening.  Frenchy did a little trick with his feet, and suddenly he
had possession.  The Patriots player looked confused as he gazed
down, fully expecting to see the ball still on his shoes, but Frenchy
was already five meters upfield from him with the purloined ball.

Our first tournament game was a victory, 4-0.  We packed up our bags
and left the sidelines just as South Carolina was arriving.  I
stopped and talked to Trent for just a moment, and he introduced me
to some of his friends.  They were a good group of guys, but I didn't
want to get too friendly with them quite yet.  I had the feeling I
would be meeting them again, this time on the field of battle at RFK
Stadium.

After our team meeting in the locker room, we just had time for a
quick shower before the Wildcats of Kentucky took on the Fighting
Gamecocks of South Carolina.  Pick encouraged us to stay and watch
the next games, and everybody wanted to relax in the stands and study
the teams.  We got to the grandstand just before kickoff, and sat in
a section Stan and Marv were holding for us.  We spent the next
several hours enjoying the warm day, now that our work was done,
eating outrageous amounts of hot dogs and fries, pizza and nachos.
Occasionally we even watched a little soccer being played.


__________________________________________________________________


We had a day off before we played our second game.  Jesse and I took
a cab over to Georgetown to watch Eric and his Maryland team take on
Ohio State.  We stayed afterward and sat with the Terps while Purdue
battled the University of Connecticut.  I had had more than enough of
stadium food the day before, so Jesse, Eric and I left at halftime
and found a KFC restaurant nearby.  Fried chicken was an improvement
over corn dogs.

We decided to eat inside, away from the bugs and the relentless
sunshine.

"Say, Sean, Trent wants to get together Thursday night," Eric said.
"Danielle's driving up and wants to go out to dinner with us all."

"Sounds good," I said.  "Jesse?  You and Bryan want to come along?"

He shrugged.  "Sure.  I'll double-check with Watkins, but I doubt
he's got plans.  Probably would like a break from watching the tube
in a hotel room."

"Free HBO is great for one night," agreed Eric.  "Two or more is
stretching it, though."

"You got that right," said Jesse.

"What about Keisha?" I asked.  I knew it was kind of a sore subject,
but I wasn't going to let him forget that she was a friend of
Danielle's, and a friend of mine, too.  "Think she'll join us?"

"I don't know, man," Eric said.

"You want me to call her and ask her?" I asked.  "I'd like to see
her."

"Nah, I'll talk to her," he said.  "Don't worry about it."

"Okay," I said, though I was worried about it, despite his
admonitions.

We dumped our empty boxes and cups in the garbage receptacle and
went back to the stadium to watch the second half, with the question
of Keisha coming along still unresolved.


__________________________________________________________________


Our next game was against Princeton, who had beaten Marshall
University to advance.  Pick started me at right defense again, but
our coverages were now so fluid our starting positions were
practically reduced to just naming conventions.  Everybody on the
field was so in tune with everybody else, it was almost like
telepathy.  The only people you could pretty much count on being in
their positions were Rick in the net, and Brad right in front of him.
They became the anchors of our defense, giving out instructions and
moving people around as needed.  Sometimes it was Frenchy, Tad, and
me; it could just as often have been Luke, Stuart, and Spencer.
Occasionally, even Juan Maria and Bryan found themselves defending,
though they were never both back at the same time.

Jesse Wilhoit, an unrepentant offensive player, could usually be
found up and in the middle, his customary position, but even he took
to roaming in the midfield upon occasion.  He never dropped back into
defensive territory, but he was our strongest offensive weapon, and
he knew it.  He stayed up in our opponents' territory most often, so
he could use his skills to our best advantage.

It made our team unpredictable, it made opponents' scouting reports
a lot less useful, and it made the Gators a much stronger team.  We
strolled through Princeton, tallying up an easy shutout, and awaited
the winner of the UConn-North Carolina game.  Two games in, and
Florida and South Carolina were the only two teams to record double
shutouts, no goals against.  It looked more and more like we would be
playing Trent's team for the title on Sunday.


___________________________________________________________________


Danielle Nickerson was due in on Thursday afternoon.  She was
planning on driving up in time to watch Trent's game against
Georgetown.  Thursday was an off day for us, so Coach put us through
a light practice session in the afternoon.  I was going to miss the
South Carolina-Georgetown game, but we had already made plans to meet
for dinner at a local Italian restaurant that Eric had recommended.

After practice, freshly showered and shaved and feeling clean, I let
Pick and Eddie know where I was going.  Jesse, Bryan, and Spencer
were coming with me to dinner.  Spencer knew Eric and Trent from my
summer clinics, and Jesse, a soccer god back home, was known by
everyone.  He also knew Eric and Trent through me, having met both of
them a few times before.  Bryan fit right in with our group.  I knew
they would like him just fine, just as I knew he would enjoy spending
time with my friends.  I was looking forward to seeing Danielle and
the rest of the gang, and spending an evening relaxing before the
semi-finals the next day.

On the way out the door, we met up with players from Ohio State, who
were staying in the same hotel as we were.

"Hey," I said, stopping one of the Ohio State players.  They were
all dressed in their team sweats in red and white.  "Did you guys
just come from the game?"

"Yeah," he said.  "Good game, too.  North Carolina won in the first
overtime, 2-1.  You're from Florida, right?  Looks like you'll have a
fight on your hands tomorrow against the Tarheels in the semis."

"Good deal," I said.  I was looking forward to the game against one
of the premier organizations in college athletics.  We might just
have a surprise for them.

And so the teams were set for the finish of the tournament.  Florida
was playing North Carolina, a perennial powerhouse, in the noon game,
and Maryland was up against South Carolina in the second semi-final
later in the afternoon.  Trent Abbott's team against Eric Johnson's
team.  Win or lose, on Sunday I would be playing against an old high
school teammate, either in the championship game or in the
consolation game.

Jesse, Spencer, Bryan, and I hopped into a cab outside the hotel.
It was after six, and we were supposed to meet up with everybody by
seven.  We got to the restaurant, a pretty nice place called
Nicolai's, early enough to find a small round table in the bar area.
We ordered Cokes and sat back to wait for my friends.

Trent and Danielle came in a little bit later, and I jumped up and
gave Dani a big hug.  She leaned down and gave Spencer a brief hug,
and I introduced her to Jesse and Bryan.  She and Jesse had met once
before, but it seemed like a long time ago.

"Of course I remember," said Jesse graciously as he stood to shake
her hand.

"Hey, let's go get our table," suggested Trent.

"Shouldn't we wait for Eric?" I asked.

"Nah.  He'll find us," Trent said.  He hustled us up and out of the
bar.  Jesse paid our tab for our Cokes as Trent and Danielle led
Spencer, Bryan, and me into the dining room.

"We've got a reservation under Abbott," he said to the lady at the
podium just inside the door.  She was a gray-haired, proper woman who
wore a pair of reading glasses on a beaded chain around her neck.
She daintily picked up her glasses and perched them on the tip of her
nose as she checked her reservations book.

"Ah, yes, of course," she said.  She grabbed a handful of menus from
behind the podium.  "If you would follow me, please?"  She took off
her glasses, letting them fall back to her bosom, and gestured for us
to accompany her into the dining room.

There was a big, round table set up off to one side, and she led us
to it.  She indicated that we were to take our seats.  Trent,
Danielle, Bryan, and Spencer moved around to sit on the far side of
the table.  I was about to sit next to Danielle, but she put her hand
down on the seat.

"Let's save this seat for Eric, okay?" she asked with a smile.

I shrugged.  "Sure, why not," I said, though the request seemed a
little odd.  I took the next seat over, my back to the doorway.
Trent and Danielle kept on glancing up toward the entrance, seemingly
watching for Eric.  Jesse came in from the bar and joined us.  He
picked up his menu and began to casually study it.

"What looks good to you, Porter?" he asked.

Danielle giggled softly.  I glanced at her, but she didn't look at
me at all.  She deliberately picked up her water glass and took a
small sip.  Something seemed just a little off, but if they wanted to
play some sort of silly game, I was willing to go along with them.  I
picked up my menu.  Chicken Parmesan or Baked Mostaccioli?
Decisions, decisions.

I was studying my menu when I heard Eric come up.

"How's everybody doin'?" he drawled.  I looked up at him and just
saw his shit-eating grin before two hands wrapped themselves around
my head and covered my eyes.

"What's going on?" I asked.  "Is that Keisha?"

I heard Keisha's laugh, and it gladdened my heart.  She turned my
head to the side so she could lean down and gave me a soft, languid
kiss on the lips.

"Hello, Sean dear," she murmured.

She didn't let go of my eyes, however, and I was startled to feel
another soft cheek gently rub against mine, and another soft pair of
lips also give me a slow and warm kiss on my mouth.

"That's not Keisha," I said.  "And it's certainly not Eric.  Who's
there?"

"Aw, man, cain't you even take a little guess?" asked Eric
teasingly, and everybody at the table laughed.  I couldn't pick out
the voice of the person keeping me blinded, however.

I just shook my head.  Better to keep my mouth shut than to find a
size eleven foot in it, I said to myself.

A list of possibilities ran through my head, though.  I smelled a
familiar smell, and I felt familiar lips kissing me, but I still was
unwilling to believe.  The disappointment would have hurt too much.

"Come on, Sean," implored Keisha.  "Can't you even try to guess?"

"I could try, but what if I'm wrong?" I asked.

"What if you're right?" asked Kayla, a voice beside me.

I leapt up out of my chair, startling everybody.  I whirled around,
nearly knocking the chair over, and there she was.  She was smiling,
there were tears in her eyes, and she looked lovelier than she ever
had before to me.

She squealed just a little as I stepped up to her, wrapped my arms
around her waist, and picked her up.  I kissed her hard, still
disbelieving she was actually there, and she put her arms around my
neck and kissed me back.  I could feel my own tears trickling down my
cheeks, but I didn't care at all.  Everything I wanted in the world
was right there, in my arms.


(Continued in Chapter 15)


- 15 -

ANGEL IN THE DOORWAY


We finally disentangled, but I still wouldn't let Kayla go
completely.  I kept my arm around her and pulled her with me back to
my chair.  She sat down next to me, pulling her chair close so I
could keep my arm across her shoulder.  She leaned in to me and put
her hand on my thigh, wanting and needing the physical touch as much
as I.

I looked around the table as Eric and Keisha got settled in.  "Were
all you guys in on this?" I asked.

Jesse smiled and nodded.  "Yep.  Everybody except for Bryan.  I told
him a little about it the other day, but Keisha and Danielle really
planned it all and pulled it off."

I stared at Danielle, across the table from me and looking like the
cat who ate the canary.  "And you played the innocent so well," I
said.  It made her smile even more.

"And you," I said, pointing at my friend Eric.  "That bullshit about
you and Keisha was all made up, wasn't it?"

He shrugged.  "Hey, she was busy.  I had to keep you away from her
for a few days."

"What did you tell your parents?" I asked my love.

She laughed, and my heart filled again.  "I'm on a campus visit,"
she said, glancing fondly at Keisha.  "It was all Keisha's idea, and
she was the one who really convinced my mom and my dad it was okay.
I'm staying with her and looking at Maryland, and then I'm going with
Danielle to see South Carolina."

I was a little crestfallen.  "You're staying with Keisha?"

Kayla looked at me, smiling.  "No," she said, shaking her head slowly.

"No?"  I was a little slow on the uptake.

"No," she repeated.  "But my parents think I am."

"Then where are you..."

She pinched my thigh, and I got it.  Idiot, I chastised myself, but
Kayla was laughing, and everybody else at the table seemed to think
my chronic stupidity was highly amusing.

"So how... and why... and when..."  I couldn't seem to finish a
sentence at all.

"For a college kid you sure don't have any answers," laughed Trent.
"Actually, Dani and Keisha set the whole thing up.  Jesse and Spencer
were in on it, too.  I think they felt sorry for you, all lonely and
depressed and everything."

I glanced at Jesse and Spencer both.  Visions of Reggie briefly
flashed in my head, but they popped like soap bubbles into the ether.

"We had some convincing to do on your behalf," said Danielle.  "I
worked on Kayla's mother, and Keisha talked to her dad.  Between the
two of us we managed to convince them it was all on the up-and-up."

"Which reminds me," said Keisha.  "Kayla, you're due to call your
folks in about an hour.  Don't forget."

Kayla pointed at her watch.  "I'm keeping track, don't worry," she
said.

"So are you really considering going to Maryland?" I asked.  To be
sure, I was disappointed Florida wasn't on her list to visit.

All three of the girls, Kayla and Danielle and Keisha, looked at me
very strangely.

"Whatever made you think I'm considering attending school at
Maryland?" asked Kayla, an amused look on her face.

"Uh... because you're visiting... and..."  Her hand on my leg must
have cut off the oxygen supply to my brain, I chastised myself.  I
decided I would show her I was smarter than I looked sometimes.  "And
you're just using the campus visit as an excuse, aren't you?"

"See?  I tole you he wasn't as dumb as you thought he was,"
commented Eric to Keisha.  He carefully kept his face neutral, his
quick glance in my direction to see if his barb hit its target his
only giveaway.  Keisha's response was to hit him in the bicep.

"Give the poor boy a break," she said to her boyfriend.  "He's been
doing without for a long time."

Kayla gave her a wink.  "I've been doing without for a long time,
too, but it hasn't scrambled my brain," she noted.

"That's because you're not a guy," said Danielle with a critical
look at me.

"No, I'm not," agreed Kayla.

"No, she's not," I confirmed.  I turned her head to me so I could
kiss her.  I wanted to make sure I wasn't really imagining all this.
Her return kiss confirmed the reality for me.

"Cripes, get a room, would you two?" said Jesse in mock disgust.

I grinned.  "I'd like to," I said.

In fact, I was ready to blow off dinner and grab a cab back to the
hotel with my Luscious.  Patience, I reminded myself.  Good things
come to those who wait.  Admirable sentiment, but difficult to do, I
found.  Still, I waited.

We all ordered, and Kayla and I spent the next hour in communion
with our friends around the table.  Even as anxious as I was, I found
myself really enjoying the time we spent together, my friends and me.

While we were waiting for dessert, Kayla and Keisha got up from the
table and walked into the lobby of the restaurant.  It was time for
Kayla to report in to her parents, and Keisha was sure they were
going to ask to speak to her, too.  They trusted their daughter, but
after Jake's indiscretions of a few years ago, and Tara and Stephen's
problems of about a year past, all our parents were on heightened
alert, it seemed.

While they were gone, I took the opportunity to ask a few questions
of Eric and Trent.

"So, how come you guys thought of this?" I asked.

Trent had the good grace to look chagrined.  "Actually, we didn't,"
he admitted.  "Keisha and Dani came up with the idea."  He glanced
over at Eric.  "We," he continued, indicating himself and Eric,
"weren't particularly in favor of it, actually."

That surprised me, and maybe disappointed me a little.  I tried not
to make judgments, however, and I didn't think anything showed on my
face.

"Why not?" I asked, trying to sound noncommittal.

Eric laughed, and I looked at him in surprise.  "Shit, Porter, we
didn't want you to be happy during this tournament," he said.  "A
happy Sean is a tough Sean when it comes to soccer.  Bringing your
girlfriend here just didn't sound like it was in our best interest."

Trent chuckled with Eric.  "But once the girls... reasoned... with
us, we saw the error of our ways," said Trent.

"Reasoned?  That what you call it?" asked Eric, smiling and
grimacing at the same time.  "I'd call it damn painful."

"Yeah, it was that, too," said Trent.  "Anyway, after Dani and
Keisha pointed out the... defects... in our logic, we decided that
maybe an exhausted Sean was almost as good as a lonely Sean to us.
If your girlfriend can tire you out enough, it should offset any
benefits from the happiness quotient from seeing her."

"You think so, do you?" I said.  "Well, maybe I won't exhaust myself
wining and dining her, so I'll have enough energy to whup your asses
on Sunday."

The whole table laughed out loud at that.  "Yeah, right," said
Trent.  "Let's see how that plan works."

He was right.  That plan just wasn't in the cards, and no matter how
much I tried to bluff, Trent and Eric both knew it.

The girls came back about ten minutes later, all smiles.  Everything
had gone well, and Kayla's parents weren't expecting to talk to her
again for a couple of days.

As much as I loved my friends, by the time we were done with dessert
I was ready to get out of there.  Jesse, Eric, and Trent, letting
their perverse sense of humor show once again, insisted on ordering
coffee.  They sat back and enjoyed watching me squirm as they sipped.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore.

"Fuck it," I muttered, and I stood up.  Kayla gave me a quick
glance, and then allowed me to pull her chair out.  She stood
gracefully and took my hand.  She looked at Jesse, Bryan, and
Spencer, and that was all it took.  The three of them scrambled to
get up.  How does she do that? I thought to myself.  I have to cajole
and plead, and all she has to do is look at them and they jump.
Probably willing to ask how high on their way up, too.  It was
another of those mysteries of the universe a small mind such as mine
could never unravel.

We all reached for our wallets and threw money at the table to cover
the bill.  Everybody else also got up, and Bryan went out to get a
cab while we all said our goodbyes for the evening.

Just to get in one last dig, Eric asked, "Hey, you guys want to go
out dancing or something?"

Kayla was much more gracious in declining than I would have been.
Before I could swear at him she answered, "Thank you, no.  You all
have important games to play tomorrow, so I think we will call it an
evening."

Keisha dug her elbow into Eric's side, as if to say, She got you,
didn't she?  Eric did his best to ignore her.

Keisha, not about to be ignored, grabbed his arm and pulled him to
her.  "Good night, Sean.  Good night, Kay.  Danielle will pick you up
in the morning, and we'll all go to the games together."

"Great," said Kayla.  "See you then."  Only then did she allow me to
lead her toward the door.

Jesse, Bryan, and Spencer got into the cab.  Danielle and Trent took
us to the parking lot, and Kayla and I crawled into the back seat of
Danielle's car, a 1979 Buick Skylark she had bought at the beginning
of her senior year in high school.  It was a little cramped in the
back seat, but I didn't care.  I was with my girl.  I held her tight,
all the way across town and back to our hotel.

We said goodnight to Dani and Trent.  It was right about then I
realized I couldn't just waltz Kayla up to my room.  For one thing, I
had a roommate.  For another, we had a curfew, and either Pick or
Eddie always came around to make sure we were where we were supposed
to be.  Curfew was still an hour away, but how was I going to get
Kayla upstairs and Luke out of our room?

Fortunately, Jesse and Spencer had already thought of that.  They
arrived as Kay and I were standing around, trying to figure something
out.  Jesse told us to go around to the side, by the restaurant
entrance.  He would watch out for Pick and Eddie so we could get to
an elevator safely.  In the meantime, Spencer ran up the stairs to
move Luke into his room.  Bryan, meanwhile, stationed himself in our
hallway, ready to divert anybody who happened to stick their heads
out at the wrong time.

It all went off like clockwork.  Kayla and I made it up to my empty
room unseen.  Luke had most of his stuff still there, but he took
what he needed for the night over to Spencer's and Brad's room.  It
was going to be a little crowded there, and I knew I was accumulating
some debt with some of my teammates, but it was all worth it, as long
as we could keep Pick and Eddie in the dark.

Jesse and Spencer brought Luke and Brad by to meet Kayla, and we
both thanked them for helping us.

"A slight bending of the rules is rarely a bad thing," said Jesse.

Luke, the one most put out by our machinations, couldn't keep his
eyes off my Luscious.  I couldn't blame him, nor was I about to say
anything to him.  After all, he was doing me a huge favor.  Besides,
looking didn't cost anything, as long as he understood she was my
girl.  He could look as much as he liked - or, to be honest, as long
as Kayla didn't mind - and I thought seeing her made his shuffling
around a touch more worthwhile.  Or maybe I was just imagining it
all.  I still wanted to reach out and touch her occasionally, just to
make sure she was truly there, in my room, talking with my teammates.
It really seemed too good to be true.

Kayla had pulled some pictures out of her backpack and was showing
them to Spencer and Jesse.

"See?  And here's little Kyle, Sean's nephew," she said, passing the
photo over to Spencer.

"Boy, he's grown since I saw him over the summer," he said, gazing
at the picture.  "How old is he now?"

"Five months old," Kayla said.  "He was born in May."

Brad looked at the picture.  "And this is your, what, your brother's
kid?" he asked.

"Well, kind of," I said.  "It's a long story."

Jesse stood up.  "A story for another time," he said, pointedly
looking at his watch.  "Lights out in fifteen, gentlemen.  Let's get
back to our rooms, okay?"

Everybody got up and shuffled toward the door.  Jesse opened it,
looked out to make sure the hallway was empty, and ushered the others
out.  He turned back to us after the room had emptied.

"Just in case Eddie wants to make sure Luke's here, I'd suggest
Kayla covers up in the other bed and pretends to be Luke asleep," he
said.

"Good idea," I said.  "Thanks."

He gave us a thumbs-up and closed the door behind him.

We were finally alone.

I was suddenly very nervous, and Kayla looked like she was feeling
the same.

"I'd better get ready," she said.

"Okay," I answered.  "Can I help with anything?"

She laughed, and the tension was relieved just a little.  "No,
silly," she said.  "I'll be right back."

She slipped into the bathroom with her backpack.  I turned down both
beds and began to undress.  Should I take everything off?  Wear my
underwear?  What about a tee shirt?  I was babbling inside my own
head.  I remembered I should at least have shorts on, for when Pick
or Eddie knocked on the door, so I took my clothes off and put on a
pair of running shorts I sometimes wore to bed.

I turned out all the lights except for the one by my bed, and I
turned on the television.  Kayla came out of the bathroom wearing
sweat pants and a zipped, hooded sweatshirt.  She giggled at my
expression, and without a word hopped into Luke's bed and pulled the
covers up over her.

She was just in time.  There was a knock at my door, and the sound
of it startled me.  I hopped up and peered out the fisheye peephole.
Eddie Whitehead was standing outside the door, looking distracted.
Good, I thought.  Distracted is good.

I opened the door and put my finger to my lips so he would be quiet.
He looked in and saw a prone body in Luke's bed, and he made the
assumption we wanted.  He nodded and pulled the door gently shut
behind him, already thinking about who was in the next room on his
list to check.

I twisted the deadlock on the door and put up the security chain.
Kayla had turned around and was watching me closely.  I climbed into
my own bed and turned out the light.  The room was cast into shadow
and light from the flickering images coming from the television.  I
lay on my side, watching Kayla watching me.

"Sean?"  Her voice was soft, befitting the ambiance of the room.

"Hmmm?"  I kept my own voice soft.  It was the only way I could
conceal the quaver of nervousness.

"It's silly, but I'm..."

"Yeah, sweetie.  So am I."

"Really?"

Mmmm... hmmm," I confirmed.

She threw her covers back and stood up.  "Don't go away," she said
quietly.

It was enough to make me smile, washing away much of my nervousness.
"Okay, if you insist," I replied.

I kept my eye on her as she walked back over to the bathroom and
once more closed the door.  She was in there for just a few minutes,
but when she reemerged, she had transformed herself from a mere
mortal into the angel I always knew she was.

The light spilling from the doorway backlit her for just a moment,
until she reached over and switched the light off.  It was a long
enough moment to stay with me forever.  She was wearing a lacy, sheer
babydoll nightie, cream-colored and diaphanous.  I could see the
shadowy shape of her body through the fragile material during that
moment, her nose, chin, breasts, and knees lighter shades of darkness
by contrast.  Her fair hair, silken and nearly transparent, spilled
across her shoulders, free of constraints, adding to the vision of
her soft silhouette.

I could not move, faced as I was by the vision before me.  The light
was there, and then it wasn't, but the image of Kayla in the doorway,
the current image transposing itself in my addled brain with an older
memory of a younger Kayla in a different doorway, sealed my fate.
Forevermore would I remember vividly my white-haired angel, coming to
me from the light, coming to join with me, into the dark.


(Continued in Chapter 16)


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

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