This installment of If Only takes a little bit of a departure. You won't have to strain any part of your anatomy to identify it. Also, we all know the official language of Belize is English, but Spanish is commonly spoken...for those of you who may wish to nitpick at some point.
As always, should you or any of your IM Force...wait, wrong disclaimer. Remember, adults shouldn't have sex with minors. Shouldn't think about having sex with minors. Shouldn't even know that it's physically possible to have sex with minors.
So there.
When my phone rings on a Friday afternoon, the news seems to be very good -- my weekend social life has fallen into place -- or very bad -- a client has gotten himself into some trouble that he needs me to get him out of.
"Yeah?" If you were dialing this number, you knew who you were talking to.
"Pete, this is Tony. I have seriously fucked up, man."
With Tony there were two kinds of things he could fuck up. He could have run afoul of one of the dozen law enforcement agencies which took an interest in his activities. That I could handle.
Alternatively, he could have run afoul of some associates who adjudicated business disputes with automatic weapons. Or worse. In that case I might well spend the next few years as Senor Juan Pablo Garcia in Corozal, Belize, provided I could get to my safe deposit box before someone got to me.
"All right. Where are you?"
"I don't know."
"Tony, how can you not know where you fucking are?"
"Man, I don't know, I'm so screwed up."
If it had been almost anyone else, I would have hung up by now. But Tony was not only a client, and a prompt-paying client at that, but a friend for forty years.
"All right, listen. Can you see any landmarks you recognize? There's got to be a fucking street sign or something."
There was silence from Tony's end. Then laughter.
"Pete. I'm sorry. I couldn't resist."
"Couldn't resist what?"
"I was just gonna fuck with you a little bit, but you got so serious on me I couldn't quit."
"So you didn't fuck up?"
"Oh, I fucked up. But not with anyone who's gonna cuff me and put me in the back seat or cap me and put me in the trunk."
"Enlighten me then."
"You are speaking to the new Head Track and Field Coach of Roosevelt Middle School."
"Tony."
"Yes?"
"What did we say in the army about volunteering?"
"I can't remember the exact words, but something like you had to be a real dumbfuck to do it."
"Close. Liz talk you into it?"
"Well, Tracy really likes to run, and they didn't have a coach, so she had me go to the athletic director..."
"Tony, I mean no disrespect but to my recollection you don't know shit about track, unless it's got either dogs or horses."
"That's why I have assistants."
"How many assistants do you have?"
"Counting you, one."
I took a long, deep breath. And another. Tony was a friend, and I had watched Tracy grow up.
"She really likes to run?"
"She was so happy when I told her we were gonna have a team. She started calling all her friends to recruit them. And then when I told her..."
"No..."
"...that Uncle Pete was gonna be one of the assistants she just went crazy."
"She is not the crazy one in that family, Tony."
"So you want me to tell her no track team?"
I paused.
"No. Tell her I look forward to seeing her and all of her teammates at practice. Whenever and wherever that is."
"Good. Thanks, Pete. I'll email you a schedule."
"Gee, that'll be a first. One I don't have to delete while I read it."
"It's hardly my fault that the FBI is unnaturally curious."
"Send me the email. And say hi to Liz and Tracy."
Actually the idea was not that far-fetched. I had run track for four years with Tony when we were in high school. When I told him he didn't know shit about track it was because he just came out and ran on raw speed. His style was to go as fast as he could for as long as he could. It lent itself to being a decent sprinter, or an abominable distance runner.
Not having Tony's talent, I had to rely on technique and training, which made me a middle distance runner. We overlapped on a couple of relays, one of which actually placed at state our junior year.
And I also knew some of the other kids who might be on the team, having helped out the basketball program a year or so earlier. How they would react when they learned that Coach Tony and Coach Pete ran on cinder tracks in distances measured in yards would be another question. They would probably assume that we did so while being chased by dinosaurs.
Our first practice was 4:00 the following Tuesday. Naturally being the first day of track practice, the temperature was 41 degrees. With gusts up to 20 miles an hour.
That did not seem to deter the 27 boys and girls who showed up wearing an assortment of basketball shoes, ski jackets, and stocking caps. Tony had recruited two more coaches, one parent, and another business associate. I hoped he was Tony's accountant.
Initial practice regardless of the sport is always almost totally devoid of any teaching of the actual sport. We had to get names, medical information, uniform sizes, and some idea of what the breakdown was going to be by grade and gender.
After the paperwork was done, which consumed nearly half the allotted practice time, we gave them a brief warm up, tried to get them stretched out, and then started them on a nice 800 meter run.
"Don't worry about how fast you are going. Just keep up a pace where you don't have to stop."
Naturally about one third of our team was walking within 200 meters, most of the rest within 600 meters. Eight runners finished without stopping.
I looked at Tony. "Our first meet is when?"
"Hey, it could have been worse."
"How so?"
"Could be raining."
"It'd have to warm up first."
Given the results of our efforts at the 800, we didn't worry about a warm down period. We just did a few more stretches, and then sent our young Olympians off to their moms and dads who were waiting for them in an assortment of cars, mini-vans, and SUV's, all with the heaters cranked.
"See you tomorrow, coaches."
Half of Tony's coaching staff was already following the team to the parking lot.
"See you tomorrow, Tony. You, too, Tracy."
"Thank you for coaching us, Uncle Pete. This is gonna be so much fun."
"Yeah, Pete. I appreciate this. Without you the odds would be 9 to 1 against."
"Well it's a fair fight now, sure enough."
Shaking my head, I walked, no jogged back to my car. Next time use the remote starter, I reminded myself.
Wednesday was mercifully warm, low 60's. Most of the athletes overreacted to the temperature change and were out in shorts and t-shirts. We tried to get them to layer up as best we could so as not to lose the entire team to pneumonia.
We took the kids through the normal warmups, stretches, stride work. Tony had decided to run time trials to get an idea of where our abilities, if any, lay.
The team was as cooperative as usual. Which is to say they were not being deliberately disobedient, but given they had were virtually incapable of paying attention for any period of time, getting them organized was a nightmare.
Finally we had our results. A 200 meter time, a 400 meter time, and an 800 meter time. And we still had about 15 minutes of practice left.
"Alright kids. For the next 10 minutes or so, just keep moving around the track, jog or slow walk, then we'll stretch and go home."
As I watched our crew start to shuffle around the track, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Excuse me Coach Pete, but I have a question."
Name, name, name...
"Ah, Phillip, right?"
"Yes."
"Phillip, Coach Tony is probably the one to take your question to. I'm just his helper, really."
"Oh, I did. He said go talk to you."
I found that totally credible.
"Then ask away, Phillip."
"Are we going to get to run hurdles?"
"Phillip, that would be tough without any actual hurdles, and I don't believe I see any."
"I thought I saw a couple under the bleachers."
"Well, I can't figure out what they'd be doing there or where they might have come from, but let's go look."
Phillip was correct. There were two hurdles, both of them with "LHS" painted, and now badly faded, across the top.
"LHS? Livingston High?"
They had dropped track a few years ago, and apparently thought these two hurdles were of so little value they left them to be thrown out. Whoever was supposed to have thrown them out seemed to have figured they were in such sorry shape that they weren't even worth the effort to take to the dump.
So we had our hurdles. I had brought a tape measure with me in case Tony decided to work on long jump, so I quickly measured. One was thirty inches high. Perfect. The other 27 ½.
"Phillip, you see anything around here that looks like a club?"
"What about that board there?"
Phillip had spotted a length of 2 x 4. I picked it up. Just a little over four feet long. Good enough.
"Stand back, Phillip."
With a big underhand swing I tried to strike the underside of the hurdle hard enough to move it, but not so hard as to break it. After taking a couple of shots, I could see that it had moved half an inch.
I spent a couple more minutes beating on the hurdle. I remeasured. 29 ½ inches.
"Phillip, here's the deal. Number one, if I hit that thing again, I may break it. Number two, we are running out of practice time. I think we use them as is."
"Great. Where do you want them set up?"
"North end. Ten meters apart."
Done.
"O.K. Now start about 15 meters (I was guessing) from the first hurdle, and go when you're ready."
Phillip took off over the first hurdle, clearing it comfortably, but then had to chop his steps between hurdles, and stumbled over the second. In short, everything he did was wrong.
"Phillip, a couple of things here. You want the least possible clearance over the hurdle, not the most. Second, we are going to have to focus in on getting your steps down between hurdles. In a real race you'll have ten of them, so we need to get you into a rhythm."
In the few minutes we had left, Phillip got his start down sort of, and we figured that he needed five steps between hurdles counting his landing. That was some help because we could use the same lead leg.
When we got done and headed back to join the group, we found that Tony had already wrapped up practice and sent the rest of the team on their way.
"You looked like you were getting into that. I didn't want to interrupt."
"Kid had an interest. We'll see what he feels like tomorrow."
Tomorrow Phillip felt like working on the hurdles some more. And the day after. I had never run hurdles before, so found myself looking for material to try to help him as best I could.
Inevitably the first meet arrived. It would be the first time Phillip, and the four teammates who had since joined our hurdling corps, had ever gone over more than two hurdles at once. I was more nervous that if I had been running myself.
The results were about what you could have anticipated. Those runners who had greater speed and better technique than ours kicked our butts. Those runners who were slower and less skilled we beat. And those who were neither we raced with.
Phillip finished third in his heat. Other than one of our girls, who was second, it was our best showing.
"Whatcha think, Coach?"
"Acceptable to good for the first time. We know where we need to work when we get back to practice."
Athletes react differently when faced with the kind of result Phillip got. Some will say, `hey, good enough', and go through the season in the middle of the pack. Some will quit putting in effort because they didn't win, and get worse every time out. And some are motivated to get better next time.
Phillip was in the latter category. Not only did he work on his hurdling technique but started to pay attention to what we trying to teach him about getting out of the starting blocks. And when we worked on stride, he actually worked, instead of laughing and skipping down the track like the majority of his teammates.
Three weeks later, Phillip won his first race.
"Good job, Phillip."
"Thanks."
Phillip was going to continue, but hesitated.
"What is it?"
"Coach, you think I can make it to state?"
"Do I think you can, yes. That doesn't mean you will. Only three out of our region qualify."
"Who else is in our region?"
I rattled off the names of the schools I could remember.
"But what you have to keep in mind Phillip, is that there are at least 5 runners in our region who have already beaten you. You have to beat three of them."
He was quiet, almost preternaturally so for a member of our team.
"Will you help me?"
"All I can, Phillip."
His desire was catching. Although there was little we could do in the big picture with two weeks to go until regionals, we were talking about tenths, maybe hundredths of a second. There had to be something.
I cold-called the track coach at my old high school. I got some names from him and cold-called them. I ordered training DVD's next day UPS from three different places. I took a video cam and a laptop to practice so we could film and review. I had no idea if it would be enough.
Regionals arrived. I got up, tried to eat breakfast, and took about two bites. I was more anxious than if I were going to trial.
Maybe that was logical. In a courtroom, I was on familiar footing. If I was properly prepared, as I always hoped I was, I was confident of a favorable outcome. Here, it was all up to chance. Not only the fourteen year old that I had coached, but the seventeen others who would be in Phillip's event. Fifteen of whom he had to beat.
At least Phillip had run a good enough time during the season to get into the fast heat. There were no heats to semis, and then semis to finals. You got one chance against the watch. You wanted the fastest people around you pushing you.
Finally they called the event. In regional competition, the host school provides the starting blocks, in order to not have 200 or so sets lying around the start. As the third heat lined up, I watched Phillip adjust his blocks and settle in to wait for the starter's commands. I held my breath as the gun went up.
Crack.
Phillip had a good start. His hips were above his head in the blocks, and on take off he threw both arms back. With that technique you start fast and stay low, or you go face first into the track.
As one of the slower runners in his heat, he was in one of the outside lanes, with the faster runners in the middle lanes. By the second hurdle one of those runners had clearly separated himself from the rest of the field. Phillip now had to beat nearly everyone else on the track to make it to state.
After the leader, the rest of the field was within a stride of each other. I could only hope that Phillip remembered the last piece of advice I had given him. When it gets close, relax and let your technique take over. If you start trying really hard, you tie yourself up.
Easier said than done for a number of the runners. A step chopped here, a hurdle clipped there, and four runners remained in contention for the last two spots. I couldn't watch anymore.
I sat with my eyes closed, until I was hit by a semi-guided missile. Tracy.
"He DID it! He DID it! He DID it!"
Tony walked up in Tracy's wake.
"Second place. Great job, Pete."
"Phillip was the one with the spikes on. I just sat up here and watched."
"Right," said Tracy "with your eyes closed. You baby."
How Phillip ever came down to earth in time to climb the awards stand and get his medal remains a mystery. But when he climbed down he had a red ribbon around his neck with a silver medal hanging from it.
"Nice race, Phillip."
"Coach, coach..."
He couldn't finish. I hugged him and got some tears on my shoulders. His, I think.
Our encounter was brief, however. Phillip had a large family, and they all seemed to have digital cameras. The conquering hero departed.
State was a different story. There were over 1,100 athletes there. Phillip was in the second slowest heat, and got his ass kicked. He didn't care. He got two t-shirts, a hoody, and more pictures. He had lived his dream.
I had pretty much figured that was the end of track, but not quite. Tuesday after the state meet, I got a phone call from Phillip's dad.
"Coach, we are having a little get-together this Saturday to celebrate the track season. Is there anyway you could join us?"
"There is no way I would miss it. What time and where?"
The what time turned out to be 6:00 p.m., which of course meant 6:20 unless you wanted to make it obvious that you had nowhere else to go. The where turned out to be Phillip's family home, a rather nice 2,800 square foot number on the end of a cul-de-sac. In that neighborhood it was about an $800,000 home. I wondered if his dad needed any legal assistance.
I followed the noise around to the back and let myself in the gate that led to the backyard. The back yard was gorgeous, with a patio surrounding a large outdoor pool (make that $875,000). The patio was full of what appeared to be friends and relatives, but I recognized no one.
As I was standing there doing my impersonation of Bambi in the headlights, Phillip's dad came up and grabbed me.
"It was a little crazy at the meets, and I didn't get a chance to thank you. It meant so much to Phillip, having the year he did. He had never run before, and we didn't know what to think. We are all so happy."
"He's a good kid and a hard worker. He deserved every bit of what he got."
I thought that was the end of the greeting, but then Phillip's dad walked me to the edge of the patio.
"Hey, everybody, shut up. This is Pete, Phillip's coach. He's the one who worked his ass off for my boy."
I do not startle or embarrass easily, but when I got a round of applause from the group I may have blushed.
"Phillip did all the running. All I did was point him the right direction."
"Sure. Bullshit. But have a beer anyway."
I didn't drink, but did find some iced tea and grabbed a seat. As people came up and introduced themselves, I found myself anecdotally reliving the season. I must have told "The Story of the Two Hurdles" half a dozen times. It was apparently retold, because as I was in line for burgers, I overheard someone saying "yeah, a 2 by 4, like with the union negotiations."
Taking my burger, chips and tea to a relatively isolated spot, if not isolated from relatives, I began to eat. For all of thirty seconds.
"Coach, coach, coach. You made it."
"Wouldn't have missed it, Phillip. You are the man of the hour."
"To tell you the truth, coach, our family likes to get together. But, yeah, I was kinda the hero."
We small-talked about school, vacation plans, and the Mets.
"Hey, coach, you wanna go in the pool later?"
"Phillip, I did not exactly come prepared."
"That's o.k. I'm pretty sure I can find some shorts or something."
I thought about it briefly.
"Make sure you can round up a t-shirt, too. I don't have a torso for swimming pools."
"Hey, compared to everyone else out there you'll look great. But I can find something I'm sure."
So we got up to head in the house.
"Hey, Phillip, show Coach Pete the house while you're inside."
I got the tour. While my interest in interior design was minimal, Phillip was an enthusiastic guide, and I enjoyed the presentation.
We finally made it upstairs to Phillip's room.
"I probably got some extra shorts around here."
"Make sure there's a drawstring that works. They're gonna weigh a hundred pounds wet."
"Here we go."
Phillip held the shorts, but didn't offer them immediately.
"Coach."
"Phillip."
"I think you owe me something."
"I'm not aware of anything, Phillip."
"At regionals, I didn't get a whole hug."
"I believe you had other obligations, hero."
"Maybe so, but they're taken care of now."
"You're sure on this?"
"Please, coach."
I figured Phillip was someone who liked to show affection, but was gun-shy in public. I certainly did not want him to feel rejected at his own party.
"Come here, superstar."
Phillip walked over and embraced me. It was not quite a bear hug, but I felt somewhat enveloped. It was hard to describe. The description became more complicated when Phillip laid his head on my shoulder.
"I'm so happy, coach."
"Well, you should be. You have a lot of people here to celebrate with you. It's a great party, great house. Life is good, no?"
"Coach, you're so dumb. I'm happy because I'm with you."
I have been called dumb before, usually as part of a longer, hyphen-filled description. But the remainder of Phillip's statement totally blind-sided me.
"Phillip, I think maybe I follow you, but I..."
"I like you, coach. I like you holding me."
Oh, shit. Notwithstanding the fact I liked holding him, as well.
I wasn't having much luck finding words, so I ran my fingers through his hair and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
"This is nice," I observed.
I ran my hands over his back, absently digging my fingertips into the muscles around his shoulders and along his spine. Phillip's hand found its way farther down, and he was softly squeezing my ass.
"Phillip, you're groping me...if you don't knock that off in an hour, I'll be pissed."
Phillip laughed, then took my hand and placed it on his own ass.
"Who's groping who now?"
I was trying to recall whether it was who' or whom' when Phillip distracted me by squeezing my cock.
"How long do I have to stop this?"
"I think an hour is probably going to be unnecessary. But if you're gonna do that, let's get these shorts off so we can do each other right."
Phillip and I both dropped our shorts, and stood in his bedroom stroking each other, exchanging leisurely, almost romantic kisses. If there had been a sex competition at state, Phillip would have brought home the gold.
"You know, Phillip, we probably don't have that much time. They'll be wondering where we are."
"So what do we do?"
"What we do is you stand there, and I take care of you."
I was a little bit conflicted. Usually a quickie was called for to relieve tension; when a new relationship was blossoming, a longer, slower breaking in was preferable, not to mention a lot of fun.
But in this case I had to split the difference. Fortunately, with a young teen control is not usually a strong point.
I dropped to my knees and got my first good look at the cock I had been handling. Five inches and change, cut, with a little bit of a curve in it.
"O.K., Phillip. I'm gonna put you in my mouth and start sucking your cock. While I'm doing that, you basically fuck my face, got it?"
"The more you explain, the longer I have to wait. I got it."
The patience of youth. I had to do very little work with Phillip. Just keep some pressure on, use some tongue every now and then, and try to avoid biting or, with Phillip's energy, getting my vocal cords bruised.
When Phillip put his hands behind my head I knew it was about time. I took him as hard as I slowly pulled back along his shaft. As I felt him depositing his load in my mouth, his knees slightly buckled. Good work, Pete.
Not wanting anything to have to explain when he went back down to the pool, I carefully cleaned him with my mouth before he pulled his shorts back on.
We did not have time to say anything before there was a knock at the door.
"Phillip, Mom and Dad want you downstairs...NOW PHILLIP!!"
"My lovely sister Kelly. I better go."
As Phillip walked out the door, Kelly stepped in. She had what could only be called a smirk on her face.
"It sure took you guys a long time to pick out swimming trunks."
"I'm a lot bigger than your brother. We weren't having much luck finding anything that fit."
"You sure you two weren't doing anything else?"
"What might we have been doing, Kelly?"
"Well, from the looks of your shorts, you must really like trying on clothes, or you and Phillip were playing around."
I had hoped that the baggy trunks would have done a better job of hiding my still hard cock. My hope apparently was in vain.
"It's o.k., you know, if you were, I won't tell anybody."
"You're too kind, Kelly."
"You're welcome, Pete, but it is going to cost you."
"How much do I tell Hollister to make the gift certificate out for?"
"Not that, silly."
"I give up, what?"
Kelly didn't answer, verbally anyway. She walked back and shut the door, then turned and pulled the top of her one-piece down to her waist.
"You have to play with me."
Ooops. I knew Kelly was younger than Phillip, but not exactly how much. Her boobs, such as they were, were more like baby fat with nipples than real tits.
"Kelly, you're a cute young lady, but I'm really not ready to die yet."
"Well, Pete, think about it. If I tell Dad and his friends you made a move on me, you won't have to worry about explaining your way out of it."
Of THAT I had no doubt. The only question would be how many different dumpsters or auto salvage yards my remains would be scattered among. The over/under was frighteningly high.
"So let me get this straight, Kelly. Either I fuck you..."
"I didn't say `fuck'."
"But you meant it."
"Well, yeah."
"So either I fuck you, and am totally screwed if your family finds out, or I don't fuck you, you tell them I did, and then I'm totally screwed."
"Something like that. Seems like only one logical choice."
"I believe you're right. Why don't you finish taking off your suit?"
Kelly pulled her suit the rest of the way off. I still couldn't get a good read on her age, there were a few pubes to be sure, but complete maturity was still along way off.
"Stand right there," she instructed. "I like to do it a certain way."
Kelly's certain way to impale herself on my while I was still standing. I steadied us again a wall, trying to avoid pounding too hard, but still finding the experience very enjoyable.
"I like to fuck," she explained, unnecessarily.
"Is this part of the regular tour, or am I particularly special?"
"Maybe yes, maybe no. And maybe you'll find out later."
Kelly was getting some stimulation from grinding her clit into me on the downstroke, but I was not going to be able to last long enough to get her off.
I so informed her.
"'S o.k., Pete. We save that for another time."
"Yeah, providing my dick isn't in a jar somewhere."
"That won't happen. I like you. Go ahead and finish."
Her instructions were not necessary, and barely timely. This time it was my turn for my knees to buckle as I fired repeatedly into Kelly's pussy.
"Cool. Now I get to go downstairs and get ice cream with your cum inside me."
She almost nonchalantly stepped back into her swimsuit and out the door.
"Later," she said, smiling.
Or as they say in Corozal, Belize, "hasta luego."
More If Only installment later, when and if Nifty posts. I appreciate all the feedback, positive or otherwise.
STDL