Chapter 10: Black And Gold

Saturday: work, work, work.

We started out with practice again, and we again scrimmaged Alpha against Omega. Pick made a few more changes in the lineups of the two practice squads, including moving Spencer Goldman over to Omega, but he opted to leave me playing the right midfield position for Alpha.

I hope he doesn't think he can make a striker out of me, I kept on thinking. I just didn't have an offensive mindset.

What I gained by playing up like this, though, was a better perspective of what was going on almost everywhere on the field. When you're playing defense, it can sometimes be kind of hard to see what's happening with your offensive sets, particularly in the far corner. Playing across the centerline made it easier to see patterns, especially tricks and habits headed toward our goal. I thought I knew the games of my teammates pretty well, but I discovered I could study them better when I was playing up. It was easier to spot who was weak with their off foot, who had a tendency to turn a particular way when receiving a through ball, who tended to trap a ball instead of playing the roll. I learned to anticipate which way another player would turn on a fake, and I could tell much more readily who had the strongest and most accurate long feeds.

Conversely, on my side of the field, I could scope out the tendencies and strengths of my mates, and feed the ball to their strong side more often. I also got a lot more touches on the ball than I did playing back, since I tended to be involved in the movement of the ball both directions. It all was a real eye-opener.

On one of his first possessions, Martin forgot himself and started in on stunting. My grandfather, an avid hunter who trained his own dogs to move on his audible commands, had taught me how to belt out an ear-shattering whistle, and I used it. Frenchy looked over at me, and all I did was point at him. He scowled at me, but he got the message, passing the ball off and resuming his defensive duties within his territory.

My center midfielder, a scoring position if ever there was one, was Max Ehrlinger, a sophomore who came in often off the bench to give us a boost with some fresh legs. He had been on Omega Team with me, but was part of Pick's switch when he moved Spencer to Omega. Max was a very good player, able to anticipate crossing and through passes very well. He also passed well, but he suffered from indecision when he had the ball, and that was enough to keep him out of the starting lineup. He was a great role player, though, and I found that if I led him by a few steps, his tendency to hold the ball until somebody came over and took it away from him eased. Once he was in motion, he tended to stay that way, and he could do some interesting things with the ball.

A couple of times, I even called for him to switch with me so I could roam through the middle, especially as we were falling back on defense. I either wanted to see what was going on over on the other side of the field, or I wanted to follow the path of the ball through the middle. Max was amenable to switching coverages, and once I ventured into the middle of the field, I was able to watch even more of the play. I always made sure I switched back with him as soon as I saw what I was interested in observing, and I tried to let him know about what I was seeing. I was hoping his game would benefit, too.

After about an hour of scrimmage, I had a very good picture of our team in my head. I categorized my teammates according to position and relative ability, kept tabs on the soft parts of their games, and formulated plans on how I might be able to exploit their strong suits. I also made a mental note to question Spencer, Jesse, Bryan, and Rick about my game. I wanted them to tell me about my weaknesses as a player, so I could do something about them.

I loved defense, but I was learning to appreciate playing in the middle of the field. I discovered that I enjoyed the freedom of patrolling up, and I quickly realized that midfielders really were the first line of defense.

After showering, a bunch of us walked over from the fieldhouse to the stadium for the football game. Jesse, Bryan, and I had planned on going together, and most of the rest of the starters came along with us. Spencer Goldman jogged up to walk with me.

"Yo, Porter. You switching positions?" he asked. "Gonna finally work for a living instead of being a lazy defender?"

"Work for a living?" I exclaimed. "It seems to me it's the midfielders who are the lazy ones. 'Oh, it's a through ball. Oh, well, I'll just let Porter or Rickman clean up the mess.' You guys in the middle have it way too easy."

Spencer laughed out loud. "Nice dream, pal. It's more like, 'Oh, it's a through ball. I'd better hustle back so our weak-legged defenders won't strain something trying to get the ball back all the way up to the middle.' Hey, you've been playing up for awhile in scrimmage. You can't deny the truth."

Jesse, on my other side, just chuckled. "You both got it wrong," he said. "Up front, we're thinking, 'Why don't they just move the ball up so we can attack? Can't they do anything with that damn pill?' Forwards are the workhorses of the team, boys."

"Forwards?" sputtered Spencer.

"Sure," continued Jesse with a smile. "If you guys weren't freshmen, you'd probably realize it." He turned to his roommate, walking on his other side. "Ain't that right, Bryan?"

"Truth," said Bryan.

Spencer laughed. "The only work forwards do is hustle to hog the glory after a win. But guess who gives you all those assists?"

Jesse looked at him in mock solemnity. "Ummm ... the keepers, for shutting out our opponents," he said.

Well, there was really no arguing with that.

I was able to watch most of the first half of the football game with my friends. About five minutes before the half ended I hotfooted it over to the gift shop. I punched in and got ready to be overrun with students, parents, and visitors looking for souvenirs. For the next half hour it was a mad scramble to keep up with the demand for Gator gear.

The crowds disappeared almost as fast as they appeared, once the second half started. My coworkers and I spent the next hour getting the stock back into shape, refolding sweatshirts, hanging the windbreakers back up on their hangers, restocking the banners and bumper stickers and UF decals, refacing the shelves full of coffee mugs, shot glasses, address books, and sleeves of UF logo golf balls.

We just finished with these tasks when it started all over again. Crowds streamed in after the end of the game, and decimated our poor little space, wiping us out of several styles of t-shirts, key chains, and logo pens. It amazed me what they could put the University's mascot onto, and it amazed me what people would actually pay good money for. Ninety percent of it was crap, in my opinion, but there was a customer for every product in the store. P.T. Barnum was right.

By the time my shift was over, I was wiped out, and I still had a session in the weight room to face. I trudged back to my dorm room to change, and found Westy there, huddled up with Jason, from across the hall.

"Hey, what's up, guys?" I asked.

"Party tonight, dude," exclaimed Jason. He, too, had pledged Sig Tau. He and Westy were in the same pledge class. "You should come along."

"What, it's not a frat party?" I asked.

"Well, not a sanctioned party," said Westy. "A bunch of brothers live in this old house in the Student Ghetto behind Chaucer's. They're throwing the party, and it's kind of an open invitation."

"Naw, I don't think so," I said. "I'm supposed to meet a guy over in the weight room."

"We're not going until late, Sean," said Jason. "We'll talk about it when you get back."

I grabbed my gym bag and headed out to meet Dan. I didn't give Westy and Jason's invitation a second thought. Westy in particular was not ever going to be my first choice for somebody to party with.

I met up with Dan in the weight room, and we started on our first circuit. Spencer and Luke were also there, spotting for each other, and the four of us worked out together for the next hour.

We were in the locker room, packing up our bags after showering, when Spencer turned to me.

"Hey, Sean, you want to go get something to eat later tonight?"

Sure," I said. It was that or homework, and I had used flimsier excuses than going out with a pal.

Spencer turned to the others. "Luke? Dan? You guys want to grab a bite later?"

"Can't, man," said Dan. "Got a date tonight."

"Hey, yeah, I'll come along," said Luke. "I've got nothing planned."

"Okay," said Spencer. "I'll get something set up."

We all walked out of the gym together, and Luke and Dan headed off to the right. Spencer and I went straight, walking toward one of the side entrances to our dorm.

"Where you want to go tonight?" I asked Spencer.

"Copper Monkey? Wings and burgers?"

"Sure," I replied.

"Come on up to my room whenever you want," he said. "I'll give you a chance to win some of your money back at gin." I thought I detected just the hint of a smirk as he loped up the stairs after leaving me at the third floor landing.

Westy was gone, and Jason's door was closed, so I figured his roommate, Craig, was probably gone too. No doubt studying at the library, I thought. The kid was going to burn himself out with studying.

I flopped down on the couch, snapped open a can of Coke, stuck Eat A Peach (I was really getting into this Southern lifestyle, it seemed) into the cassette player, and grabbed pen and paper to write to Luscious. I wanted to let her know what was going on with the team. I thought she would get a kick out of hearing about my experiences playing midfield instead of defense.

I was feeling frustrated and guilty after being at school without Kayla for several weeks. I was tired of jacking off while I stared at her picture. It was only a temporary release, and did nothing to ease the ache of not having her near me. It also forced me to adjust my own internal version of what I considered myself to be. After all, here I was, a healthy teenaged athlete at a major university, independent and fancy-free. What did I need with female companionship?

Who was I kidding?

Certainly not myself anymore. Any illusions I may have brought with me that I was immune to the strain of maintaining a long-distance relationship had been burned out of me early on in my college career. Hanging out with the guys was a lot of fun, but I knew I was not alone in needing more sometimes. Even the limited involvement I was enjoying with Reggie was reminding me in an almost painful way of what I was missing without Kayla around.

Was I having fun at college? Sure. But was I happy?

I was a long way away from happy, even if I was reluctant to admit it to myself. I just hoped I was keeping my true feelings from seeping into my letters home. It would drive Kayla crazy if she knew how miserable I really was here, with nothing to do about it.

Buck up, Porter, and stop feeling sorry for yourself, I thought harshly. Freakin' crybaby. I found an envelope and addressed it, shoved my letter into it and sealed it. I rummaged through my desk until I located a stamp. I licked it, and trudged downstairs to the lobby mailbox to send it off. There was a late pickup on Saturdays, so with luck Kay would receive it by Tuesday or Wednesday. By then, I hoped to have another letter to her started.

I went back up to my room and opened up my history book to study for another hour before I headed up to Spencer's for my weekly lesson in humility, courtesy of Goldman's gin expertise.

Spencer and I walked up 13th Street and met up with Luke before we got to University Ave. The three of us cut across and jaywalked across University to the Copper Monkey.

It was already crowded, much of the crowd still there from after the game. It was rowdy and loud, but we managed to find three chairs, and we squeezed in at a big table with a bunch of other people. There were four pitchers of beer on the table, each about half full. Luke pushed his way up to the bar and ordered three Cokes and a couple of orders of wings. He brought the Cokes back to the table, and we each guzzled the sodas down and refilled our glasses with beer from the pitchers. Free beer, college bar. What could be better? I almost forgot about missing my girl.

A couple of hours later, we were well buzzed. We had consumed hamburgers, wings, popcorn, and fries, and our table companions kept the beer flowing. Luke, Spencer, and I each contributed some money to the table in exchange, and our newfound friends around us were only too happy to help us out.

I got up and sidestepped my way through the crowd toward the johns, needing to tap a kidney. The floor was getting sticky with spilled beer and soda, and I slipped and nearly fell on my ass as I reached the door. A big, meaty hand reached out and grabbed my upper arm in a steel grip, keeping me upright.

"Steady there, little fella," rumbled a big, deep voice.

"Thanks," I said once I got my feet back underneath me. I glanced at the big, round, black face of probably the biggest person I had ever met, bigger even than Tiny Harrison, my friend from home.

"Funny how this damn tile can be sticky and slippery all at once, ain't it?" he said.

"Physics," I replied. "You just can't trust physics to be sane when you're under the influence."

The big man laughed, and I turned back to the door to the restroom.

When I came out, the big guy was still there, leaning up against the wall with his friends.

"Sean Porter," I said.

He looked at me a little quizzically. "Nope," he said. "Not me."

"No, I'm Sean Porter," I said. "Thanks for the hand before."

"Oh, I thought you was accusing me of being Sean Porter," he said, laughing. He held out his hand. "Lamarr Elliott, pleased ta meetcha."

I shook his hand, and he held on, looking at me as if he was trying to place me.

"I know that name," he said, not letting go. "Just a minute, and I'll have it." Lamarr turned to one of his companions, a smaller, very muscular guy with wide shoulders and slim hips. "Hey, Dantrell, does the name Sean Porter sound familiar to you?"

Dantrell and Lamarr. Suddenly I knew who these guys were. Lamarr Elliott was a starting offensive lineman on the UF football team, and Dantrell Sinclair was one of a tandem of halfbacks the team used very effectively in their running attack.

Dantrell looked me over. I still couldn't move, because of Lamarr's grip. Dantrell's eyes showed nothing, neither friendliness nor animosity, and his expression was completely neutral. I didn't matter at all to him, from the look on his face.

"Soccer dude. All-American from up North, freshman. I hear he got a game," said Dantrell. I would discover later that evening that Dantrell was just a quiet, reserved person, and his expressionless face was simply a defense mechanism, acquired when he was a sought- after high school All-American running back from Mississippi.