Chapter 2: Weston, West, Westy

Classes didn't start for another week, and already I was tired. Because we didn't have any distractions from schoolwork, Pick took up the slack, working us nearly to the point of collapse in the Florida heat.

Since Gatorade had been formulated and tested here in Gatorland (hence the name, see?) I learned to like the taste, and I drank as much of it as I could pound down, on the theory it would help me out. Maybe it did, but I was too exhausted to tell. Between sprints, agility drills, and long-distance miles running both on the track and on the streets, we started melding together as a team. We discovered who among us was faster, stronger, fitter. The distance runners were identified, as were the sprinters. I didn't know which category I fit into. I knew I wasn't a sprinter. There were guys on our team who would leave Eric Johnson in the dust, and there was no way I could stay with them in a race. On the other hand, my stamina for pounding out miles was decent enough, but the real long-distance runners on our team also left me far behind. On ten-kilometer runs, the good ones would already be jogging back, cooling down, while I was still chugging along, two kilometers to go to the end. I wasn't breathing any harder than they were across the finish line, but if I tried to carry their pace across the full course, I would have collapsed into a quivering mass of exhaustion. I just hoped my ball-handling skills were better than theirs, so I would have an edge somewhere along the line.

We ran without soccer balls most of the time. By this point in our soccer careers, it was assumed we all knew how to handle a ball sufficiently, so less emphasis was placed on dribbling and passing than I had ever experienced before, and more was placed on conditioning. The running was boring, but necessary. At least I had plenty of company, even if I didn't have the breath to talk to them very often.

After practices were over, Jesse and Bryan showed me the ropes and took me around to the dorm rooms and apartments of their friends. I soon discovered that no amount of exercise would keep a healthy college kid away from a party for long, and I was surprised to learn that my name and my awards were well known among the crowd I was introduced to. Even a relatively little-known sport as soccer had its fans, and I discovered they were a very knowledgeable group. At first it was very flattering, and I attributed it to Jesse's overenthusiastic praise. Later it became obvious, even to me, that even minor celebrity was rewarded.

I also discovered that every sport has its groupies, and having an All-American designation after my name made me a lot more popular than I would otherwise have been, which I found most uncomfortable. I really wanted people to like me or dislike me for who I was, warts and all, rather than for any awards or achievements that had been attributed to me. For some people, asking this was impossible. All they could see was the award. I tried to steer clear of these people, but at times they could be persistent. I accepted the attention with as much grace as I could muster. Sometimes it wasn't much.

It was a good thing I didn't have classes, because I was already overrun with paperwork, anyway. My mailbox was overflowing. Luscious Kayla wrote to me every day, six or seven lovely, handwritten pages each letter. They were full of the everyday around the neighborhood and within the Lehigh family, interspersed with confessions and thoughts so searing they took my breath away. I ached to hold her, to talk to her, and I went to bed every night frustrated beyond imagining.

Toward the end of the week I started getting letters from my mom. They were typical Mom Advice letters, admonishing me to make sure I did my laundry every week, eat right, don't stay out too late, study hard, and wash my hands after going to the bathroom. God forbid I should get hit by a truck and not be wearing clean underwear when they got me to the hospital!

I got a bit of a surprise when I opened my mailbox one day and found a long letter from Stephen and Tara, along with a new picture of Kyle. Every other paragraph was in Stephen's primitive handwriting, alternating with a paragraph in Tara's only slightly more feminine cursive. It was so juvenile and cutesy it was hard to believe they were the parents of a baby boy. Well, I had to remind myself, Tara was a parent. Stephen, even though he was trying to act like a dad to baby Kyle, was probably not the real father. They were enjoying their time together before they had to put Kyle into day care so they could both return to high school for their sophomore years.

I also got a short letter from Jake, getting ready to leave for the University of Iowa. He wrote that he was thinking of walking on and trying out for the football team, but he had his doubts about if he would make it. If nothing else, he wrote, he would sign up for intramural football. As much as he loved football, I knew Jake had other plans. His primary goal was to go to pharmacy school so he could work at his father's drug store, and make a good life for himself and Jaimie.

Another surprise in my mailbox was a note from Eric Johnson. He and Keisha were at Maryland, and he wrote to let me know about some of the drills his coaches were using. He thought some of them could be revised for use by my summer clinics, especially for the advanced groups. It sounded like his workouts were just as tough as mine. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He sent along a hug and a kiss from Keisha, and they promised to get together with Kayla and me over Christmas break.

The biggest surprise, though, was a letter I got on Friday. It was from Molly O'Toole, a fat envelope that smelled faintly of the perfume she favored. For some reason, I was almost afraid to open it.

Molly was heading for the University of Illinois, but her boyfriend, Alex, was going to Stanford. I didn't have much hope for that particular long-distance relationship to survive, and Molly's letter was full of similar doubts and worries. She wasn't concerned for herself, but she was afraid Alex, stuck out in California until Christmas, would drift away from her.

As I read her letter, I worried for her enough for both of us, right up until a particular passage on the fourth page.

Baumgartner can give a first impression that he is such a dweeb, she wrote. I don't worry about losing him to another girl. He's my dweeb, and I love him for it. I just have to hope some brainy California chick doesn't figure out he uses his dweebiness as a defense mechanism. He can be a little too trusting sometimes, my Baumgartner, and I hope it doesn't lead him into temptation.

As for me, he knows he doesn't have to worry. I may have had my wild side once, but Amonte and Del Toro probably did me a favor by beating it out of me. It's a hard cure, but once it takes, there ain't no breaking it!

That's a joke, Porter. You can laugh now!