The Competitive Edge Playing The Game IIIChapter 41 Tournament Time
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The Competitive Edge: Playing The Game IIIChapter 20: Siphoned Away Into Nothingness free porn video
Kayla's voice quavered a little as she answered the phone. She silently handed it to me. I slipped out of her and rolled off the bed to stand by the nightstand. With no small amount of trepidation I put the handset to my ear.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"It's me, Jesse. Get your ass back downstairs quick. I just got a call from Jose Maria. Pick's going to do another bed check."
"Okay, dude. I'm on my way. Thanks."
I threw the handset back in the general direction of the table and scrambled to find my clothes.
"I've got to get back to my room," I said to Kay. She looked frightened, but there was nothing I could do at that moment to appease her.
I pulled my shorts on and struggled into my t-shirt as I ran out the door without saying another word. I took the stairs two and three at a time, down to my floor, and I flung open the fire door without thinking.
Fortunately, the hallway was empty. I breathed a sigh of relief, slipped my key in the door of the room I shared with Luke, and stepped into the Twilight Zone.
Pick and Eddie were sitting on my bed, looking as casual as could be. Luke was standing at attention by the dresser in his underwear. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, and his eyes looked like the eyes of some sort of caged animal.
I don't know why he feels trapped, I thought raggedly. He's not the one who has just fucked up.
"Good evening, Mr. Porter," said Pick Cropper. "I don't suppose you have a good explanation for this, do you?"
My brain froze. "Uh... sir..." It was only fitting I would stammer away any possible alibi that might have convinced my coach of my innocence.
Coach shook his head sadly. I knew in that instant he had, indeed, recognized Kayla. From that moment, I had been dead meat. It just hadn't hit home until now.
Pick stood up suddenly. I reflexively took a step back. Coach took two steps, coming face-to-face with me. He stared me in the eye.
"Team meeting at eight sharp. Conference Room A. I will not tolerate anybody being even thirty seconds late."
"Yes, sir."
"You are not to leave this room from now until then," he said. There was iron in his voice. "I cannot make myself any clearer than that. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, almost whispering.
He stared at me for a time, and I got increasingly nervous. I was not enjoying thinking about what he was examining within me, but I wasn't about to tear my eyes away from his search. He would find what he would find.
Without another word, Pick finally released me from his gaze. He stepped around me, and Eddie sidled after him. The door clicked softly behind them. Only then did I dare take a breath. I shuddered, and Luke nearly collapsed.
"Man, you're fucked," he said.
Didn't I know it.
I couldn't even take the chance of calling Kayla to let her know what had happened. I lay down on top of my bed, without even turning the bedspread down. I put my hands behind my head and bleakly contemplated my future.
Sometime during the long night I finally fell into a troubled and restless slumber. It didn't last long, though, and I was awake again by six. I took a long time in the shower before waking Luke, and together we went downstairs to face Pick's wrath.
The team meeting was a disaster. I was the pariah, and deservedly so, but very few were spared.
Pick started out quietly, and never did raise his voice. It was all the more devastating hearing him speak in such normal tones.
"We seem to have acquired us a problem," he began once everybody had found seats. I was in the last chair in the back row, and nobody was sitting next to me. I couldn't blame them.
"I have always tried to treat each and every member of my team as equal and valued," Pick continued after a pause. "I put a substantial amount of trust in my players, my coaches, and my staff. I have rarely had that trust betrayed. And yet, here we all are. You all picked a hell of a time to toss this season into the shitter, I got to say."
He looked directly at me. "You got anything to say in your defense, Mr. Porter?"
I stood up. Might as well face the firing squad on my feet. "No, sir," I said. "But I do want to apologize to my teammates for putting them in this position. I was wrong, and I admit it."
"It's a start, but I'm afraid it ain't the finish," said Coach. "I believe I've got the gist of it, and I will be willing to listen up to anybody who thinks I might have some part of it in the wrong. Without wallowing in the details, here's what I am basing my decisions concerning this here tournament upon."
Everybody kind of shifted in their chairs, and many of my teammates craned around to look at me.
"Unbeknownst to Mr. Porter beforehand, some friends of his arranged for a reunion between him and his girl from back home. Kayla, isn't it?" He glanced in my direction, but I knew he didn't need my confirmation. "A lovely girl. Now, there was a couple of others here in the room who were witnesses to this reunion, and when they saw the direction that was being laid out, I surely do wish they had counseled their friend toward a different set of circumstances."
He looked around the room, perhaps noting the witnesses. Eddie Whitehead and Stan Harvard, stationed on either side of Pick, watched us, also.
"The upshot of this all is that Mr. Porter, here, has violated curfew repeatedly during this here tournament, broken team rules, and all in all behaved poorly indeed. While his behavior has not degraded his performance on the field, the fact that he has taken it upon himself to be the arbiter of my rules has placed him opposite me. And, when it comes to this team, I think you all know how successful somebody who stands opposite me will be. It's my way or the highway, as they say."
He gathered himself together and stood up straighter. "Sean Porter, Jesse Wilhoit, Bryan Watkins, Stuart Early, Spencer Goldman, Luke Severn, and Brad Rickman. You seven players will suit up for today's game, but you will not play. If we have an injury, we will play short. If we have two injuries, we will play two short. If we end up with a keeper and one player on the field, we will finish the game with just those two in the game. Understood?"
There was a murmur of assent. The depth of our punishment was sufficient we were, in effect, forfeiting any chance of winning the championship. It was startling to me that Pick would so easily throw that away, when he could easily salvage a run at South Carolina by merely benching me. I looked around and saw quite a few slumped shoulders. The realization set in quickly.
"Any further disciplinary measures to be taken will be decided once we get back home. In the meantime, until we are in the bus and on the interstate, we are in lockdown. You all are to stay in your rooms except during scheduled team activities." He glanced at his watch. "Our game is at noon. Breakfast will be brought in here in a moment. After our meal, you are to return to your rooms until Eddie, Stan, or I come and collect you. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir," we all mumbled.
Pick turned his back on us and huddled with his two assistants. We were dismissed, but we had nowhere to go.
Twelve hours later, we were on the bus and on our way back to Gainesville.
The championship game was a disaster. We lost 6-1, and were never a threat to the Gamecocks at all. I spent the entire game on the end of the bench, all alone, with a towel over my head and my elbows propped on my knees. I could barely work up the energy to even watch the movement of the ball. I just didn't give a shit.
At one point, Trent Abbott trotted the sidelines and slowed as he got to me. He shrugged, as if to ask me what was up. I just shook my head once, and he continued on his way, no doubt mystified by our play and our lineup.
After the game, at the presentation of the championship and consolation trophies, the seven of us who did not play stood to one side as the rest of the team mounted the podium to accept the trophy. Pick kept his remarks short, and did not mention a word about our abbreviated team. I glanced into the stands just once, looking for Eric and Keisha, knowing Kayla would be with them, but I didn't see them. It was probably just as well, as my feelings were in turmoil.
After we had been on the road for a couple of hours, I ventured up toward where Jesse and Bryan were sitting, across the aisle from each other. Bryan was listening to music, but Jesse was just staring out the window. He glanced up at me when he finally saw my reflection in the dark window, and he sat up and moved over. He patted the seat next to him. I sat down.
"Look, Jesse, I just want to apologize for getting you mixed up in this," I said.
He looked unhappy, and I knew it was my fault, even though he would be the last person to lay any blame on me, deserved or not. "I stepped into it with my eyes wide open, Sean. Not your fault."
"Yeah, it is," I insisted. I didn't want him letting me off the hook that easily. "I fucked up, and you're paying the cost with me, and I don't like it."
He just shrugged desultorily. "I knew about it, I knew it could blow up, and I didn't say anything to you to try to stop it. Pick's right. I should have taken responsibility, as a team leader. And I didn't."
"It wasn't your decision. It was mine. You've got a right to be pissed at me."
"I'm pissed, but I'm pissed at myself for falling into the trap. I'm not angry with you, Sean."
"Jesse..."
"Look," he said, "if it's okay with you, I'd rather not talk about it anymore. I just want to try to get some sleep. Okay?"
With that, he rolled his shoulders and tucked his head against the window and closed his eyes. Our conversation was at an end. I stood up and looked over at Bryan. I wanted to apologize to each of the guys, one at a time, but Bryan deliberately kept on looking out the window, his headphones giving him a perfect excuse for not noticing me. I knew he knew I was there, but if he didn't want to talk to me now, it was all right. I'd have my chance sooner or later.
Spencer and Luke and the others were further up the bus. I decided I would give it a little more time before I approached them. I wandered back to my own bench seat, all alone in the back of the bus.
Just before midnight, Pick came down the aisle of the bus as we hurtled into the darkness down the interstate. He stopped at my seat and looked down at me. There was nobody else around me.
"I'll see you in my office at two-thirty," he said.
I nodded.
"What was that you said?" he asked, anger making his voice rumble.
Without looking up at him, I replied, "Yes, sir. Two-thirty."
"That's better," he said roughly.
I was left to myself once he walked away, with only my own thoughts and assumptions to keep me company. It was cold comfort.
Promptly at two-thirty the next afternoon, I was cooling my heels in the reception area of the Athletic Office. Pick's secretary, Eunice Adkins, glanced at me every now and then out of the corner of her eye. She wore big rhinestone glasses and a pencil stuck into her sticky-looking beehive hairdo. Every now and then she took her glasses off and let them dangle from the beaded chain attached to the bows. I thought she looked a little sympathetically at me, but that may have been wishful thinking.
Pick let me stew for over forty minutes before calling me into the inner sanctum. By then, I was pretty steamed myself. Hell, I knew I had done wrong. All I wanted was to be doled out my punishment for what I thought was a minor indiscretion, so we could all get on with the bigger picture, which was winning the SEC and going to the Big Show, the NCAA tournament.
I made the mistake of slamming Pick's door a little too hard when I finally was allowed to enter. Unfortunately, it set the tone of the meeting. Eddie was there, too, probably acting as witness to the proceedings. I wished I had brought somebody, too.
I was just crouching down to sit in the chair opposite Pick's desk when he growled, "Did anybody give you permission to set, Porter?"
I scrambled back up and stood to the side. "No, sir." I tried to sound more apologetic that I felt. I didn't think I succeeded.
Instead of having me sit, Pick stood up and leaned on his desk.
"Son, you remember a previous conversation of ours? About me taking on projects now and again?"
"Yes, sir, I do," I answered.
"I never expected you to be one of them projects, boy."
"I'm not one of those projects, Coach."
"You may not have started out as one, Mr. Porter," he said. "You are surely turnin' out to be such a one, though."
"Look, Coach, I realize I broke team rules, but it's not like it was detrimental to my play on the field," I said.
"You think not?" He looked at me sharply. "Tell me, son, did we win that there championship game?"
"Of course not," I said angrily. "Because..."
"Because you broke the damn rules!" Pick was shouting over me.
My mouth clapped shut. I had to grit my teeth to keep from arguing the point.
"You let your gawddamn gonads rule over your thick head, Porter," he said in a slightly lower tone. "It cost us that Georgetown championship, and it may cost us the conference title before we're done with it."
"I don't see how..."
"You just ain't learned to keep your damned mouth shut yet, have you?" Pick growled, cutting me off. "Maybe servin' out a three-game suspension will give you time to see the error of your ways."
Relief at not being kicked off the team warred with feelings of frustration over not being able to defend myself. "Three games? Coach, I..."
"On second thought, make that five games," Pick interrupted. "And one game each for Wilhoit, Goldman, and Watkins."
I kept my mouth shut. It was only getting worse. Pick watched me closely, and nodded with grim satisfaction when he saw I was going to keep quiet.
"Good. You're learning. You ought to be thanking me, son. Near about anybody else would have been packing up their locker and heading back home if they'd pulled something like this. I must be gettin' soft, but I think you got some redeeming qualities. I ain't one to let go easily."
He stared at me hard. I nodded and ventured a "Yes, sir," hoping even that much comment would not draw even more punishment.
It was apparently the correct response, because he nodded again and sat down at his desk.
"You will practice with the team, just like always," he instructed. "You will report to the locker room for each game wearing a coat and tie, and you will occupy a spot on the bench. You will take notes, copious notes, of each game, and give me a detailed summary of your observations by the next morning. Are we clear so far?"
"Yes, sir."
"In addition, you will quit your job with the souvenir shop. You will be Eddie Whitehead's gopher for the balance of the year. Each and every day, you are to either stop by this here office, or call in, to see if there are any duties for you to perform. Do you understand me?"
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