Chapter 9: A Self-Inflicted Promotion

They're killing me.

That was the only thought I had left by Friday. It was a conspiracy among my professors to fry my brain, work my poor fingertips to the bone, and make sure I had absolutely no energy left for anything even resembling fun.

I had so many papers to write that week I thought I was going to burn out my typewriter. I probably went through most of a bottle of correction fluid, repairing my many typing errors. Of course, each correction added to the time it took me to get everything typed out correctly, adding to my frustration.

Westy wasn't helping. He didn't bring a typewriter, and he kept wanting to use mine.

"You can use it when I'm in class or at practice," I said. "Don't bother asking me for it when I'm here, because I'm going to need it."

"Shit, man, I've got classes too, you know," he pouted.

I gave him a sour look. "Maybe you should stop prowling the Quad and concentrate on getting some of your work done early," I suggested.

"Hey, just because you ain't gettin' any doesn't mean I should go without," he retorted.

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," I grumbled.

"Hey, if you want, I can fix you up..."

"With somebody like Maureen?" I replied, disgusted. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Maureen the Blowjob Queen? Nah. Did her once, that was enough. She's got a talented mouth, though, I will say that for her."

"I thought you just screwed her the one time here," I said.

"Well," he said, looking at me a little sheepishly, "I just screwed her once. But I did run into her again last week."

"Really? Where?"

"Why, Porter? You interested?"

"Christ, no!" I shuddered at the thought.

"I know she'd be over here in about two seconds flat if you were. She's really jonesing on you, dude."

"Yuck," I replied.

"I think she's hanging around our dorm every now and then, because I saw her last week. She was just wandering around, like she was lost or something, so I took her back to the Union and bought her a Coke."

"Jesus, Westy, you actually went on a date with her."

He turned a little pale when he heard that. "Don't even say that, Porter, Christ! You're gonna make me lose my lunch!"

"Hey, you're the one who bought her the Coke," I reminded him.

"Well, yeah, but she repaid me. Big time. I took her into one of the men's johns, and she gave me a blowjob in a stall."

"No shit?" Now it was me who felt like losing his lunch. "That's as disgusting a thing as I think I've ever heard."

Westy laughed. "Stick around, my naive friend. I can get way more disgusting than that."

I grimaced. "Ugh. Maybe I don't want to know about it," I said.

"Hey, Maureen's pretty good with that mouth. You just need to make sure she keeps her clothes on, and maybe you want to carry around a paper bag to slap over her head. One with a cutout for her lips. That way you can imagine it's that Melanie bitch from the Phi Kappa house who's blowing you, instead of having to look at Maureen while she's doin' it."

"Hey!" Now he was pissing me off, and I felt like reaching for his throat. "Leave off with that shit about Melanie, okay?"

He took a step backward and held up his hands. "Easy there, Sean, I was just joking," he said by way of apology.

"Not funny, shithead," I said.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said. "No harm meant." He made sure he was out of my reach when he continued, "I think she's way out of your league anyway, pal. But don't give up on your dreams."

He was still chuckling as I slammed the door on my way out.

We had a home game on Sunday, so at least I didn't have to face any long bus rides on the coming weekend. Reggie and I were going to a sorority get-together on Friday night after I was done with soccer practice. On Saturday, we had soccer practice in the morning, and then I was scheduled to work in one of the gift shops during halftime of the football game. After the game I was supposed to meet Dan in the weight room. I hoped to have enough energy to get some homework done after that, and maybe even get another letter off to Luscious. I was falling behind in my letter productivity again, having only written to her once that week.

At practice on Friday afternoon, Coach once again broke us down into our Alpha and Omega scrimmage teams.

"I got a change here," he announced, just before we were going to take up our positions for the scrimmage. "Dan Ortega and Sean Porter, switch teams."

That didn't matter much; Dan had been on the Alpha Team, and I was on the Omega Team. We switched our practice jerseys, but Coach wasn't finished yet.

"Stuart Early and Sean Porter, I want you two to switch positions," he said.

Stuart, the right midfielder for Alpha Team, looked at me in surprise, as if I was supposed to know what Coach was thinking. I shrugged to let him know I was as confused as he was, and we headed out onto the practice field.

I had Bryan opposing me for a change, in the middle, and I was startled to realize I had Martin Flauget defending against me, on my side. I knew I wasn't much of an offensive threat, but I was looking forward to locking horns with the Frenchman.

There's a story about a basketball player by the name of Jerry Sloan, who was an expansion pick by the Chicago Bulls when they were created in 1966. Sloan was a workingman's player, a defensive specialist who had little tolerance for showboating on the court. In fact, he was known to occasionally punch an opponent in the stomach if they had the audacity to attempt to dribble between their legs against him. Sloan would gladly take the penalty in exchange for inflicting his own brand of court justice on what he considered to be poor sportsmanship and a lack of respect in opposing players. My dad and my older brother were both big fans of Jerry Sloan's. As I trotted out onto the field, I thought I just might try a little bit of Jerry Sloan's defensive tactics on my Frenchy friend, if he started running his tricks on us.

And, to almost no one's surprise, Flauget did. The first time he showed off I let it pass. He gave me just a quick glance as he made his way back into his defensive territory after passing the ball off before I could move on him, just to let me know he had no respect for my game. The second time he did it I also gave him a bye. I wanted him comfortable, confident, and unwary. He was haughty, insolent, and completely unaware of the Sloaning he was about to receive.

The third time he started with his showboating was the one. On a high, looping serve downfield into open space by Alpha, Flauget picked up the ball. Instead of moving it upfield, he lofted it, balanced the ball on his foot, and flipped it up to his shoulder. He let the ball ride on his shoulder for a few strides as he started upfield, and then he hunched and jumped, pushing the ball into the air.

My forward, Luke Severin, was a sophomore reserve, and he was flummoxed by Martin's antics. He practically stepped out of the way while Flauget diddled with the ball. I engaged, running up to intercept, and Martin saw me coming. With an insolent smirk, he headed the ball up and over my head. What he didn't understand, until it was too late, was that I didn't give a damn about the ball. I lowered my shoulder and drove it, at nearly full speed, into Martin's unprotected midsection. I heard the air whoof out of his lungs, and he dropped like a sack of stones. I leapt over him, skidded to a stop, and turned back to retrieve the ball.

As I trotted over to where the ball was bouncing to a stop, I became aware of the resounding silence around me. Play had stopped, and all my teammates were standing, watching in amazement. Even the coaches stood as if mesmerized.

I mentally shrugged and dribbled the ball back over to Martin, who was just struggling to his knees. I held out my hand to help him up, and he batted it away and came at me, murderous fury in his eyes. His knees were still a little unhinged, however, and I stepped away from his lunge. He went past me and slid on the turf, nearly tumbling back down, and was about to charge me again when both his arms were grabbed. Spencer was holding his right arm, and Bryan his left.

"Hold up there, cowboy," said Bryan to Flauget.

Martin struggled against the two holding him. "Did you see what he did?" he growled.

By then, most of the team had gathered around, and the coaches were all coming over.

"Sure, I saw," said Bryan. "He took you off the ball and took you out of the play."

"Le bâtard a essayé de me tuer!" spat Flauget.

"What? In English," said Bryan.

"The mother-fucker tried to kill me," he shouted.

"Oh, that might be a bit of an exaggeration," said Pick as he pushed his way through the crowd.

"Did you not see what he did?" asked Flauget, his eyes practically bugging out.

"I shore 'nuff did, and if'n I was a referee, I would've slapped a card on him right quick," said Pick, giving me the eye. "Why'd you do it, son?" he asked me.

It was my turn to give him the eye. He knew full well why I did it, and he probably planned on me doing it in the first place. Otherwise, why move me up to play in the midfield?

"I just thought it was time to Jerry Sloan him, coach," I said.

Spencer guffawed, and Jesse burst out laughing. They knew what I was referring to, it seemed.

"What the hell is that?" asked Eddie Whitehead, one of Pick's assistants.

Pick, barely able to hold back his own laughter, turned to Eddie. "You don't follow basketball, do you, Eddie?" he said. He clapped his assistant on the back. "It's all right, you're a soccer nut. That's why I like you." Pick turned to me. "You'd better explain to these unenlightened, Sean," he said expansively, indicating most of the team. Nearly everybody was looking at me strangely, except for Jesse, Spencer, Bryan, and a few others who understood the reference.

"I just decided that Frenchy here had shown me enough," I explained. "So I thought I'd show him a little bit of a defensive maneuver of my own, something I kind of improvised from watching Jerry Sloan play basketball."

Spencer and Bryan had let go of Martin, but he wasn't in a threatening mood anymore. I thought that, with the adrenaline wearing off, he might have been stiffening up. He was certainly moving carefully.

"Porter, I'm not saying he might not have deserved it, but in a game situation you'd have drawn a card, for sure," said Rick Rogers, our defensive captain.

"True," I admitted. "And it might not have just been a yellow. But if an opponent is desperate enough, sometimes they might think it's a chance worth taking. If our opponent is in a position where they have to resort to extreme measures to get back into a game, they just might target somebody like Frenchy." I turned to Flauget. "Tell me true, Frenchy. How likely are you to work your tricks on me again?"

He lowered his head, staring at me under his brows. If there hadn't been witnesses, I might have been in trouble, but he finally shook his head.

"I don't think I could, after a shot like that," he reluctantly admitted.

Nearly everybody laughed at that.

"Okay, that's it for today," called out Pick, dismissing us. He looked back at Martin and me. "You two, Flauget and Porter, come with me. Rogers, you might as well join us." Pick strode off the field, heading toward the fieldhouse. Martin and I followed along, keeping a wary distance between each other, and Rick stepped in between us, filling the gap. Rick looked questioningly at me, but I didn't have an answer for his unspoken question. Martin just trudged along, still a little bent over, but he had finally managed to catch his breath. When your heart rate is elevated and somebody comes along and hits you hard enough to knock the breath out of you, it takes awhile to recover.

We got to Pick's office, and he ushered us in before closing the door. He sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes as the three of us stood around uncomfortably.

Pick looked up at me. "Mr. Porter, you are about the last person I expected that sort of behavior from." His southern accent was substantially diminished. I took that to be a bad sign. "An attack on one of your teammates, even in the guise of a scrimmage, will not be tolerated. In fact, I've half a mind to throw the fuckin' book at you for this. Another incident like this and you will be out of this program so fast, your shoes will be smoking. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Porter?"

I tried to swallow into a suddenly very dry throat. Finally I was able to croak out, "Yes, sir."

Flauget was just beginning to smile and relax a little, obviously pleased that I was the one being dressed down. His smile was erased from his face when Pick turned to him.

"And you, Mr. Flauget."

"Me? I was the one who was attacked..."

"I don't believe I was finished speaking, Flauget!" shouted Pick, standing suddenly as he drowned out Martin's protests. Once he was satisfied he had Martin's full attention, Pick sat back down again. "I have tried to help you for two years here, Mr. Flauget," he continued in a calm voice. "I thought we was makin' some progress here. This year, however, there seems to be some backslidin' goin' on."

I noted distractedly that Pick's accent was creeping back into his speech. What did it mean? I had no idea.

"Frankly, Mr. Flauget, I'm gettin' almighty tired of all your showboatin', and I just won't put up with it for one second more. Do you understand what I'm tellin' you, boy?"

"Oui, yes I do, but..." Martin didn't have a prayer of finishing that sentence, as Pick stood again and leaned over his desk. Without saying a thing, he managed to shut Martin off in mid-sentence. Martin looked like he had swallowed a fish, but he nodded and stammered, "Yes, sir, Coach Cropper. I understand."

Pick sat again, and looked back and forth between the two of us. "You are both damned fine players, and I would hate to lose either one of you. But I will not tolerate dissention of this sort on this team. Now, I ain't expecting you two to be bosom buddies or nothin', but while you are playing for me, you will get along. Let me emphasize that for you. You will get along."

He waited to see our reactions. I shuffled around, trying to figure this whole scene out, because something didn't feel right. I decided to take the conciliatory path Pick had opened for me, and I turned to Flauget.

"I'm sorry, Martin," I said. I held out my hand. He just looked at it for a moment, and then, rather reluctantly, he shook it. "I guess I kind of lost my temper out there, and I apologize," I said.