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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 
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   (Copyright 2005, revisions c. 2007, R.C. Mather)

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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME III

A Novel

by R.C. Mather



- 4 -

A VERY GOOD DEFENSEMAN



Our first game was a non-conference away game at the University of
South Florida. I was preparing for a very long bus ride, thinking USF
was located around Miami or Fort Lauderdale, until Jesse corrected me.

"Sorry to disappoint you, freshman," he said with a chuckle, "but
the University of South Florida is in Tampa. It's not even three
hours away, man."

"Tampa? I don't think anybody would consider Tampa to be in southern
Florida. What's up with that? It must be a really old school, then.
I'm assuming the name was picked because Tampa was considered to be
way south, what, maybe a hundred years ago?"

Jesse laughed out loud. "You'd think," he said. "The school's not
even thirty years old, Porter. The state legislature, in the infinite
wisdom that political bodies all over the world consistently
demonstrate, decided that the University of South Florida was a
perfectly appropriate name for an institute of higher learning
located smack dab in the central part of the state."

I must have looked very confused, because Jesse just shook his head
and chuckled as we loaded our gear bags into the baggage compartment
of the bus.

We filed onto the bus and settled in for the ride to Tampa. I took
along a backpack filled with books and homework assignments. I was
already falling behind on my schoolwork, and I owed Kayla about four
letters. In her last couple of letters, she mentioned how she had
grudgingly accepted not getting a letter every day. She also
pointedly wrote about how she felt when she went two or three days
without hearing from me. Even that guilt trip couldn't manufacture
things to tell her, however, and my letter-writing frequency was
dropping again.

'Schoolwork first,' I reminded myself. I sighed as I reached into my
backpack for my English assignments.

I had worked very hard during practices, both on the field and in
the weight room, trying to increase my chance of earning a starting
position. Right from the beginning, Pick had been very encouraging,
urging me to try my best and not be afraid of failure. 

Just that little statement alone put the fear of God into me, and
spurred me on to work even harder. I did not want to fail. What would
my parents say? What would Kayla say? What would I tell myself?

So I pushed. I ran further, tried to run faster, did more reps on
the machines, and lifted free weights in an attempt to strengthen my
legs, my traps, and my pecs. These were the areas I felt needed the
most attention, especially for playing at the college level. I needed
more support from my upper body if I was going to be heading the ball
with any force or direction.

I took Coach Pick's admonishments to mean he still hadn't decided on
his starting lineup, particularly at the right defensive position.
There was a junior named Dan Ortega on the team who was pretty good,
and I knew he was my main competition for the starting job. Dan was
bigger and stronger than me, but he was slower on his feet. He
handled the distance runs pretty well, though he tended to lag toward
the back of the field. Additionally, his sprint work was terrible.

I had heard about some research that was being done on the leg
muscles of men and women who ran track events, and preliminary
results indicated that there were two types of muscle fibers. Slow-
twitch fibers suited long-distance runners, and fast-twitch fibers
were predominant in sprinters. Dan's legs had to have been made up of
nearly one hundred percent slow-twitch, because he ran sprints like
he was carrying fifty-pound weights in his hands. His best time at
the hundred-yard dash was something over fifteen seconds, and his two-
twenty and four-forty times were even worse.

He was a strong defender, however, and experienced. It was nearly
impossible to push him off the ball, and he could power the ball
downfield on throw-ins much further than I could. It was his third
year playing on the team, and even though he was a role player and
not one of the stars, he functioned efficiently on the field. 

Dan was as easygoing a guy as I had ever met, though, and he took my
eagerness to compete completely in stride. In fact, he often met me
at the gym and partnered up on working with the weights. He
encouraged me, and even gave me a fair amount of advice on the
Florida system of playing.

One day, as we were resting between battles with the lat machine,
Dan said, "Here's kind of what's going through Pick's mind, Sean. You
know how football is divided up into the NFC and the AFC?"

"Sure," I said. I took a gulp of water and stretched out my upper
arms. 'I might have overdone it working my triceps,' I thought.

"Okay, the NFC has always relied on the running game and defense,
right? And the AFC likes to run and gun."

"Right," I said. "Joe Montana loves the running game."

"Okay, there are always exceptions, smart-ass," he retorted. "But
listen up for a second. Pick's teams are like the NFC. He believes
defense wins games. And he's been pretty successful so far operating
on that premise. But, just like the Forty-Niners, he's not going to
object too much if he happens to have a little firepower in his
offense, too. Know what I mean?"

"And that's where Jesse fits in," I said.

"Yep," he agreed. "And maybe your buddy Goldman, too."

I glanced over at him, and then stood up to attack the lats again.
"Dan, you know I'm going to try to win the starting spot on the
right."

"Of course, freshman," he said with a small smile. "I'd expect
nothing less from an All-American. But you'll have to go through me
to get onto the field."

I was puzzled. "So why are you helping me so much, then?"

He slapped me on the back, and then gently pushed me toward the
Nautilus machine. "I'd like that starting job, too," he said as I
settled myself into position. "But soccer isn't my be-all and end-
all. If you make the team stronger by being on the field, then you
should have the starting spot. Go," he said, pointing to the weights.

I started working my reps again. "I'm not going to lay down for you,
freshman," he continued. "But if you win it fair and square, I'll be
your biggest supporter. Because it will mean we're fielding the best
team we can."

Dan played on Team Alpha in practices, and he played hard. He
lumbered around and got in anybody's way who dared attempt an
incursion into his little kingdom. He rebuffed every offensive set in
his direction, clearing the ball out of bounds or moving it over to
Rick in the net. He was easy to run around, but he always seemed to
have the angle on any penetration, and his center support was always
there to lend a hand.

In short, he played like a man who deserved to start on a Division
One team. His game was stifling, if not very flashy.

 It was a bit of a surprise to me, then, when Coach Pick named me as
the starter for the first game.

We got to the USF campus and found our way to the soccer complex.
The USF team was already on the field warming up. It was a hot day,
into the nineties and pretty humid. I hoped the team managers had put
plenty of Gatorade on ice for us. We would need it on this day.

Spencer and Jesse were anchoring the offense, and Martin, Rick,
Brad, and I were holding down our end of the field. Nobody on either
team wanted to run full out during the opening minutes, preferring to
save something in reserve for the second half, so the ball never got
much beyond midfield in either direction. Occasionally there would be
an incursion by an offensive unit, but there was never much of a
threat mounted against either goal.

It became kind of obvious, however, that Martin Flauget really was
the Prima Donna that Jesse considered him to be. Every time he got
the ball, instead of passing it or moving it up, he would hold his
position with the ball, waiting for an opponent to challenge him. He
would then use his tricks and skills to move around the opponent.
Then, once he was finished dazzling the onlookers, he would pass the
ball off. Occasionally the USF forward or midfielder would attempt a
slide tackle, and a couple of times they were able to knock the ball
away from Martin, usually out of bounds. It didn't bother Flauget,
though, since it almost always resulted in a throw-in for us. He
would trot over to the sidelines, grab a ball, and toss it. Even his
throw-ins were tinged with an insouciance, and perhaps even
nonchalance, that was grating to his teammates, and must have been
infuriating to those assigned to guarding him.

He was a very good defenseman, despite all that. He followed the
direction of his keeper, kept himself well positioned between the
ball and the goal, and in general disrupted the flow of USF's
offense. His passing was acute, and he could move the ball in one
fluid kick halfway up the field and hit his target with startling
accuracy. I couldn't help but be grudgingly impressed with his play,
despite the grandstanding.

On the bus back to Gainesville after our 3-1 win, I found an excuse
to wander up to the front of the bus, where Pick and his assistants
were spread out. I slipped into the seat next to Coach.

"Can I ask you something, Coach?"

He glanced over at me. The intelligent look in his eye made me think
he already knew what I was going to ask.

"Why, shore, son, fire away," he said.

"What's the deal with Flauget, sir? I would think his showboating
would make you angry."

He glanced quickly over to one of his assistants, a tall and gangly
graduate student named Eddie Whitehead, and just as quickly looked
back at me.

He lowered his voice as he explained, "Well, it doesn't please me, I
don't mind telling you, Sean. Eddie, here," and he nodded his head in
the direction of his assistant, sitting across the aisle from us,
"found him playing club ball out of New York City. Graduated from
high school a year early, and was havin' a good time just playin'
soccer in Central Park. His daddy's a bigwig at some Frenchy company
with an office in Manhattan, his mommy fancies herself as a jet-
setter, so he was just kinda left on his own a lot. His social skills
was just plain awful, I tell you." He chuckled softly at the memory.

"So Eddie found him?" I prompted.

"Oh, yeah. Eddie's got contacts up in the New York area, and he
heard about this here Frenchy fella who could play. Brung him down,
gave him the tour, done the whole dog-and-pony show for him and his
papa. Momma was too busy to join 'em, I guess." He grunted as he
reached down and shoved the newspaper he had been holding in his lap
into his overstuffed briefcase. As he was bent down, he looked over
at me shrewdly.

"Tell me what you saw out there, Sean," he said, smiling
enigmatically.

"I saw a guy who needs somebody to sit down on him and give him a
large dose of humility," I said.

Pick's smile grew wider. "Yup," he agreed. "What else?"

"The guy's a hell of a ballhandler."

"Yup, that he is. And he's always happy to show you all about it,"
Pick said.

"And he plays the position as well as anybody I've ever seen," I
admitted grudgingly.

Now Pick was smiling broadly. "Yup," he said. "'Member when I told
you about certain projects I was willing to take on occasionally?"

I nodded.

He jerked his thumb toward the back of the bus. "That's one of my
bigger ones. And he's improved quite a bit. You shoulda seen him a
couple a years ago, son. You would have really hated him then."

"Jeez, no thanks," I said. He was worse? It was hard to imagine.

Pick Cropper was giving me the eye. I knew him well enough by now
not to be fooled by that Southern cracker exterior he enjoyed
exhibiting. Behind the buffoonish act was a sharp, no-nonsense mind
intent on producing the best soccer players and the best graduates
for the University of Florida that he could.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Oh, nothin', son. I'm just ruminatin' on some idears. Don't mind
me." He stretched back into the cushions of his seat and closed his
eyes, signaling the end of our conversation. I got up and made my way
back to my backpack and my latest letter home to Kay.



* * * * * * * * * *


When the team got back on campus after the game and our long bus
ride, I wanted nothing more than to take another shower and crawl
into bed. Spencer and I walked back from the fieldhouse to our dorm
together, and made plans to meet up for breakfast the next morning,
Sunday, before we had to report for our team meeting.

I unlocked my dorm room door and opened it. Westy glanced up at me
from the couch in surprise, clearly not expecting me back as yet.
Neither did the plump and pimply girl who had her legs wrapped around
him.

Westy barely missed a stroke. "Hey, Sean," he said with a wink, and
he bent back and continued pounding into the girl.

"Ah, fer chrissakes," I muttered. I grabbed my towel and my shower
kit out of my closet and slammed the door on my way down the hall.
Seeing Westy's naked ass sticking up was certainly not the most
pleasant of sights upon opening my door. I was going to have to have
a long talk with the boy.

I took a long time in the shower, just letting the hot water stream
down on my shoulders and rinse away the tension that had appeared
there. Once I finished, I dried off and slipped into a set of sweats. 
I gathered up my stuff, tossed my damp towel over my shoulder, and
shuffled back down to my room, hoping against hope I would find the
room empty.

No such luck. At least they were done, and I only had to put up with
the smell of sex that permeated the room. My roomie was sitting on
the couch in his underwear, his arm casually around the shoulder of
his latest conquest. She was a homely girl, going to fat and with
splotches of acne on her chin, her forehead, and her chest. She had
put her bra and panties on, and was tolerating Westy's arm around her.

"Look, Westy..." I began.

"Sean, this is Doreen," interrupted Westy.

"Maureen," the girl corrected. "Are you really Sean Porter?" Her
eyes tracked my every move as she sat there next to Westy.

"Uh, yeah," I said.

"I've heard of you," she said. "You're the soccer player."

"I'm just a soccer player. Not the soccer player."

She twisted to get away from Westy's arm, and then stood up. The
tops of her heavy breasts quivered in their encasing bra as she moved.

'I don't think I've ever seen an industrial-strength bra before,' I
thought to myself.

"I'm Maureen Saunders," she said as she sidled up to me. I backed
off hurriedly and turned to my closet to hang up my towel. I was very
uncomfortable, and she made me even more jittery when she grabbed my
arm.

"I know all about you," she said. "I've read about you."

"Really?" I said. She was making it tough to be polite, hanging on
me the way she was, but I was determined to do my best.

"Sure. My... friend back home played soccer. He played forward,
though. He even played against you." She giggled and turned shyly
away. I thought she was going for a coquettish look, but it didn't
work. "He hated you, I think. But I thought you were wonderful."

"I played against him? Where are you from?"

"I graduated from Lincoln Valley," she said.

"Lincoln Valley? Really? Home of the Bozo Brothers?" I asked.

"The Bozo Brothers? I don't know them," she said, an odd look on her
face. "But my... friend's name is Bruce Willits, and he played on the
varsity team."

"Bruce..." It couldn't be. Could it? "Did your boyfriend have a
teammate named Jack something?"

Her eyes lit up. "Sure," she said brightly. "Jack Adamski. That's
Bruce's best friend."

"Ah," I said. Jack and Bruce were Bozo One and Bozo Two, the two
inept Lincoln Valley players I had the misfortune to play against
through most of my high school career. 'Great,' I thought. 'And now I
have the bad luck to meet up with Bozo One's girlfriend.' "So, where
are the Bozo... I mean, where are Jack and Bruce going to school?"

She still hadn't let go of me, and Westy, sitting alone on the
couch, was looking a little steamed about it. "Bruce is going to
community college, and Jack is in the Army."

"No kidding. Well, the Army will probably do him some good," I said.
Maybe the Army could knock a little discipline into him, even if his
soccer coach couldn't.

Westy finally got tired of sitting by himself. "Hey, Maureen, come
over here," he said, patting the cushion beside him. "Papa's getting
lonely."

She glanced at him, but made no move to join him.

"I went to all their games," she said, pointedly ignoring Westy. "I
watched you play, too. Even though you played against us, against
Jack. I thought you were really good."

"Thanks," I said. I tried disentangling myself, but Maureen wasn't
going to let go so easily.

"Hey! Maureen!" Westy was getting irritated. "How 'bout a blowjob
before you leave? And one for my man Sean, too?" He gestured toward
her, and then pointed to his crotch hopefully.

"Go fuck yourself," she said with some venom. "You got what you
wanted, and I got what I wanted. So fuck off."

Westy was genuinely hurt. "Aw, that's not fair," he pouted. All of a
sudden, he realized what she had said. "Hey, what did you mean, you
got what you wanted?"

Maureen finally let go of my arm and turned to face Westy. She had
her fists propped on her meaty hips as she stared balefully at him.
"You got your rocks off, didn't you? And I got to meet your roommate.
It's a fair trade, I'd say."

Westy looked puzzled. "A trade?" Recognition dawned in his eyes.
"You mean you came up here with me because you wanted to meet Porter?"

Maureen favored him with a tight smile.

"You are a cold bitch, ain't you?" he said heatedly.

"Yeah, like you're one of the great saviors of mankind," she spat.

Westy hopped up angrily. I hurriedly stepped between them.

"Grab your clothes," I said to her. "You'd better leave." I turned
to Westy. "And you," I continued, pointing directly at him, "you need
to sit back down and shut the fuck up."

Westy had about two inches in height on me, and his shoulders were
muscled and bunched. He probably outweighed me by thirty pounds, but
I was not about to be intimidated by this asshole. I stood my ground
and stared him down. Finally, he dropped back to the couch and looked
away, slouching against the back and the armrest.

Maureen slipped around me, slid along the dresser on the opposite
wall from Westy, and gathered up her clothes. She clutched them to
her stomach as she came back over by me to get dressed. As she pulled
her jeans on, she gave me a look I couldn't read. I didn't say
anything, or even acknowledge her, until she was dressed again and
slipping into her sandals.

"I'll walk you out," I said, and I opened the door. As we left, I
turned back. "Leave this open," I said to Westy. "I don't have my
keys."

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled.

Maureen and I walked in silence to the stairwell. We went down the
flights of stairs until we reached the outside door.

I opened the door and stood aside to let her pass through. She took
the opportunity to throw her arms around my neck and try to kiss me.
I turned my head away in disgust.

"Thanks anyway, Sean," she said as she let me go.

"You probably don't want to get involved with him," I said.

She snorted derisively. "Westy? No way. It was a one-time thing. You
heard me, I wanted to meet you, and he was the quickest way."

"Well, I don't know why you wanted to meet me. I think you got the
worst of that bargain."

She laughed out loud. "Nope," she said. "I got laid, and I got to
meet the All-American. I'd say it was a pretty successful afternoon."

I just shrugged and turned to go back upstairs.

"Sean?"

I turned back and caught at the door before it closed. "What?"

"I'm in Thomas Hall. Will you call me sometime?"

Now it was my turn to snort derisively. "I don't think so," I said,
and I let the door close as I headed back upstairs.




(Continued in Chapter 5)


  
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