Chapter 2

Football tryouts started the first of August, ten days before school started. My ass was the second one in line at sign up. Coach Boyette took my application and did a double take at how I’d grown.

“Them balls finally dropped, huh, Pulaski? Bout damned time.”

The coach and I had a relationship from last year when I was riding the bench on the Junior Varsity. Because I was a quick study with a good memory, I became the coach’s walking playbook. Since his personal playbook ran to 225 plays, I was in demand.

“Gimme something tricky that’ll get a first down on the ground,” he’d say.

“Fake 27 sweep, 32 dive,” I’d regurgitate.

Coach Boyette was almost as tough as my grandfather. He believed that discipline and desire were as important as talent. Because I took my dad’s never quit rule to heart, I was Boyette’s kind of player. As a JV, I received the same instruction as guys who were much bigger and more talented. If a starter showed an attitude, coach would yank him from the game and put me in for a couple of plays. I played every position except quarterback that year, gamely flinging my puny body against opposing behemoths.

So anyway, I got signed up. I put down free safety and split end as my positions. Those were the only places where I figured brains and my slightly above average foot speed would work. I was almost five foot-ten by then and weighed a solid one-sixty-eight. Tryouts were actually enjoyable for me. It was a lot of fun using my new body. I made the team, firmly second string, but still on the team. I was the ‘nickel back’ on defense and the fifth eligible receiver on a few desperation pass plays. Best of all, though, I was on the special teams: kickoff, kickoff return and punting. I was the Palmdale Banzai.

School started the second week of August. The state kept moving the start date up because of anticipated hurricane related school closures. Before long I figured they would have us go all year around and end the charade. I quickly reentered the routine of high school life, much happier than I was the previous year. My new stature and deeper voice made me much more confident in myself even if my natural shyness prevented me from being the life of the party. In class I answered questions when called on but I seldom volunteered information. Socially, in general, I guess I was the same way. I could hold up my end of a conversation okay as long as I didn’t have to initiate it. With the guys, that was cool but with the girls it was a disaster. I tried to be more out going with girls but I just couldn’t seem to focus. It was weird. And it sucked!

I’ll tell you how bad it was. At my buddy Richie Caldwell’s house one day, his little sister Jenny pulled me aside. Jenny had just turned fourteen and was a freshman. Somehow without me noticing, she had grown up a whole bunch.

She came right to the point, “Are you gay, Johnny?”

Oh shit, I could have died right then and there. I looked quickly around to make sure no one was in earshot.

“No,” I hissed, “what gave you that idea?”

She gave me this seriously condescending look as she continued, “‘Cause if you are, it’s no biggie, you know?”

“Jesus, Jen, will you stop saying that. I like girls – exclusively. Now what made you think I’m queer?”

“Michelle figured it out because you are the only one of our brothers’ friends who don’t check us out all the time. Michelle said she did everything but strip for you and you just ran off. That doesn’t sound like any guy who likes girls to me.”

The Michelle in the conversation was Michelle Hoffman, the younger sister of our third buddy, Stan Hoffman. Michelle and Jenny were best buds for life; you seldom saw one without the other. I remembered the incident Jenny mentioned. The memory made my dick twitch in my pants. Two weeks ago, when we were all swimming at Stan’s house I saw Michelle topless when I passed her room on the way to the upstairs bathroom. Michelle was right, I bolted like my ass was on fire, scared shitless she’d tell her folks and I’d be sent to prison as a peeping pervert or something.

“I liked what I saw,” I said defensively, “but you don’t go after your friend’s sister.”

Jenny looked at me incredulously. “Richie gets a hard on when your sister drives by here in her car. You better discuss that rule with him again, I think it got superseded after he saw her in a bikini last year.”

“Okay, Jen, whatever you say. We cool now?”

Jen stood there for a second or two acting like she was thinking then gave me a bright smile.

“I don’t know, Johnny, I think we need proof.”

As I look back on that conversation, I cringe in embarrassment at how easily this woman-child manipulated me. Instead of laughing off the whole thing as a misunderstanding, I did exactly what I later learned the fiendishly clever Michelle had plotted.

“What kind of proof?” I asked.

“If you went over to Michelle’s and you two made out, then no one could say you were gay cause Michelle could swear you weren’t.”

Yes, it was a flimsy story in retrospect, but you have to remember that I was just getting over a traumatic freshman year. Even though I had absolutely nothing against anyone’s lifestyle choice, I certainly didn’t want even a hint of that attached to me. Michelle Hoffman, way too bright for her age, figured that out and used it to entrap me. Still, I played for time.

“Umm, okay, I’ll call her and arrange it,” I stammered.

“No, I’ll call her and tell her you are on your way, and I’ll cover for you here,” she countered. “Now go.”

So off I trudged towards the Hoffman house. Convicts on death row were more motivated for their last trip than I was. I was about to be busted as a sexual slacker by the evil sisters of my two best friends. My grandfather would finally get his wish and I’d have to enroll in a Catholic school. I’d go on to Seminary, become a priest, and die a virgin; the secret of my shame expunged by the Vatican just like the dudes in ’The Da Vinci Code’.

Michelle answered my knock.

“Gee, Johnny, don’t act so happy to see me,” she pouted.

“You called me a fag, Shelly. You’re right, I should have brought you flowers.”

I don’t know where I found something flip to say, considering the circumstances. I guess I was just too angry to remember I was shy. Michelle must have noticed the same thing; she gave me a funny look and pulled me into the house to the family room. After we were sitting side-by-side on a love seat Michelle started talking.

“I don’t really think you’re gay, Johnny, that was just a way to get you to make out with me. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or make you mad. But you and Stan and Richie always call each other names like that anyway. Now you’ll hate me forever.”

Towards the end of her little speech her bottom lip started trembling and she unleashed the one weapon that had me defenseless. She cried. I awkwardly put my arm around her and tried to comfort her. She plastered herself against me, both arms snaking around my neck. Her new position made me acutely aware of her bigger than average breasts pillowed against my chest. The Hoffmans were of German descent, all of them blonde, blue-eyed and robustly Teutonic. Michelle would never be petite. She would forever be a nice handful. The tiny amount of will power I possessed crumbled to dust and the mighty Kong started to stiffen. (Hey, it’s my dick! I’ll name it what I want!) In an embarrassed panic I tried to turn away from Michelle, she tightened her arms and turned with me, ending up on my lap. She felt my erection immediately and gave a little wriggle with her butt.

“Oooo, Johnny,” she cooed, “did I do that?”

Do you see a pattern emerging here? The one where I am always on the defensive when it comes to dealing with women? I figured you could. Heck, Stevie Wonder could see it. I peeled Michelle off and sat her beside me.

“Yes, you did that, Shelly, I told you I’m a normal guy and you’re a pretty girl.”

I must have said the right thing because Michelle kissed me right on the lips! She didn’t use her tongue, but she sure took her time. Her lips were warm and moist. She finally pulled her head back and gave me a dreamy look.

“You are the first boy, I ever kissed like that, Johnny,” she sighed.

Once I admitted to it being my first serious kiss also, things instantly got better between us. She was surprised at how little experience I had until I pointed out that like her, I had just reached puberty. By the time I left fifteen minutes later Michelle had conned me into a pact where we would keep each other updated on what we learned about sex and love and whatever else went with it. Seems Miss Smarty Pants Michelle was as bereft of experience as I was. Since I was within three weeks of being able to date, Michelle figured that I’d be doing most of the passing on. She said that was fine with her, because she trusted me more than anyone she knew, including Jenny Caldwell. Oh, and we made out some too, just so we could say we did.

Before I knew it, November was here. School and football were keeping me too busy to worry about anything else. I, unfortunately, had little to contribute to Michelle’s pool of carnal knowledge. Our pact said we had to do it with someone else first. So, reading Internet erotica for pointers wasn’t going to cut it. I even had to cut back on my rigorous regime of self-abuse, as stimulation and energy were hard to come by.

A week before my birthday Leah called me. I hadn’t heard from her in almost six weeks.

“Hi, Johnny. Miss me?”

Her voice sounded different, younger and more vibrant with a touch of a southern drawl.

“Of course I miss you, the only beautiful girl that would talk to me up and left.”

Was I gallant or what? She actually giggled into the phone then, a tinkling, sweet as honeysuckle sound. My dick, dormant for days, inflated majestically. That was a first, old Kong had never even twitched around Leah before.

“I have a feeling that’s a temporary problem, Honey. I changed my name back to Scofield, Johnny, and I’m using my middle name now as well.”

She called me Honey! “Your middle name?”

“Yeah, Rachael. I’m officially Rachael Scofield now, a new me, a new name and a new life. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough, Johnny.”

“Heck, Rachael, that’s easy to do. All you have to do is be happy. That’s thanks enough for me.”

I thought I had said something wrong because the phone went silent for a second. Then her voice, softer now, came back on the line.

“You made me drop the phone, Johnny. You are so sweet, and I know you don’t lie to me, even to make me feel good.”

We chatted for another fifteen minutes working out our first date arrangements. Rachael hit on the idea of picking me up outside the gym after next Friday night’s home football game. When we rang off I went downstairs to talk to my parents. I’d briefly mentioned to them that I thought I had a date for my birthday but I had been skimpy on the details in case it fell through. Now it was time to clue them in. My parents knew about Leah Wentworth but had never met her. My grandfather had met her once when he dropped me off at her house. His endorsement of her character eliminated any doubts my parents might have had about her. I found my dad and grandfather sitting on the porch having cold brewskis. Dad told me Mom was out shopping with Katrina and Nana Nadia.

I sat down on the porch swing and told my dad and Papa J all about my plan for my first date. They listened to me without comment until I wound down.

“Your friend sounds as if she’s rediscovering herself. Good for her, but she is still going to be fragile for a while Johnny so be careful, okay?”

“No problem, Dad, we’re just friends,” I said.

I started inside to finish my homework when my grandfather stopped me.

“You have protection, Johnny?”

I blushed hotly, “No, Papa, it’s just a first date between friends.”

“Famous last words,” he said.

Still beet red I bolted up the stairs as my father and his father clinked their beer bottles together and laughed.

My birthday, November 12, was on a Wednesday. The only present I wanted was my learner’s permit. My grandfather volunteered to take me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles to test for it. I was nervously waiting outside the main entrance of the school when he drove up at ten sharp. I jumped into his crew cab pickup truck and off we went. As soon as I had my seatbelt on, Papa’s dog, Jethro, stuck his head over my seat and gave me a big slobbery kiss. Lots of old folks have dogs. Usually they get those small, cuddly, and easy to manage ones. Ah, but not Janus Pulaski, his dog is a huge tri-colored hound dog, bred for hunting deer. Jethro has a head the size a large watermelon with a tongue as big as a two-pound strip steak. Papa thinks Jethro is the reincarnation of Rin-Tin-Tin. Given that Jethro is pretty much a sweet natured doofus, the rest of the family is not so sure about that.

My grandfather, at the age of seventy-four, is probably more fit and healthy than most men in their forties. He and my grandmother are comfortable financially so they could be living that easy retiree life of golf and travel. But Papa is not wired like that.

“I am a man,” he says, “and a man works.”

So Papa has a woodworking shop where he custom makes furniture for people. He is also in high demand for small home repairs. He hires me to work for him on some of his repair jobs.

So we arrived at the DMV at a quarter after for my ten-thirty appointment. Papa snagged a parking place close to the entrance and we left Jethro sprawled out across the rear seat snoring like a chain saw. I took the written test while my grandfather flirted with all the women in the DMV. Maybe I should have gone to him for help with women, because his rap even had the younger women giggling and blushing. I aced the written test and emerged from the DMV at eleven-thirty with my sparkly new permit. Oh, Yes! Passage to manhood, part one, underway. We get back to the truck and Papa threw me the keys.