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And now, on to the continuing story of Sean and his friends.

Enjoy!





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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded
for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to
download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there
is no intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring
this material.

(Copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy!  I enjoy hearing from you.
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 29 -

THE END OF THE SEASON



The team was scheduled to take a bus down to the University campus,
where the playoffs would continue, on Thursday morning.  Our
semifinal game would be played Friday night, and the winners of
Friday's games would meet for the championships on Sunday afternoon.

After practice on Wednesday, Kayla and I were sprawled in my family
room.  On this last evening before I had to leave for a few days,
Jake was being uncharacteristically sensitive, making himself scarce
and allowing us a little alone time.  We were supposed to be doing
homework, but we really weren't in the mood, so we were blowing it
off in favor of some down time.  The television was on, but it was
just noise.  We weren't paying any attention to it at all.  My mother
was puttering in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.  Stephen was
upstairs, presumably doing homework, but probably reading comic
books.  Michael was still at work, and Dad was probably on his way
home from work.  Kay had become a fixture in our household, staying
for dinner about half the time during the week, and my mom was
treating her more and more like a daughter, and less like her middle
son's girlfriend.  It was very weird.

With a quick glance toward the kitchen door, Kay came crawling
across the carpet to me as I was leaning against the couch, the book
I was supposed to be reading for English open in my lap.  She kissed
my cheek, her eyes wide open, and when I turned to kiss her lips, her
eyes crossed as she puckered up.  I couldn't help myself.  I burst
out laughing.

She kept her eyes crossed as she leaned back.  "It's not nice to
laugh at someone who's being nice to you," she said, trying hard to
keep a straight face.  She couldn't hold it, though, and she started
laughing hard, holding her stomach.

Between gasps, I said, "If you keep on doing that, your face is
going to freeze like that."

"But would you still love me, even if that happened?" she asked
teasingly.  Her eyes uncrossed, and she shook her head like a dog,
getting her focus back.

"Of course I would.  You're luscious even when you can't see
straight," I said.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and leaned against me, resting
the tip of her nose on mine, our faces so close I was seeing double.
Two of Luscious.  Lucky me, I thought to myself.

"And I'd still love you, even if you didn't have that adorable
little scar on your lip," she said.  She gave my scar a quick kiss,
and then flopped back to sit next to me on the floor.  She reached
over and pulled her history book over and put it on her lap.

"Back to work, sluggard," she said.  She opened the book and flipped
through the pages, looking for the chapter she was supposed to be
reading.

"You're right," I said, not moving a muscle.  "I'm a no-good, lazy
and stupid sluggard of a jock.  I shouldn't be allowed to roam loose
in public."

She peered at me.  "That's true," she agreed.  "Okay, no going out
in public for you, jock.  At least, not without a keeper.  By the
way, did you know that I'm a qualified keeper?  Licensed and
everything."

"Really?  Can I see?"

She reached for her purse and pulled out her learner's permit for
driving, which she had just recently gotten.  She handed it to me.
"See?  Right there," she said, pointing.  "It says that I am
authorized to accompany all lazy and no-good jocks at any time.  Do
you want to hire me?"

"How much would I have to pay you?"

"Oh, we can work out suitable wages," she said, a promise implicit
in her words and her knowing smile enough to make me break out in a
sweat.

After dinner, I borrowed my mom's car to drive Kayla home.  I
stopped for just a moment halfway between my house and hers and
turned the lights off.  She was sitting next to me, and when I
stopped the car, she looked over into my eyes.

"You're very bad," she said with a saucy smile.

As much as I wanted a quick make-out session with her, there was
something I really needed to ask her, though.  I put both hands on
her shoulders and turned her toward me.  Her eyes were lidded, and
her mouth was slightly open, anticipating a kiss.  It was too much to
resist, so I kissed her softly.  Her lips nibbled and caressed my
bottom lip, and her tongue traced the edges of my scar, sending bolts
of light and heat through my nervous system, but I knew we didn't
have time to get carried away, so I reluctantly broke away from her
and held her so I could look into her face.

"What?" she asked, a little irritably.

"Kay, I need to talk to you for just a minute."  In the dark
interior of the car, I could see her eyes picking up ambient light
from the streetlight, a half a block away.

"Okay," she said quietly.  I saw her eyes soften as she realized how
serious I was.

"I'm leaving tomorrow for the tournament," I said.  "I'll be gone
all weekend."

"Yes, I know."

"I... I just need to know that you'll be here, waiting for me, when
I get back."

She giggled softly.  "Sean, it's just for one weekend.  You're not
going away for a year."

I was a little flustered.  "I know.  It's just... last year..."

She leaned forward and kissed me softly, sensuously, a kiss full of
possibilities.

"I'll be here," she whispered.  "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I had to ask, Kay..."

"I understand, Sean.  I saw what happened.  I'm not like her."

"I know you're not, it's just..."

She kissed me one more time to shut me up.  "Go.  Play well.  Bring
home the championship.  Don't let anything break your concentration,
especially worries about me.  I've been here for you for longer than
you know, and I'm not giving up on you, just because you're going to
be out of town for a few days.  Call me every night and let me know
how it's going, if you'd like.  In fact, you'd better call me every
night, even if it's just to say hello."

She sat back, apparently satisfied that all was now settled.  I
guessed that it probably was, so I dropped the car back into gear,
turned the headlights back on, and drove her home.

That night, alone in my bed, I made a secret vow to myself.  This
girl was too precious to let slip away.  I knew I had to work hard to
keep her on my side, and I was going to try my damnedest to not fuck
up for a change.






The bus ride downstate the next day was boring.  Farm field after
farm field, as flat as land could possibly be, and drearily cloudy
and dim.  I tried to sleep most of the way, but only managed to doze
off and on for much of the trip.

There was a magazine being passed around among the guys, with a lot
of whispering and laughing going on.  I tried to ignore it as it
moved around the bus, down the opposite rows of seats from where I
was sprawled.  I thought it was probably a Playboy or some similar
contraband that somebody had managed to sneak on, and I was a little
surprised when, about halfway through our trip, I glanced toward the
front of the bus and saw Coach Neville reach out and take the
magazine.  He opened it and read something, and then smiled and
handed it back to Brett, who was sitting right behind Coach and his
wife.

There was an air of good humor, and I wasn't a part of it.
Grumbling, I squirmed in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable
position so I could go back to sleep.  Coach saw my distress, and
finally stood, holding himself steady by hanging on to seats on
either side of the aisle as he faced the rear of the bus.

His voice was loud, carrying over the whine of the tires on the
highway.

"What do you think, team?  Should we tell him?"

Tell him?  What the hell was he talking about?  I sat up and rubbed
my face.  I was feeling pretty cramped and miserable.

"Nah," said Eric.  He was across the aisle from me, and he was
smiling like he had a secret he was dying to tell as he glanced over
at me.

"What?" I asked him crossly.  "What are you talking about?"

That set the entire bus to laughing.  They were all nuts, I thought,
but I kept my mouth shut.  See?  I had learned something of value
over the past few weeks.

Coach came down the aisle toward me, swaying with the movement of
the bus, almost pulling himself along with his hands on the backs of
the seats.  He got up to my row, and handed me the Playboy magazine.

"Here," he said, smiling.  "Read and enjoy."

He stood there while I took the magazine from his hand.  It wasn't a
Playboy, after all.  It was the latest copy of Youth Soccer Today,
the official magazine of the American High School Soccer Association.

I thumbed through it, wondering what was going on.  On page 10 there
was a big article about the YST All-American Team, but I had already
heard that there weren't any players on the boy's teams from our
state listed.

"Try page 24," suggested Coach Neville.

I flipped open the magazine to page 24.  The article was entitled
"The Top 100 Players To Watch".  It listed the players the author and
the magazine considered to be the best players, aside from the All-
American selections, in the country.  The players were listed in
alphabetical order, and a couple of pages further on, I found that
somebody had highlighted the following listing:

     "PORTER, Sean: A junior defenseman on a high school team ranked
in the Top 20 nationwide, Porter is the anchor upon which the team's
strengths are attached.  Incredible firepower in their offense
(averaging over 7 goals per game) this season has been achievable
because of the stifling defense that shuts down opponents, no matter
how powerful (averaging less than 1 goal against for the season).  In
fact, no team has scored more than 2 goals against this team as of
this writing, and Sean Porter is the key factor."

"Is this a joke?" I asked, handing the magazine back to Coach
Neville.  Surely it was an elaborate practical joke.  Somebody went
to a lot of bother to print up this phony magazine.

"No joke, Mr. Porter," he said, a wide smile splitting his face.  "I
believe congratulations are in order."  He began clapping, and
everybody on the bus followed suit.  I was in shock.  I looked over
to Eric for confirmation, and he was applauding along with everybody
else, grinning at me.

"You the man, Seanster," he yelled.

It was very difficult for me to agree with that.  I didn't feel like
I had accomplished much this year.  In fact, I felt like maybe I had
cheated somebody somewhere along the line, to have them write
something like that, something so obviously false, about me.  I
leaned back in my seat and stared out the window desultorily,
embarrassed by the attention I was getting when it was really the
entire team who deserved the praise.  Sure, maybe I contributed to
the team's success at times during the past year plus, but to think
that Eric and Trent were successful because of my play was just
ludicrous.  How come nobody else could see how ridiculous this all
was?  I closed my eyes as the noise in the bus died down again, but I
couldn't persuade my brain to shut down, and dark thoughts to match
the day were my companions for the rest of the trip downstate.






It was cold and rainy when we got off the bus at our hotel.  Both
coaches had brought their wives along, and Mrs. Neville and Mrs.
Simonson helped us sort out our room assignments for the weekend.  We
were staying four to a room, and I was rooming with Eric, Trent and
Anthony.  We only had two keys between the four of us, and we decided
that Eric and Trent would be in charge of them.

We had a practice session scheduled, and Coach had requested that we
be in our practice uniforms when we met in the lobby of the hotel.
The bus was idling outside the door.

"Okay, men, if I may have your attention, please."  Coach Neville
raised his arms for quiet.  "Thank you.  Coach Simonson will be
leading you over to the practice fields.  They are about two miles
from here.  I will meet you there with the bus."

There was a lot of confused murmuring.  Finally, Rich spoke up.

"We're not taking the bus over?" he asked.

"No, you're not," he said.  "Think of it as your warm-up."  He was
grinning as he turned and walked out to the bus, holding his
clipboard over his head to ward off the rain.

It was uncomfortable running through the streets in the rain, and by
the time we got to the practice field we were soaked through our
uniforms and shoes.  Coach didn't give us time to complain, though,
as he already had his scrimmage teams set, and he handed out knit
jerseys, yellow for one team and red for the other, and sent us out
onto the field.

We kept at it for about an hour.  By then, we were dispirited,
tired, uncooperative, and miserable.  We trudged to the bus, where
Coach handed each of us a plastic garbage bag to sit on.

"No point in getting the bus seats wet," he said cheerfully as we
filed onto the bus.

By the time we got back, I was cold, wet, and very uncomfortable.
Somehow, I got chosen to be last into the shower, so I changed into
dry sweats to wait my turn.  I was looking forward to having hot
water pound on me for as long as I could stand it, and I was hoping
the hotel wasn't going to run out of hot water by the time it was my
turn.  I lay down on the bed and silently wished that my three
roommates would hurry up already.

In the morning, it was apparent that I was not well.  My throat was
scratchy, and I was starting to develop a cough.  I felt a little
feverish, and I could feel the beginnings of some congestion trying
to establish itself in my chest.  I ignored it as best I could,
making do with some aspirin to take the edge off.

Our game was scheduled at 4:00, so we had most of the day to sit
around.  The rain had stopped, though it was still cloudy and cold.
A bunch of guys went off to look around the campus, accompanied by
some student guides.  Coach Simonson and Mrs. Simonson took most of
the rest of the team to a long lunch, but I opted to just order a
sandwich from the cafe in the hotel and stay in the room, trying to
rest.  The television was on, but it was just background noise.  I
remembered too well what daytime TV was like, from my few days
staying home from school, so I refrained from flipping through the
channels looking in vain for something interesting.

At 2:00, we all gathered in the lobby, waiting for our bus to show
up to take us to the stadium.  We tossed our gear bags into the
luggage compartment below, and shuffled onto the bus for the short
ride to the locker rooms.

I was feeling pretty punkish as I changed into my uniform, but I
knew I would be able to shake it off for the game.  How long I would
last running the field was a different matter, however.

The field was still wet from the previous day's rain, and the grass
was slick.  The areas around the nets were patchy with brown grass
and mud, treacherous ground to work on for defenders.  Jorge, Brett,
Anthony and I inspected both net areas, trying to map out in our
minds where it would be most slippery.

There were just a few people in the stands at the start of the game.
A combination of the weather and the distance from either our town,
or from Watkinsville, our opponent in the semi-final match, kept
nearly everybody away.  The game started out very tentatively, both
teams seeming to want to test the quality of the field and the
quality of the midfielders at first.  The wet grass, even though it
was cut short, still held up the wet ball, so bounces were lower,
passes were shorter, and the ball couldn't roll very far on the
ground.  It tended to compress the width of the field a little,
pulling us into the chewed-up ground a little more than we would have
liked.

I was just as glad that the game started out slowly.  I was feeling
cold and lethargic, and I had to force myself to pick myself up and
run at the ball, instead of waiting for the ball to come to me.
Against weak teams from our conference, I could have gotten away with
waiting, but strong teams demanded decisive action on the ball.  Any
weak passes, any hesitation in attack or defense of an area, was
quickly exploited at this level, so I concentrated on continually
moving, jogging back and forth within my borders, staring at the ball
movement to try to focus my concentration a little.

Anytime the ball entered my area, I pushed it off as soon as I
could, either passing the ball over to Brett or to Jorge, or, if
necessary, out of bounds.  I didn't want to have to face any one-on-
one challenges while I was feeling so slow and clumsy.

Fortunately, I only had a few touches on the ball during the first
half, and at the whistle we were up 2-0 on goals by Trent and Robert.
I sat down in a heap on the bench and draped a towel over my head to
conserve some of the body heat I had built up during the first half.

Coach came over and crouched down in front of me.  "Are you okay out
there?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.  My nose was running, and my head was starting to
hurt.  "I just want to put this game away and go back and go to bed,"
I said.

"All right," he said as he stood.  "Just let anybody on the
sidelines know if you need to come out, Sean.  Don't be a hero out
there.  It looks like we'll play another day."  He went off to talk
to his other players.

Kevin and Jorge came over and sat on either side of me.

"Hey, Porter, you gonna play the second half?"  I glanced over at
Kevin.

"Of course," I said.  "Why?"

"Just checking," he replied.  "I didn't want to have to baby-sit
Weasel if I didn't have to."

I smiled ruefully.  "Hell, Kev, you might just have to baby-sit me
out there pretty soon, the way I'm feeling."

He snorted.  "Don't you worry about it, Sean.  It wasn't the
babysitting I minded, it was having to do it for Weasel.  You need
help, you just let me know."

"Thanks, man, but I'll be okay."

Jorge said, "I got you covered, too, man.  I can move Brett or Mike
over a little it you need them."

"They're attacking Anthony more than they're working my side," I
said.  "Don't leave yourself with a hole they can squeeze through."

"Don' worry, man.  They quick, but I know what I'm doin' out there,
too."

"Yeah, I know you do, Jorge.  Sorry."

"'S all okay, man.  We got you covered.  You just play what you can,
we got the rest."

The referee called for the teams to take the field for the start of
the second half.  As the game progressed, Jorge and Kevin were true
to their words.  My borders got squeezed down, until I felt like I
was defending an area about the size of my bedroom at home.  I took a
few throw-ins, and only had to run down one attacker, managing to
kick the ball into his shin guard and out of bounds for a goal kick,
and Jorge pounded the ball back upfield.

After about 20 minutes on the field, Coach subbed me out for Rich,
and pointed me toward the bench.

"You're done for the afternoon," he said, patting me on the back.
Rich, Weasel and Anthony would alternate on both sides of the
defensive line for the balance of the game, and I was able to watch
from underneath my towel as our midfielders and defenders played keep-
away for the last several minutes, protecting our 4-0 lead that would
propel us into the championship game.

As soon as we got back to the hotel, I staggered into the shower.  I
didn't even bother to brush my teeth or dry my hair, but instead I
opted to skip dinner and crawl into bed.  After my three roomies
left, I remembered I had promised to call Luscious.  I was sorely
tempted to blow it off in favor of sleep, but my conscience, and the
remembrance of the consequences of not calling people in the past,
drove me to reach for the telephone on the nightstand between the
beds and dial her number.

I only talked to her for a few minutes, begging off so I could try
to get some rest.  I told her a little bit about the game, and
mentioned that I was getting a cold, so she relented and allowed me
to keep our conversation short.  Even so, I felt unaccountably better
after I had talked to her than I did before.  Maybe she really was
good for me.

I felt pretty much like death warmed over the next day.  I was achy
all over, and my head felt like it had so much snot in it, it was
likely to explode in a fury of mucous.  Anthony and Eric had already
gone downstairs to meet the rest of the team for breakfast, but Trent
waited for me to get dressed so he could walk downstairs with me.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go alone?" I asked miserably.  "It
would be much easier on both of us if you would just leave me here to
die."

"Sorry, pal, but you ain't dying on my watch," he said.  He didn't
sound very sympathetic.  In fact, he sounded hungry.  I, on the other
hand, wasn't looking forward to watching everybody shovel food down,
since I had no appetite.  But he wasn't going to let me be, so I
finished up, and we headed down to the restaurant.

It was an off day for us.  Coach had just a light workout planned,
really not much more than stretching, and then a film session to try
to design some plays against our opponents for the championships,
South High School, and their All-State midfielder, Spencer Goldman.
I had met Spencer at last year's All-State banquet, and had met up
with him again at Duane Olchick's summer clinic, playing both with
and against him for two weeks of intense soccer.  I knew his game
well, and he knew mine.  I just wished I felt well enough to give him
some game.

Mr. and Mrs. Neville and Mr. and Mrs. Simonson took the entire team
out for pizza and soft drinks Saturday night.  The place we went had
an arcade room off to one side, and everybody spent all their dimes
and quarters playing pinball, air hockey, Pac-Man, and the newest
video game craze, Donkey Kong.  I even forgot about my stuffy head
while I was whacking away at the air hockey table, trying to beat
Eric and Jorge.  I got my butt whupped several times, but I managed
to work up a little bit of a sweat playing, and I felt better by the
time we trooped back to our hotel for the night.  I thought that
maybe, with luck, I might live through the night.

The championship game was being played at 2:00 on Sunday afternoon.
I woke up in the morning feeling nearly human again.  My body aches
were almost gone, and so was the scratchy throat.  All that was left
was a congested head, and I knew a little medicine would help that
long enough to play.

We got to the fieldhouse about 12:30, and took our time getting
suited up.  It was another cloudy, cool day, but it was dry, a good
day for a faster game.  We were on the sidelines, stretched out and
warmed up, by 1:45.  There was a bigger crowd in the stands today,
but, considering the stadium held over 10,000 people, good midfield
seats were not hard to find.

South won the coin toss, and on the opening whistle, they began
their first offensive set, and almost immediately got the ball over
to Spencer, who dribbled down into Seanland.  I ran up to challenge
him, but before I could engage, he passed off.

As I got up to him, I said, "Hey, Spencer, already you're attacking
my side?"

He grinned at me.  "I just heard you weren't feeling very well, so I
thought I'd trot over and see how you were doing," he answered.

"Hummmph.  I appreciate your concern, but I'm feeling good," I said.

He jogged off toward the middle, following the path of the ball.  He
gave me a small, unobtrusive wave as he turned away.  "Maybe another
time," he called over his shoulder as he moved off.

We were confident enough in our game to not mess with our lineup,
but I had the feeling South probably shifted players around, putting
their stronger forwards on the left and their stronger defenders on
their right, guarding against the one-two punch of Eric Johnson and
Trent Abbott.  As a result, the ball stayed pretty much in the middle
of the field, without much encroachment one way or the other.  The
field was spread, so there was a lot of area to pass into, and both
teams exhibited good ball control and accurate passing.

Finally, we created an opportunity.  Mikey moved the ball to the
left, passing it up to Eric.  South loaded up that side of the field,
moving their center players over to cut off passing lanes forward,
but their right midfielder was a step behind Eric, and that's all he
needed.  He put on a burst of speed, creating just enough room, and
launched a high pass all the way across the field to a wide-open
Kevin, who immediately trapped the ball with his chest, let the ball
drop to his feet, and passed it up to Jimmy.  South's left defender
was caught flat-footed, and Jimmy was able to work the ball around
him.  He passed the ball over to Robert in the middle, who one-
touched it up, threading the ball in between defenders, to Javier,
who faked left, moved two steps to the right, and fired a missile
into the back of the net.  It wasn't Trent, and it wasn't Eric, but
we took the goal anyway, and were glad to have it.

We jogged back to set up for the restart.  Robert turned and
reminded us that South would push hard to tie it up before the half,
and to be prepared.  With only about five minutes to play, I had the
feeling it would be an intense stand.

They tapped the ball forward, and then passed back to set up.
Instead of charging the ball, we maintained, only our forwards
advancing.  South spent a precious couple of minutes passing the ball
back and forth on their side of the field before they decided to
attack.  Spencer had the ball at the midfield stripe, and he took
off, moving around Robert, and angling over to Anthony's side.  His
forward slipped in front of Mikey, who was tracking the ball, and
Spencer slipped a pass between our two players to his forward.  Brett
was on him, though, and managed to harass him enough to keep him from
shooting, until Mikey came over and stripped the ball away, clearing
it back into South territory.  By the time they collected the ball
and passed it back up, the referee's whistle was blowing, and the
first half was over.

I was breathing hard, laboring more than I wanted as I came off the
field, but I hoped that the break would give me enough time to rest
and catch my breath for the second half.  As soon as I could, I drank
two or three cups of water.  I didn't want to get dehydrated out
there, especially with the decongestant working.

The second half picked up in intensity, with South running down
every loose ball and pressing their attack in an effort to gain the
upper hand.  It was now or never, and they were well aware of it.  On
every attack, we managed to dodge the bullet, either by clearing the
ball out on a pass, or through a takeaway, often as not passing the
ball back to Jorge and letting him kick a high floater out to midfield.

We tried attacking, but they threw everybody back onto defense, and
by sheer weight of numbers were able to retake the ball and try a new
offensive set.

Finally, late in the game, South took a corner kick.  In competitive
situations, the standard procedure for corner kicks was to loft a
kick from the corner toward the front of the goal, anywhere from 10
to 18 meters out from the net, and have your offense and your
midfielders charge in and try to take either a header or a shot of
some sort off the kick.  Only in recreational leagues, and with
younger players who can't get the ball up into the air very well, do
you see two people setting up, one at the corner to start the play,
and another inside, ready to take a pass.  South, however, set up
just that way, and the defenseman passed from the corner to his
teammate.  Jorge had set up Anthony at one post and me at the other,
and Mike Evanson should have seen the play develop and gone out to
challenge, but he didn't.  The player received the pass, and one-
touched it back to his teammate coming inbounds from the corner, who
came in about 10 meters.  At that point, he could be a lot more
accurate with his lofted pass, and he put it up in the air, right
outside the goal.  Jorge ran out and jumped up to make a play on the
ball, but it was headed by one of South's players before he could get
there, and he was forced out of the play.  The player who jumped up
and headed the ball knocked it about 5 meters over to Spencer
Goldman, who was ready.  As the ball dropped to him, he was moving
forward, and he used his momentum as he cocked and fired at the
corner I was defending.

To this day I would swear that I never got a clear view of the ball.
The play developed too fast, and the ball came screaming off
Spencer's shoe.  I just happened to be in the right place at the
right time.  Purely by instinct I stuck my foot out, hanging onto the
post, and the ball ricocheted off my shin guard, straight out into
the midfield area.  It must have missed crossing the goal line by
centimeters, it was so close.  Eric, the fastest man on the field,
turned on the afterburners and raced after it, and gave the ball a
big kick, sending it sailing past the startled stopper's head.  Eric
charged right by him, and had a one-on-one opportunity against the
keeper.  He kept going hard toward the net, and South's keeper came
out to him, hands wide apart, staying on his toes as he approached.
Eric took his shot while the keeper was still about 10 meters away,
but the triangulation between him, the keeper, and the goal was not
good, and his shot went just wide.  By the time everything reset on
the goal kick, time was running down.  Our defense kept the ball out
of harm's way, and every time we cleared it out, precious seconds
were burned up, and the final whistle ended the contest.  We had won
the state championship game, 1-0.

We piled on each other in the middle of the field joyfully, an
incredible unbeaten season suddenly over.  After we disentangled
ourselves, we lined up to congratulate South on the game, and then
headed toward the sidelines.  Spencer Goldman walked over and shook
my hand.

"Great goal line stand, Sean," he said.

"It was pure luck.  You should have gotten the goal, Spence."

He shrugged.  "Right place, right time helps.  You've also got to
have the reaction time and the game to make it work."

"Thanks, Spencer.  I appreciate it."

"Besides, there's always next year," he said as we walked together
off the field.  He smiled.  "Watch out, Porter.  We'll probably be
right here, a year from now.  Most of our team is coming back."

"Ours, too," I said.  I stuck out my hand.  "Okay, next year it can
be your turn.  But you'll have to earn it.  We won't just lay down
for you, you know."

He grasped my hand as we made a friendly pact.  "I'm counting on
it," he said.  "By the way, I saw the magazine article.
Congratulations on making the list."

"See what you can accomplish with just the right publicist?" I said
facetiously.  "But thanks, anyway."

"Hey, whatever.  All I know is that there weren't a lot of juniors
on that list, and no sophomores at all.  It's pretty good company
you're keeping."

"Yeah," I said, humbled a little.  "You're right, it's just that I
keep on looking over my shoulder, wondering when the little practical
joker is going to pop up and say, 'Just kidding, Porter.  Now back to
being mediocre again.'"

Spencer laughed.  "Ain't gonna happen, I'm afraid.  Learn to live
with it, Sean.  You're on the list because you belong on the list.
See ya at the banquet."  And he veered off, heading toward his
teammates.

I mulled over what he had told me.  Maybe I belonged on the list,
maybe I didn't.  I wasn't the best judge of my own game, I knew, and
I probably wasn't the best judge of my character, either, but it just
felt to me like I was somehow pulling the wool over too many people's
eyes lately.  I just had to put my trust in my friends to keep me
straight.





(Continued in Chapter 30)





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