Chapter 26: Anxious To Get Back To The Game

Just before practice on Monday, Coach Neville called me into his office.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Porter?" He sat back in his chair, taking his glasses off.

"I feel pretty good," I replied.

"Your doctors have given you their permission to resume playing?"

"Yes, sir. My only real restriction from the doctors was to stay out of the weight room for a couple of weeks after the stitches came out." He smiled briefly, knowing full well that I was only an occasional visitor to the weight rooms, anyway. "And they warned me that my ribs would take a long time to completely heal, but they would provide their own method of restraint."

"Which has proven to be the case," he said.

"Yes, sir, but I have been running more and more, and they've either gotten better, or else I've been learning to control it better."

"That's good. That's very good. Now, I don't want to hurry you into coming back into the lineup until you are ready, so I am relying on your judgment to let me know when you want to try playing. As you know, this week's game is the last game of the regular season. The playoffs start next week. I would like to get you into a game, if even for just a few minutes, by the first playoff game. We're going to need you to be as strong as you can be by the second round of the playoffs, so I'm giving you almost three weeks to get ready."

"I don't need three weeks, Coach. I want to play this Friday."

"Sean, I don't know..."

"Let me at least start the game, Coach, and if I'm having trouble, you can take me out. But I think I'm almost ready now, and I know I'll be ready by game day."

He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses dangling from his little finger. "That's very optimistic, Sean, and I should tell you, I've been getting some telephone calls these past few weeks. There are a lot of scouts who want to watch you play. I've been trying to put them off, but it's getting harder to make them readjust their schedules to accommodate ours. You would best be served if they could see you at full strength."

"Scouts? You mean, besides Pickett Cropper?"

He looked startled. "You've talked to Cropper?"

"Well, yes, I have. He called me a couple of weeks ago."

He gave me a tight smile. "Coach Cropper is a very forceful personality," he said a little ruefully. "He squeezed a lot more information out of both me and Dr. Osgood than either of us wanted to give." He grinned openly. "He's got his sights set on you, I think. His interest will bring even more focus on you, and on your teammates. Hopefully, some of the spotlight will spill onto Mr. Abbott and Mr. Johnson, too. They deserve a chance at playing at the next level."

"Let 'em come, Coach. I'm ready to play. I can't tell you how buzzed I am, just thinking about getting back into a game."

"Well, you'll get your chance this Friday, Mr. Porter, if that's what you'd like," he finished. He stood up, and put his glasses back on. "Shall we go out to practice?"

"Yes, sir!" I hopped up, pumped about getting ready for Friday. I was really anxious to get back to the game.

It was painful, but I worked hard on Monday and Tuesday at practices, and Kayla and I increased our distances in the evenings. I was running or jogging the whole way around by then, with no rest stops. If I needed to catch my breath because of a short faster section, I just slowed my pace until I could jog comfortably and wait for my breathing to normalize. I felt great, a feeling that was no doubt enhanced by the presence of the girl I was now admitting, at least to myself, was my girlfriend.

Wednesday's practice, however, did not go quite so well as the earlier days. It all started at the end of practice for the day, when Coach Neville stepped into the locker room as we were taking off our soccer shoes and shin guards.

"If I may have the team's attention for just one moment," called out Coach. He waited for the general hubbub to quiet down. "For this Friday's game, we are reverting to our original starting lineup."

A lot of the players were looking at each other, not sure quite what Coach meant by his statement. He could tell that his announcement wasn't very clear, so he explained. "That is, Sean Porter will be returning to his customary position at right defense."

Kevin said loudly, "All right!" There was a buzz of happy agreement from my teammates, which made me feel pretty darn good.

"Bullshit!" barked Adam Prince. He was in the next row over from me and most of the rest of the team. "That's my position!"

Coach peered over toward Weasel over the top of his glasses. "It was yours on a temporary basis, Mr. Prince, and you know it."

"No, I didn't know it!" shouted Prince. "You gave it to Ingrams when Porter went down, and I won it from him, fair and square!"

That set up a lot of grumbling among my teammates.

"So?" said Eric. "All that means is that you won the temporary assignment."

"No fucking way," yelled Weasel. "I won the position, not the temporary assignment."

"One more outburst like that and you will be benched for the remainder of the season," warned Coach. "This is not your decision to make. Mr. Porter is our starting defenseman. End of discussion."

I stood up. "You know what, Coach? Maybe it would be a fair test for me." I walked over to the next row of lockers, where Weasel was sitting. He was, for all intents and purposes, sitting by himself. The nearest player was four or five lockers down from him, another bench player. Nobody else wanted to be near him, even just to change clothes. "Okay, Weasel, I challenge you for the position. If you can find another player who's willing to defend for you, that is. If nobody stands up for you, you lose by default. Deal?"

"You're fucking toast, Porter," he mumbled. He made sure he said it soft enough that Coach didn't hear him though.

"What did you say?" I asked. He was starting to really irritate me. I took a step closer to him, and Rich Ingrams, of all people, stood up and stepped in front of me.

"I said, you've got a deal," spat Prince.

"Tomorrow at the beginning of practice, then?" I turned to Coach, who gave a reluctant assenting nod. "Eric?" I looked over my shoulder. "You want to help me teach this young 'un a thing or two about the game?"

I got a chuckle from most of the team. Eric came around and stood next to me. "It will be my pleasure, my good man," he said in his best British accent. He flipped Weasel the bird, and sauntered back to his own locker. I followed him back to my own, and sat down to finish stripping off my sweaty uniform. I was committed. My starting position depended on beating Weasel the next day, and I felt I was ready.

On Thursday, Eric and I jogged out of the locker rooms and over to the track. I was pretty confident that Weasel wasn't going to be able to talk any of our teammates into playing with him on the challenge, especially after hearing from a lot of them during the course of the day, offering encouragement and support. After our first lap, however, Coach waved us off the track and over to him. He had a disgusted look on his face.

"Your challenge match awaits," he said. He gestured over toward one of the far practice fields. Eric and I looked over. One of the figures was definitely Weasel, but I couldn't tell who the second person was. Coach was silent as we walked over toward the field. Whoever Weasel had talked into playing was going to get an earful from me, and was going to be run off his feet by Eric, who was walking next to me, scowling.

I didn't even recognize the kid waiting with Weasel. Coach Neville did the introductions.

"Gentlemen, the defenders are Adam Prince and Larry Endicott. The challengers are Sean Porter and Eric Johnson." Coach turned to Eric and me. "Mr. Endicott is a freshman from the Junior Varsity team."

"What?" I asked incredulously. Is he serious?

Endicott turned to Weasel. "What's going on here, Adam? You said you wanted me to play with you, that it was a challenge match, but you didn't tell me I'd have to play against Sean Porter and Eric Johnson." His face was a little pale, and he was shaking with nervousness. "I mean, it's, like, the two best players in school. I don't belong here."

Weasel turned on poor Larry ferociously. "You agreed, Larry. Besides, didn't you want to show Coach Neville you're good enough to play Varsity? Now's your chance."

Eric turned to Coach. "This ain't right, Coach," he pleaded. "This kid's been roped in by Weasel, probably through no fault of his own. Call it off."

Coach looked at each of us in turn, his stare lingering on Weasel's face a moment longer than anyone else's.

"No," he declared. "Play the challenge."

He set out the simple rules, and gave Eric and me, as challengers, the first offensive attempt, from the hash mark denoting the midfield of our playing area. There were two temporary nets set up across the width of the field, our respective goals.

Weasel was still trying to talk persuasively to Endicott, standing next to him in the middle of their side of the field, their backs to us to keep us from eavesdropping. He was probably explaining what they might see from us, paying absolutely no attention to his opponents, or to Coach, who blew his whistle to start the match without waiting for Weasel to finish up. I tapped the ball forward to Eric, who immediately took off down the sidelines, leaving both Prince and Endicott scrambling to try to catch him, an impossibility with his speed and his head start. It took less than five seconds for us to tally our first score.

On the restart, Weasel tapped the ball to Endicott, but Eric had started less than ten yards from him, and as soon as the kid touched the ball, Eric dropped his shoulder and shoved him off the ball, easily taking it away. He lofted a pass over Weasel's head into open space, where I picked it up, and practically strolled to the goal, for a two-nil lead. Prince looked over at Coach, expecting a foul to be called on Eric, but Coach just stood impassively on the sidelines, arms folded as he looked on. I could see Prince muttering to himself as he trotted back to retrieve the ball I had left in their net, and he had a determined set to his face as he dribbled it up to reset an offensive try.

This time, Larry passed off to Weasel. Eric called for a switch, and he ran at Weasel as I moved over to cover Larry. Weasel had just taken a few steps with the ball when Eric reached him and pushed him down hard. Weasel tumbled as he fell onto the grass, rolling over a couple of times. He scrambled up, cursing, and looked like he was going to run up to Coach and jaw at him for not calling the charge and the push.

"Play on," called Coach, signaling a legal play with his arms. Coach resumed his position, legs apart and arms crossed, looking at Prince, waiting for him to complain.

Seeing Coach standing there and staring at him changed his mind, however, but by then it was too late. Defenders were down 3-0, just like that, and had hardly even entered our territory, much less mounted an attack.

Before restarting, Weasel conferenced with Larry for a moment. I was sure he was telling Larry to get physical, since it was obvious that Coach was going to let us play a wide-open game. Larry was at least twenty pounds lighter than Eric, and shorter even than Weasel. He didn't look like he was very pleased about having to play more physically against us. He showed some grit, though, and stepped up to the ball and tapped it to Weasel. Prince took the ball a few steps down the field, and tried lofting the ball back over to Larry. Eric leapt up and tried to head it off, but the ball just glanced off the top of his head and behind him. Larry managed to corral it, and swept in and shot the ball at our goal as I tried to close with him. I could almost hear the sigh of relief from Weasel, that he wasn't going to be skunked, as I ran over and pulled the ball out of the net and took it up to midfield for our restart.

Eric tapped the ball to me and took off downfield, Larry hot on his heels. Weasel closed on me. I could see the panic in his eyes, and when he shifted his focus for just a second, I knew what he intended. I steeled myself for the elbow he threw into my ribs. I stepped away from him just enough to take some of the force off of his blow. A flare of pain drove up my side anyway, but I was able to absorb it, eat up the pain, and shake off the attack. As he closed with me, either intending to throw another elbow at me or to shove me off the ball, I stepped down hard on his instep, and he tripped over his own feet, crashing to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He rolled onto his back and clutched his ankle in pain, but I wasn't about to stop. Unimpeded, I headed for their goal. Endicott came toward me, but it was impossible for him to keep the ball out of the net, and he knew it. He made his choice, going back to keep Eric from taking a pass, and they both stopped and watched as I powered the ball into the goal and through the bottom of the net from about five meters out. The ball skidded under the bottom edge of the net and skipped across the grass, and ended up resting against a parking lot bumper about twenty meters away. Endicott just looked at Weasel disgustedly, and walked back to midfield with Eric and me, pointedly leaving the ball for Weasel to retrieve. Prince stared at the three of us for a moment, and then limped over to get the ball. He carried it back and threw it down on the ground.