Chapter 22: The Fifty-Cent Bet

"Okay, I'll bite," I replied. "What can you do for me, Mr. Cropper?"

The gruff voice on the other end of the telephone line said, "Do you know a young man by the name of Jesse Wilhoit, son?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Is he okay?" I didn't think I could take any more bad news than I'd gotten over the past year or so.

"Oh, yeah, Jesse's just fine," said Cropper. "In fact, he's the one suggested I give you a holler."

"Um, okay," I said. I was still confused. "And how do you know Jesse?"

"Ah, I see now where I done went and took the wrong turn down this particular highway," he said, almost to himself. "I didn't introduce myself very proper here, did I? Son, as I told you a moment ago, my name's Pickett Cropper, but most folks just call me Pick. I'm the head coach of the University of Florida soccer team, down here in Gainesville, Florida."

"Oh, I get it," I said stupidly. Hey, my mama always said I should work on my strengths, and right now, stupid is my main commodity.

"Now, Jesse Wilhoit's been singin' your praises, son, and I would like to send up one of my assistants to talk to you, maybe watch you play."

"Uh, sure, that's great, Mr. Cropper. How's Jesse doing for you?"

"Well, son, I guess soccer news don't spread out quite as fast as football news across the country, but I've got to tell you, that Jesse Wilhoit's a fine player for us. He's been in our starting lineup right from the get-go, and he's helped us to the Southeastern Conference championships, and right into the NCAA Tournament. As a matter of fact, I believe he'll be the Southeastern Conference Freshman Player of the Year, I do."

"Wow," I said, impressed. "Good for him. I can't wait to talk to him."

"Now, son, as head coach, I've always got to be lookin' to the future, as well as herdin' these boys in the here-and-now, and I hear tell you've got a game that just might fit into our type of play here at Florida. But, just to make sure, I'm going to be sending up one of my best ol' boys, a fella name of Stan Harvard. He's gonna be up in your neck of the woods the next couple of weeks, and I'd like for him to watch your team play this Friday."

Uh-oh. Ninety seconds into a conversation with a Division One school coach, and I was in trouble already. There was no way I would be playing this weekend, and probably not the next, either.

"Coach Cropper, I think I might have a problem. You see, right now I'm... injured. I won't be playing for at least a couple of weeks."

There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. "Oh? Is that right? What kind of injury are we talking about here, son?"

"Oh, it's really nothing," I said hurriedly. "Just some... bruised ribs... and some... cuts and scrapes."

"You've been to see the sawbones, right?"

I was puzzled. What the heck is a sawbones? "Sir?" I asked inquiringly.

"The doctor, son. Have you been to see the doctor about them ribs?"

"Oh, I get it. Sawbones. Yes, sir, I had x-rays and everything. No cracks or breaks, but I've got to take it easy for a little while."

"Well, that really shouldn't be a problem then. After all, you're only a junior, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, we've got a whole year to figure this one out anyway. And I know, if half the things Jesse was telling me were true, you're prolly gonna have recruiting scouts hounding you for some time to come. I just wanted to be first in line, is all."

"Thank you, sir."

"Let me leave you my number, Sean. You give me a call when you're healed up and playing again, and I'll see where ol' Stan is, and see if I can get him to drive over yet this year. That sound all right with you?"

"That would be great, Coach. Thank you."

I wrote down the number he gave me, a direct line into the athletic offices.

Now that was a great call to get, I thought to myself. I sat back on the couch smugly, basking in the warmth of the realization that there was a college out there looking at me for their team. What a great feeling!

However, as I replayed the conversation in my mind, I got restless. It took me a few minutes to realize what was making me uncomfortable. Here was another situation where I was not very honest with somebody who was trying to do something for me, and my deceptive description of my injuries to Pick Cropper seemed like it was another of those Sean Porter defects, and one that directly confronted how firm my resolve was going to be in keeping the pledge I had made to myself, just a couple of days ago.

My bruised ribs hurt like hell, and there was a dull throbbing in my sliced-up arm, but these pains were minor compared to the self- inflicted battering my conscience was taking.

I tried to tell myself it was all a fabrication of my own addled mind as I tried to find a comfortable position on the couch. The television was on, but it was just background noise to me. I turned the sound up, trying to drown out my own bitter thoughts, but it didn't help. I flipped through the stations, hoping for a good Bogart or Cagney movie to lose myself in, but no luck there, either.

I got up and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, but nothing sounded good. What I was looking for wasn't going to be found in a cabinet or in the refrigerator, but I wasn't ready to accept that particular truth quite yet. I stalked through the first floor of the house, looking for something I knew I wasn't going to find easily.

Jake and Kayla came over again after football practice. Kay had my homework assignments, and, as expected, there was a ton of work. The three of us spread out in the family room, but I couldn't concentrate.

"Will you sit still?" said Jake, exasperated, after about the dozenth time I shifted on the couch, trying to find a decent position.

Kayla knelt beside me, leaning on the arm of the sofa. "What's the matter, Sean?" she asked, concern in her eyes.

"I got a call today," I began, and I told them about my conversation with the coach of the Florida Gators soccer team.

"But that's great, Sean," said Jake enthusiastically. "Maybe you'll get a scholarship to play soccer."

"Yeah, that part's great," I agreed. "It's the omissions that I'm worried about."

"What do you mean?"

"I think I know," said Kayla. She looked seriously at me. "You're afraid he's going to find out you were hurt in a fight, right?"

I slapped the arm of the sofa, making her jump a little. "That's just it," I said. "If he finds out I might be suspended from school for fighting on school property, I'm afraid he's gonna be really mad. He's not going to want a troublemaker like me on his team." I could feel my eyes burning a little. Damn it; don't cry like a little kid, I admonished myself. You've got to grow up sometime.

And there, right before me, was the answer I had spent the last several hours searching for, practically tearing the house apart in my desire for some sort of solution. I had to be grown-up about it, stand up and face the music.

Kay had grasped my hand as I confessed my fear, holding it close to her in support. I gently disentangled myself and reached beyond her to the telephone. Pickett Cropper's number was on a scrap of paper on the end table, by the telephone. I picked it up and dialed. A female voice answered on the third ring.

"Gator Athletic Office, this is Eunice Adkins speaking."

"Uh, hello, I'd like to speak to Coach Cropper, please," I said.

"Pick is in a meeting right now with his assistants," replied Florence. "May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Sean Porter," I said.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Porter, Pick has been expecting your call. One moment, please." And she put me on hold. I could hear the random pops of the long-distance connection through the receiver.

He was expecting my call? Why would he think I would be calling him back so soon?

After just a couple of minutes, Pick came on the line.

"Sean?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"What can I do for you, son?" he asked. His attitude seemed to be one of pleasant surprise to be hearing so soon from me. I could almost hear a sense of amusement in his attitude.

"Well, Coach, I feel I need to explain to you just how I got my cuts and bruises in the first place," I said. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and leapt off the cliff. "You see, sir, I was in a fight over the weekend, with another student. In the school parking lot. And I got my butt stomped, and my arm's kind of cut up from a knife, and my ribs are bruised because I got kicked. I've been home recuperating for the past couple of days, sir, after the doctors stitched me back up again, but I'm planning on going back to school either tomorrow or the next day, but I'm expecting to be suspended for at least a few days because of the fight."

I paused for a moment to catch my breath, having just spilled out my confession. I was expecting him to hang up on me, since I was giving him the opportunity to tell me to forget about meeting with his scout, but there was a long silence on the other end of the line. The silence was worse than my admissions, so I jumped into the void, and continued with my explanation. "I... I was surprised by your earlier call, sir, and I... I wanted to set the record straight... and... well, you deserve to know the truth about me, sir..." I finally wound down, nothing more to say.

There was a deep chuckle on the other end. "Son, I can't tell you how happy I am to hear from you, especially so quick," he said.

I was very confused. "You're happy?" I asked incredulously.

"Why, shore, son, a course I'm happy." He laughed again, evidently taking great pleasure in my humiliation.