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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 13
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And our hero goes to Georgetown for a tournament...
Enjoy!
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
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<1st attachment, "CE14.txt" begin>
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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
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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
- 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)
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