Chapter 7

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1991

I woke with excitement Sunday morning. No alarm set, just the refreshing feeling of sleeping in after being worked hard for a few days.

Well, that and the fact that I would be shooting hoops with a tall, gorgeous blond that day.

The tantalizing aroma of a beef roast in the crock pot was what got me awake. I followed my nose out to the kitchen to see it bubbling away on the counter top.

The parents had, as usual, let me have my Sunday while they headed to church with Josh.

I found the cinnamon rolls and scarfed a couple down, with an eye on that savory beef roast.

With some remorse, I discovered that I’d be missing the Bears-Giants game on TV that afternoon. The chance to get together with Jen was definitely worth it though.

Mom, Dad and Josh arrived home from church around 11 in their Sunday finery. I had taken the initiative and washed and peeled a couple of pounds of spuds.

They all changed, while I set up a big pot of boiling water.

“Thanks so much for getting the mashed potatoes going, Jake,” Mom said, then kissed me on the cheek.

“Well, I need to get it going. I have somewhere to be at 1 o’clock.”

“Oh? What’s up?”

“I was just going to go shoot some hoops with a friend,” I said absently.

“Mike? Marcus? Trent?” Mom asked.

“Uh, Jennifer, actually,” I admitted.

“Oh, well, have fun with your ‘friend,’” she winked.

I rolled my eyes and let Mom get the mashed potatoes going.

Just before noon, I piled up a plate with a tower of mashed potatoes, a healthy chunk of steaming hot roast and a big scoop of dad’s sweet corn. I made a little lake of gravy in the mashed spuds with the savory juices from the roast and sat down to an amazing meal.

Great meal, but I still gobbled it up pretty fast, then cleared my plate and sucked down the last of a second glass of milk.

“What’s your hurry, Jake?” Dad asked.

“He’s off to play basketball with Jennifer,” Mom smiled at Dad.

“Well, take it easy on her, Son,” Dad grinned.

“I gotta go.”

Summer was not quite ready to let go. It was another nice day, although the leaves were starting to turn. Big puffy clouds filled the blue afternoon sky.

I was almost late as I pulled up to the familiar home in Southwoods. It was a big brick Craftsman with a large garage behind the house, a driveway running past the side of the home.

That’s where Jen was already hoisting up shots. She was wearing white high tops, some red athletic shorts and a black tank top, her hair fluttering behind her in a long ponytail.

She smiled and held the ball against her hip as I got out of the car.

I had put on some cloth shorts and a muscle shirt. I walked up the driveway toward the hoop hanging from the front of the garage. A freethrow line, lane and even a three-point line had been crudely, but probably accurately, painted on the asphalt driveway.

“Ready to go down?” she grinned.

“Always,” I grinned lecherously.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then she blushed a bright red.

“You know what I meant!” she chastised me, then hurled the ball at the ground in front of my feet.

I laughed as I gathered up the ball, then dribbled it a few times to test it.

It was a well-inflated leather ball, regulation size. I could tell it was well-worn from use. The girl had probably taken countless shots with it.

I took a couple more dribbles, then took an experimental shot.

It klanged off the backboard and the hoop.

Jen dashed to grab the rebound.

“Brick!” she teased.

“It’s my first practice shot,” I complained. “Gimme that.”

Jen smirked and bounced the ball back to me.

I took two more dribbles, then tried a jumper.

“Kloing!” it bounced off the front of the hoop.

“Brick!” she teased again.

“Hey, you’ve been out here practicing for, how long? I just got here. Let me get used to your setup.”

I grabbed my own rebound before it rolled to the end of the driveway, then dribbled back up closer to the hoop and finally put one right through, barely disturbing the raggedy net.

“Swish!” I enthused.

“Thirty-three percent so far,” she slow-clapped, then gathered the ball, dribbled twice through her legs and drilled a jumper from behind me.

My eyes widened as she crossed her arms over her chest and waited for me to get the ball.

It was then that I thought I might be in over my head just a bit.

She let me take a few more shots, and I slowly got used to the slippery ball and her fiberglass backboard. It was springy for some reason, maybe from the way it was attached to the garage.

“All right, what’s the game?” I asked with a grin.

“First to twenty-one?” she offered.

I assumed we’d start with a game of Horse or Pig. She was going right for it.

“Ok,” I shrugged.

She tossed the ball to me.

“Guest gets first shot,” she grinned.

“All right,” I agreed, then dribbled to the top of the key.

She set her feet just wider than shoulder-width and gave me a focused stare with her pretty blue-green eyes.

I tossed it to her to check it. She bounced it back wordlessly.

I took a couple of slow dribbles to my right and she was on me like a tick.

My eyes widened and I turned to my right, letting her lean into my left side as she tried to reach around me to get at the ball.

I knew instantly that I had to change my strategy. I had to use my backside.

I used a technique Beast would always employ against me and simply thrust my backside out a bit and dribbled her back closer to the hoop.

I could tell this was instantly frustrating to her as she groaned and put a palm my hip, keeping me from making a quick turn to the hoop.

I got into the lane and made a quick fake to the right, then turned left to face the hoop and jumped to make the shot.

Jen was just a moment too late with a swat at my shot as it sailed over her outstretched hand.

It didn’t matter, as the shot klanked harmlessly off the hoop and upward before it fell. Jen was cat-like fast as she put herself between me and the ball and scooped up the rebound.

“Brick!” she teased musically as she dribbled up to the top of the key.

I followed her up there and she tossed the ball at my chest. Hard.

“Check it!” she challenged me.

I gave her a little smile and bounced it back softly to her.

Her eyes narrowed again and she made one quick step to the left before spinning right and nearly around me as she dribbled out of my reach, then dead-legged me with a crossover dribble that I pounced on.

That’s when she jumped high and arced a shot over me. I could only watch helplessly as it brushed through the net.

“Swish! Two-nothing,” she teased with a fist pump, chuckling as she moved to the key to take up defense.

I tracked down the ball and dribbled back up to the top of the key.

“Check, please,” I joked, tossing the ball to her.

She narrowed her eyes again and she set her jaw. She bounced the ball back and set her feet, waiting tensely for me to make a move. This girl was not messing around.

“Are we counting threes?” I asked offhandedly.

“Think you can hit one?” she grinned.

“Maybe,” I shrugged, then took a quick step back, faked a shot, then dribbled like mad to get around her to the right.

She swore at me as I slipped around her and jumped up for an easy layup.

“Two-two,” I grinned, letting the ball bounce off the garage door.

She growled at me and tracked it down while I waited for her.

“I’m not even a basketball player,” I teased her as she checked the ball to me.

“Oh, I can tell,” she grinned.

“How so?” I asked.

“Well for one,” she said, starting to dribble at me with an intense focus. “You can’t dribble left-handed.”

“Yes I can,” I complained.

“Not like this,” she said, crossing over with a dribble between her legs. She sprinted left and around me, dribbling the ball in her left hand as I struggled to get back in front of her.

I crossed back in front of her with a hand in her face but she took a step back and very deliberately took a fadeaway shot with her left hand.

“Swish!” she teased, pointing her left hand at me as she scrambled back to defend.

I picked up the ball and slowly dribbled back down court.

“Four-two,” she smiled sweetly, in contrast with the intense focus she’d just shown.

“You never said if we’re counting threes or not?” I complained as she checked the ball to me.

Her intense stare returned and she narrowed her eyes at my hips.

“That’s not going to work twice.”

“No?” I teased, then took a quick step back and hoisted up a gorgeous uncontested shot that banked off the backboard and through the hoop.

“Three, baby!” I cheered.

“We’re not counting three-pointers,” she said flatly.

“Why not?” I complained.

“You don’t want that,” she cautioned.

“How do you know?” I asked, checking her the ball.

“Because I’m better outside the arc,” she shrugged, then jumped up and drained a long three-pointer right in my face.

“Seven-five,” she said flatly as the ball bounced off the garage door and rolled toward me. “If we’re counting threes.”

She laughed and reached out to lift my chin as my mouth continued to hang open.

“You would be decent if you practiced and played,” she teased, then spun her long ponytail in my face.

It was my turn to narrow my focus. She checked the ball to me and I started an immediate dribble to my right, practically stiff-arming her with a palm to her hip.

“Don’t charge,” she giggled as I sped around her and laid up another easy shot. Problem was, it rolled out of the hoop and Jen was quick to snatch it up and head to the three-point line.

I checked the ball for her and her intense focus returned. She took a quick inside step, then backed off. By the time I was able to recover, the tall girl was already making her shot. It klanged inside the hoop but went through.

“Is that ten-five?” she asked as she blew on her fingertips theatrically.

“Yeah. Check it,” I said, trying to hide my simmering frustration.

Jen set up to my right, daring me to dribble left. I took her challenge and crossed over, dribbling with my left hand as I raced to the hoop.

I discovered the problem with that strategy quickly. I was dribbling well enough left-handed, but there was no way I was going to get a shot off with that way. I had to switch over to my right.

That’s when she saw her opportunity to snatch the ball from me. She practically punched it out of my hands on the switchover. The ball bounced off my foot and into her hands as she chuckled and dribbled away with her prize.

“Foul!” I complained.

“Foul?” she challenged me, putting the ball against her hip. “That was all ball.”

My complaint was really just an attempt to get a break. That worked. She waited for me to check the ball.

Time to get serious.

I tossed the ball back to her and that laser focus returned. She head-faked me to the left, then spun and pushed her backside out at me, backing me toward the hoop just as I had.

I kept a palm on her hip and didn’t mind the close contact at all. That touch was another reminder of what a powerful body she had. She was very strong, especially in the lower body and she was working me back to the hoop.

She paused for a moment, looking at me out of the corner of her eye, then shoved her backside into my hip and spun with a quick jumper.

I should have been able to block her, but the hard contact knocked my footing away. I watched another shot sail over my head and bounce off the board and through the hoop. She’d just put a “big man” move on me.

“Twelve-five,” she teased in a high voice, her ponytail bouncing behind her and mocking me as she practically pranced back to defend.

I sighed and carried the ball back to the top of the key. Chances for victory were getting slim.

I tossed her the ball and she bounced it back with a smile. I knew I needed a distraction.

I dribbled to the right and she was all over me again, a hand on my hip and another reaching for the ball.

I leaned into her with my weight, keeping the ball out of her reach with my longer arm.

“You like being all over me, don’t you?” I teased in a near whisper.

“I’m just better at basketball than you,” she huffed.

“You might be,” I reasoned quitely. “But you just want to get physical with me. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

“I can too,” she slowed, putting her fists on her hips.

That was the opening I needed. I broke right with my left arm across her body and charged to the hoop. She was too late to reach me as I leaped up and popped the ball against the springy backboard for an easy layup. I even slapped the rim of the hoop for good measure.

“Is that twelve-seven?” I grinned.

“You play dirty,” she complained, but couldn’t mask a shy grin.

“Win if you can. Lose if you must. But always, always CHEAT!” I laughed.

Jen was unimpressed and checked the ball to me with a hard bounce.

I tossed it back to her and set my feet.

She started dribbling with her right hand, crossed over to her left, then spun to put her backside into me. I kept a hand at the small of her back, well, a little lower, as she drove me slowly backwards, reaching at the ball with the other.

That was her opening, and she spun to her left and jumped over me just as I tried to recover from the lunge.

“Klange!” Her first miss of the game sailed straight back up. We both hustled to the board as the ball made an almost impossible second bounce off hoop and shot right toward Jen. She never paused as she caught her own rebound and smoothly laid it up over my outstretched hands with a left hand finger roll.

The ball rolled lazily around the hoop and in. Jen was damn good at basketball.

She didn’t back off one time after that. I somehow managed to get to eleven points before she closed out twenty-one with a fist pump and a girly growl.

We were both hot and sweaty and I’m certain she was turned on. I was doing my best to keep an insistent erection at bay.

She smirked at me mercilessly after beating me.

“I told you I’m not a basketball player,” I shrugged.

“You sure aren’t,” she teased. “But with practice, you’d almost be as good as me.”

“Pfffft!” I laughed.

“Wanna come inside for something to drink?”

“Sure,” I shrugged.

Jen led me in the back door to the kitchen. She opened the fridge.

“Orange juice? Apple juice? Gatorade?”

“Gatorade, please.”

She took a big plastic jug of yellow Gatorade out of the fridge and grabbed a glass for each of us.

We both sucked down the life-giving liquid, gasping for breath.

“Did I wear you out?” she teased.

“Not even close,” I huffed confidently.

“Wanna cookie?” she asked, pulling the lid off a see-through cookie jar. There were chocolate chip cookies nearly filling it.

“Of course,” I enthused.

She handed me a cookie and broke one in half for herself. She gobbled hers up as fast as I did.

It wasn’t quite warm, but it was soft and delicious.

“I see Jake is here,” Jen’s mom walked into the kitchen.

“Hi Mrs. Fox,” I greeted her.

“You know you can call me Glenda,” she chided me.

“Great cookies, Glenda” I smiled.

“Oh, Jennifer made those,” she corrected me.

Jen just grinned, a little fresh chocolate staining one of her incisors.

“Did you take it easy on her out there?” Glenda asked.

“Ha!” Jen laughed. “I whipped him!”

I shrugged helplessly. “Basketball is not my game.”

“No kidding,” Jen teased.

“Jennifer!” Glenda scolded her lightly. “Be nice to your guest. Even if you did beat him,” she smirked.

“Yeah, yeah,” I complained. I knew I wasn’t going to hear the end of this any time soon.

“Wanna see the house?” Jen asked.

“Sure,” I agreed.

Jen put both glasses in the sink and put the big jug of Gatorade back in the fridge. She grabbed each of us another cookie to munch on, then sealed up the cookie jar.

She took me into the living room where her Dad was watching a football game. It was Bears vs. Giants.

“Hi there Jake,” he stood up and offered a hand.

Hi, Mr. Fox,” I shook his hand firmly. “What’s the score?”

“Bears are up thirteen-ten.”

“Yes!” I enthused.

“Bears fan?” he asked.

“Bear down!” I confirmed.

“Oh, I’m waiting on the Chiefs-Broncos game.”

“Go Broncos,” I grinned.

“Go Chiefs!” Jen punched me lightly in the arm.

Bill sat back down to watch the game. Jen showed me the entryway, main floor bathroom and where her parents’ room was. It was a fairly open layout with a nice dining room just off the living room and kitchen.

“My room is upstairs,” she said, leading me up the stairway.

“Jen?” Bill called out to his daughter as we started going up the stairs.

“What?” she paused.

“Keep your door open, please.”

“Ugh, we’re just friends, Dad!”

“If you say so,” he said with a touch of amusement.

A wry grin crossed my face and Jen gave me a disapproving look and shook her head in embarrassment.

Jen bounced briskly up the stairs, proving a nice view for me as I followed.

The stairs led up to a short hallway. A gabled window above the stairs provided plenty of light to the hallway and stairs. The bathroom door was open at the end of the hallway and a door to a bedroom on the left was open as well.

Jen led me into her room, which was large, but gave up some space to the slope of the roof. The head of her bed was up against the hallway wall and faced a small desk that sat in front of a big gabled window, bringing in a nice amount of light as well.

A couple of bookcases were loaded with sports trophies, plaques, medals and signed softballs. She’d decorated the walls, and even the sloped ceiling, with dozens of posters. Chiefs, Royals and the Olympic Softball team covered one wall. I’d have thought this was a boy’s room other than the New Kids on the Block poster on the slant of the ceiling near the window.

I wrinkled my nose at that.

“New Kids, really?” I made a face.

She shrugged. “They’re adorable.”

“They’re all shorter than you,” I said flatly, then looked around more.

A plain blue comforter neatly covered her double bed, and it was pretty tidy all around, other than a few pieces of loose sports equipment.

Something caught my eye on her desk.

A piece of paper had been worn thin from pencil drawings and an eraser. It looked like rudimentary designs for a Jake Parker Racing T-shirt.

“What’s this?” I asked, grabbing the piece of paper.

“That’s not ready yet,” she said quickly, grabbing it from me. She put it back on her desk.

“T-shirt design?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.”

I can get you a picture of the car, if that helps,” I offered.

“Yeah, all your sponsors too,” she enthused.

“Hopefully we keep them all for next year,” I said.

“I was looking at a lot of the T-shirts at the races while we there. I got some ideas,” she nodded.

It got awkwardly silent for a moment before Jen rescued the conversation.

“So this is my room,” she shrugged.

“Tidy,” I complimented her.

“Well, I knew you were coming,” she grinned.

“And baked cookies?” I smiled.

She blushed a bit at me.

“You always tidy up and bake cookies for your friends?” I teased.

“You’re only the second ‘friend’ to come by,” she said, trying to distract me.

“The other being?”

“Lea’s been over here,” she said flatly.

“Bake cookies for her, did you?”

“I do bake sometimes,” she said defensively.

“Well, you did just fine,” I complimented her.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now, be nice if you want to be invited back.”

“I am being nice. I only tease people I like.”

Her eyes widened. “Yoooouuuu like me,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“Yeah, I’ve told you that,” I said defensively.

Jen cast her eyes down, then stepped in front of me and put her hands on my arms.

“Give me time,” she said softly. “Be patient.”

“I’m trying. It’s not easy,” I shook my head.

“I know. Just be patient.”

“Is time the only thing holding you back?” I asked. “Am I wasting my time?”

“No,” she said softly.

“So you like me too?”

Jen nodded shyly.

“Then do something about it,” I grinned.

She slid her hands down my arms and took both of my hands in hers.

“I am. I’m trying to figure out what to do about it.”

“Seems like an obvious choice,” I grinned.

“It’s not,” she said quietly. “But just remember, it’s not you. It’s me.”

“OK,” I nodded.

We were both reflective for a moment and realized we were still holding both hands.

“So, did you bring any of your baseball gear?” Jen asked.

“Uh, no. Why?”

“You’re a catcher, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. I pitch. You catch.”

I let the obvious double entendre pass and agreed.

Back in the living room, the Bears were down 17-13, much to my dismay.

We headed back out to the garage, where Jen grabbed a bucket of softballs and her glove.

“Here’s Dad’s mask and mitt.”

“No chest protector?”

“Dad never uses one,” she smirked.

“I don’t have a cup either,” I said nervously.

“Don’t miss then,” she said a little too brightly for my taste. “You can sit on the bucket.”

She pointed me to a well-worn spot in front of the wooden fence. It was already peppered with dents and marks from missed pitches. That wasn’t making me feel any better about it.

Jen set up a short distance away.

“Play some light catch first.”

I kept the mask off as we tossed a few easy balls back and forth. She was skilled in this as well, I could see.

She backed up a few steps and started some underhand tosses; the ball rising up to hit me in the mitt.

She took a few more steps back and motioned for me to sit down.

She scratched her feet around another well-worn area and set her right foot slightly in front of her left. Jen took a breath, shook out her arms, then brought her left leg forward and exploded off her right foot. Her arm windmilled and her wrist brushed against her hip and outer thigh as she tossed a fastball right at me.

The pitch came hard, fast and just to my right. I reached out for it at the last moment as it started to drop and gloved it, dust popping off the leather as her pitch slammed into the mitt.

My eyes widened. I’d never handled a softball pitch before. The ball was larger, heavier and carried more velocity. Though not coming at me as fast, it came with more torque behind it.

“You might want to put that mask on,” she smiled, holding her glove up for me.

I tossed the ball back, overhand, and settled in on the bucket. She had dumped out a pile of balls at her side, so I figured I’d let the rest pile up behind me.

I pulled the mask down and waited for another pitch.

She set her feet again, ball cradled in her hand at her side, then stepped forward with her left foot and powered forward with her right, her arm windmilling the ball around and forward at my face.

I watched the ball arc up slightly and then flatten out to pop into my mit at chin level.

“At my face, really?” I chastised.

“That’s my aiming point,” she shrugged, as I dropped the ball behind me in irritation.

She loaded up and fired another one that was heading for the ground in front of me. I jumped out of the way and it bounced up and slammed into the top of the plastic bucket with a loud bang.

That was mere inches from where my nuts had just been.

Jen covered her mouth as she laughed at me.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you did that on purpose.”

“Nah, it just got away from me. But you should have seen your face.”

“No cup!” I complained, pointing down.

I hastily put the bucket back in place and sat down.

Jen was still giggling, then tried to regain her composure.

“You sure you’re a catcher?”

“OK!” I slapped the mitt down on the ground. “You can beat me at basketball, you can throw softballs at MY balls, but you aren’t gonna insult me,” I said angrily.

“Alright! Alright! I’m sorry,” she said holding her hands up and walking toward me.

“Give me a bat and I’ll show you what I think of your pitches.”

“Calm down,” she tried to soothe me. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I stood there fuming until she reached me.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, biting her lip. “Do you forgive me?”

I dropped my shoulders and got over it pretty quickly.

“Yeah. Sorry I got mad at you.”

“Wanna catch a few more?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Where you’re aiming,” I smiled.

“I’ll try my best,” she shrugged.

“It’s OK,” I said flatly as she walked back to grab another softball. “If you hit me in the wrong spot, I’m going to insist that you kiss and make it all better.”

She stopped and flashed a look back at me, shook her head and rolled her eyes.

She fired a few buckets of balls at me. She didn’t miss many more, and mercifully didn’t hit me in the crotch.

“Worn out yet?”

“I could go longer,” I shrugged.

“I don’t wanna wear my arm out,” she said.

“So then you’re worn out?” I grinned.

“I suppose,” she huffed.

“I’ll take one win today then,” I added ruefully.

“See ya tomorrow then?”

“Yeah, thanks for asking me to come over.”

“Thanks for coming,” she beamed.

We sort of stood there awkwardly for a moment before I gave her a wry grin and turned down the driveway.

“Bye, Jen.”

“Bye, Jake.”

I slipped into the Mustang and fired it up, glancing at Jen as she practically danced her way back to the house.

Still not my girlfriend, but oh so close.

I got a pleasant surprise when I got home. I found out my Bears had pulled off the win, even with Jim Harbaugh at quarterback.

Mikey had left a message to see what I was up to. He was always off work on Sundays and didn’t have to watch his little siblings.

I called him back and asked what was up.

“Wanna watch the late game, or play video games?”

“As long as I don’t have to shoot hoops or play catch, I’m in,” I agreed.

“Dude, what’s that mean?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there.”

“Where are your little siblings?” I asked.

“At Grandma and Grandpa’s,” Mikey said offhandedly. “I’m just enjoying a day of peace.”

Mikey held out a Nintendo controller for me and I sat down on the couch next to him and we enjoyed some much-needed video game therapy.

Mikey took the first game of Play Action Football, but I took him down in the next two.

Hardly a word passed between us as we fought pixel to pixel, and it was nice to have a respite from everything else weighing heavy on my mind.

I took my cue to leave when Mikey’s grandparents brought his little brother and sister back, just before supper time.

As soon as I got home, Mom sent me back out to fire up the grill. She had boiled some bratwursts in beer and they were ready for the flames. Once the grill was hot, she brought out the pan of brats and had me man the grill.

“Don’t burn them!” she teased.

I kept a close eye on the sizzling brats and Lonesome George kept a close eye on me, licking his lips as he waited for me to drop one or just take pity on him and give him a taste.

I scratched him behind the ears and he seemed to enjoy the consolation prize.

I brought the perfectly-seared brats back inside, and piled up a couple of them with sauerkraut and spicy mustard. Mom had whipped together some potato salad and baked beans as well.

Dad even had a beer with his.

“Early Octoberfest,” he grinned.

“The musical fruit!” Josh announced exuberantly as he took in a big bite of baked beans.

Dad and I chuckled as Mom rolled her eyes at us.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1991

“Tell me what it takes to let you go Tell me how the pain’s supposed to go Uh, tell me how it is that you can sleep In the night Without thinkin’ you lost ev’rything that was good in your life to the toss of the dice? Tell me who’s to blame for thinkin’ twice No no no no ‘Cause I don’t wanna burn in paradise”

I slapped the snooze button on Aerosmith, then realized what day it was and reached back to turn it off entirely.

It was Homecoming Week. We had a big JV game that night, it was Spirit Week, there’d be Coronation Thursday night and the big game against County Central Friday night.

But today was Hat Day. I thought about just wearing my ubiquitous Cubs hat, but I had other thoughts.