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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 11
Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 21:10:06 -0500
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Better late than never, said the Reverend in a timely manner...
Enjoy!
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
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I'd do it all over you**
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<1st attachment, "CE11.txt" begin>
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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 at hotmail dot com
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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)
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