This is a fictional story dealing with love and consensual sexual activities between males. If you are not of legal age, reside in an area where viewing such material is illegal, or are offended by homosexuality and/or homosexual themes, leave this site now.
The author retains all rights to this story. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the permission of the author.
WHEN LOVE COMES - PART 8
I figured that I'd really pissed off Matt with my little speech, but I didn't care. I was tired of the games and play acting.
The next few weeks passed quickly. My weight equipment arrived, and I set it up in the newly enclosed breeze way. I busied myself with preparations for the new semester and gradually forgot about my incident with Matt.
The day before classes started for the fall semester, I was working in my office at school getting ready for the next day. I felt a presence and looked up. Jamal was standing in the open doorway of my office. He almost filled the doorway. He was wearing a pair of pants that had been cut off at the knees, some sandals, and an oversized tee shirt.
"Hi, Jamal."
"Hi, Dr. Griffith. Can I talk to you for a second?" He seemed nervous.
"Sure, come on in and sit down." I indicated the chair next to the desk.
He settled his large frame into the chair and hesitated a little before beginning. "Matt told me what you said that morning at your house."
"Yes?" I wasn't sure where this conversation was headed.
"I just wanted to say,'thanks'."
"Thanks?"
"Yeah. I've been telling him the same thing for a couple of years now. He really respects you, and your telling him to shape up made a big impression." He paused for a moment. "Matt's been my friend since high school. I know all about his daddy and what's gone on. Matt's never told me, but I know.
"He's a great person, but I think he's always been afraid that people won't like him for who he really is. His daddy's to blame for that too. I think he's really trying right now to be himself, not someone that his daddy or the fans or anyone else wants. Just himself."
Jamal stood up and extended his hand. I stood up and took it.
"Thanks again," he said and drew me into a hug that threatened to squeeze the air out off my lungs. Then he was gone.
The next day, classes started, and Matt was in my section of senior seminar. As the semester moved on, it became apparent that Matt was working on being himself...not the jock persona. Yes, he was still one of the stars of the team with his name in the paper almost every day, but there was a different attitude about him in class. It was nice to have the old Matt back. He was friendly. He studied and did his work for the seminar. I was glad to see the change in him, and I was proud that I might have had some small part in that change.
I started going to the home football games again which I hadn't done the previous year. A couple of times I made a comment in the seminar that let the students (and Matt) know that I'd been at the game the previous Saturday. Matt seemed especially pleased with those comments.
The first Saturday in October was a home game. The homecoming game was scheduled for two weekends after that. I arrived in the stadium and found my seat. I'd been lucky to get one near mid field. The day was clear and cool. A great day for a football game.
Just before the game started, I noticed a kid who looked a lot like Matt sitting two rows down and slightly to my left. This had to be Matt's younger brother I thought. He had the same hair color and general facial features as Matt. He appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen, which would be the right age. The seat next to him was vacant when I first spotted the kid, but it was soon taken by an over weight middle aged man who I assumed was Matt's father. The kid reacted to the man with a lot of deference but no affection. I decided to watch them as well as the game.
When the game started, the man became one of the most vocal and obscene fans I've ever heard. He yelled at the players. He yelled at the coach. He yelled at the officials. No one seemed to be able to please him. Even when there was a good play, he would lean over to the boy and explain what went wrong and why. As the game progressed the boy tried to move farther and farther away, but he couldn't because of the crowd. He was clearly embarrassed by his father, and I felt sorry for the kid. I also felt sorry for Matt, if this was what he had grown up with. At one point early in the second half, the boy looked around and our eyes met. I saw sadness and embarrassment clearly reflected on his face. I tried to give him a sympathetic look. He gave me a weak smile in return and then turned back to the game.
The boy (Mark was the name I think Matt used for his brother) caught my eye a few more times during the game. Each time I tried to show by my expression how sympathetic I was to his embarrassment, and each time he smiled a little. There was definitely a resemblance between this kid's smile and Matt's.
Our team won handily, and Matt had made some good tackles. As I was leaving the stands in the crowd, I heard a voice behind me say, "Hurry up! I want to find that dumbshit brother of yours. He can't keep making mistakes like those or the pros won't have anything to do with the bastard."
I turned my head and there was the father from the stands followed by the boy.
"Dad, Matt's going to be with the team. The coaches'll tell 'em what's wrong."
"Shut up, dumb ass. Those friggin' coaches don't know their asses from holes in the ground. Come on!"
With that he pushed his way through the crowd. Mark caught my eye again. The look of embarrassment was there and also something else. I realized with a start that the other look on the kid's face was fear.
If this was what Matt had grown up with, it explained a lot of things. The nightmare that night in my apartment almost three years ago. The striving for athletic success. The desire for approval. One part of me wanted to get away from that man as quickly as I could, but instead I found myself following Matt's father and brother as they made their way through the crowd toward the field house.
I watched from a short distance as Mr. Stevenson tried to get into the field house only to be turned away by one of the assistant coaches. The coach and Mr. Stevenson began to argue and a campus security officer came over. After some more argument, Matt's father abruptly turned and stalked off toward the parking lot. I saw Mark say something to the coach and the security officer. The coach reached out and patted Mark's shoulder before Mark turned and followed after his father.
That week in class, I said something to Matt about having a good game on Saturday.
He gave me that crooked grin, and said, "Thanks, Doc. I'm glad you came to the game. Say, if you'd like, I can get you a pass so you could be down on the field at the Homecoming game. The passes are supposed to be for our parents, but neither the coaches or I want my dad down on the field."
I felt a lump in my throat remembering the scene between Matt's father and the assistant coach. "Thanks, Matt. That would be neat."
On Thursday before the Homecoming game, two field passes appeared in my campus mailbox. I called Kevin, and asked him if he wanted to use the other pass. Kevin was a real sports fan, so I already knew the answer. He jumped at the chance.
On Friday morning before the game I was sitting in my office going over my notes for the class that was coming up. Jamal appeared in the doorway again.
When our eyes met, he said, "Thanks. It will mean a lot to Matt to have you at the game tomorrow." Then he turned and was gone.
The day of the game was another great, clear fall day. Kevin and I made our way to the team entrance of the stadium and presented our passes. The guard let us in and we followed the crowd to a set of low bleachers just behind the team area on the fifty yard line.
Kevin was beside himself. You'd have thought he'd won the lottery or gotten tenure. It was clear that the seats we were in were intended for the parents and families of the players. There were mothers and fathers, a few younger or older brothers and sisters, and a smattering of grandparents here and there. Kevin and I were the only faculty members down on the field.
While the teams were out on the field doing their warm ups before the game, the assistant coach who had turned Matt's father away from the field house at the last home game came over to the family seats. He greeted many of the parents by name as he worked his way down the rows of seats.
When he got up to Kevin and me he looked at us, and asked, "Is one of you Dr. Griffith?"
"I'm Dr. Griffith," I replied. "And this is Dr. Williams," as I indicated Kevin.
The coach reached over and shook my hand and Kevin's. He wasn't much older than Kevin or me. He had a crew cut, square jaw, thick neck, and a wide smile. "I'm very glad to meet you," he said. "I'm Roy Darnell, the defensive backfield coach. Matt was very pleased that you'd come to the 'family section'. He's never used his tickets before."
"You mean players can give out tickets every game?"
"Oh, yeah. Head Coach Schroeder wants the players' families here as much as possible. He believes it helps morale and builds the team."
"Matt's never used his tickets before?"
"No, and if you ever meet his father, you'll know why. The other coaches and I have had a few run ins with him. The man thinks he knows more about football than God."
I told Coach Darnell about seeing him with Matt's father and brother at the last home game.
Darnell shook his head. "It's a real shame. Mark Stevenson is a great high school player. Maybe even better than Matt was as a highschool senior, but I know Coach Schroeder isn't going to make him a recruiting offer because none of us want to deal with Papa Stevenson for another four years. It's too bad, the kid seems to be a real good kid, just like Matt, but that father is bad business."
Coach Darnell moved on to greet some other people. Kevin and I just looked at each other and shook our heads sadly.
It was another good game. Our team had control of the ball most of the time and were winning by a respectable margin by the start of the fourth quarter. Jamal had made three really spectacular pass catches for significant yardage. Judging from the way that she jumped up and down when Jamal made the catches, I thought I'd spotted his mother in the family seats. She looked like the stereotype of a black matriarch. Tall, a little on the heavy side, big bosomed, with a big smile.
There were about ten minutes left on the clock. The other team had the ball and were pressing to the goal line. Their quarterback dropped back for a pass and let one fly to the corner marker at the end zone on the near side of the field. Matt was back to cover the long receiver. They both went up for the ball, missed it, and landed in a heap of arms and legs at the corner marker. The other player got up. Matt didn't. He lay curled on the ground clutching his left knee to his chest.
The trainers ran over. Coach Schroeder and Coach Darnell went over. Everybody waited. The trainers worked on his knee for a minute or so and then signaled other trainers on the bench. The second group jumped in the golf cart containing the stretcher and headed out to the goal line. In the meantime the trainers who had been working on Matt began to stabilize his leg to get ready for transport off the field.
The Head Coach came back toward the rest of the team, and Coach Darnell stayed with Matt as they loaded him onto a stretcher and then on to the back of the golf cart.
As the golf cart started off the field, Coach Darnell turned and moved back toward mid field, but instead of going up to the rest of the team, he grabbed another trainer and came over to where Kevin and I were seated.
"Dr. Griffith, Matt asked for you. Can you go with him? I think we'll be taking him to the hospital."
I looked over at Kevin who nodded. "Call if you need a ride back home.
Go!"
I followed the trainer over to the field house. He led me into the treatment area. Matt was on the examining table. They had removed his jersey and shoulder pads leaving him in his sweat stained tee shirt. They were in the process of cutting off his game pants and hip pads. I could tell by the look on his face that he was in a lot of pain.
I approached the table, and when I came into Matt's field of vision he said, "I think I screwed up bad, Doc. This really hurts."
I put my hand on his shoulder. "This isn't a screw up, Matt. You did everything right."
"Yeah, except for the landing." He smiled a little in spite of the obvious pain. "Thanks for coming down, Doc. They're going to take me to the hospital for some x-rays."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just stay with me if you can."
"I'm here."
"Thanks." He reached up and patted my hand on his shoulder.
I rode in the ambulance with Matt. He said he knew it was a bad injury. He was worried about how long he'd be out before he could get back to play. At the hospital, they put Matt in one of the rooms off the emergency suite. I sat in an uncomfortable metal chair next to the bed, and we talked about school, the game, the weather, and some of the latest campus news.
After what seemed like hours but really was only a few minutes, they took Matt in for x-rays. When he was wheeled back in the room, he asked for a drink of water, and I filled a glass for him from the sink. More to have something to do than for any other reason, I took a wash cloth from the rack by the sink, wet it with warm water, and used it to wipe some of the game dirt off Matt's face and neck.
I'd just finished when Coach Darnell came in the room. He asked what had happened so far. We told him about the progress to this point, which in my opinion hadn't been much. He left to go find someone to hurry things along.
In a few minutes, Roy Darnell came back in the room and announced that the doctors had looked at the x-rays and would be there in a few minutes. At that point Jamal made his way into the room followed by the woman I'd thought might be his mother. Jamal had cleaned up after the game and was wearing jeans and a sweat shirt.
Matt greeted them. "Hey, Jamal. Hey, Momma P. How're you doing?"
Mrs. Phillips came over to the bed and patted Matt on the arm. "How you doing, Sugar. They gonna let you walk out of here or what?"
"I don't think I could walk right now. Maybe tomorrow." Matt grinned.
Jamal's mother extended her hand to me. "I'm Emma Phillips, Jamal's momma. You're Dr. Griffith. I'm pleased to meet you. Matt's told me a lot about you. You're his favorite professor."
I felt myself blushing as I shook her hand. "Thanks, Matt's a good student, and I've enjoyed getting to know Jamal."
Before we could go on with the small talk, a distinguished looking man in a doctor's white coat walked into the room. Coach Darnell introduced him to all of us to Dr. O'Brien.
The doctor went over to Matt's bed and looked at him over the rims of his half glasses. He told Matt that the ligaments on both sides of the knee were torn. They would have to go in and try to reattach them. Obviously, this meant that the season was over for Matt, and as the doctor continued talking about rehabilitation after the surgery, it became clear to me that this injury might mean more than the end of the season for Matt. It could well be the end of his football career.
I saw the same realization on the faces of everyone in the room, including Matt. Jamal had tears in his eyes. Coach Darnell and Mrs. Phillips had their mouths firmly set in straight lines. Both had their arms folded across their chests.
Just then we heard some yelling outside the room. I recognized the voice, and so did Matt. Matt's father burst into the room.
"You stupid shit head! Why'd you do that? An injury this close to the pro draft could spoil all my plans! What were you thinkin'?"
"Dad, get out! I don't want you here."
"Get out? You little bastard. Who you think you're talkin' to?"
Coach Darnell pointed his finger at the angry man. "Matt asked you to leave, and now I'm telling you to leave!"
Matt's dad loomed closer to the coach. "That's my son. I've got a right to stay."
I stepped into the fray. "No. Matt's a legal adult. You don't have a right to stay, if he doesn't want you here."
The man turned toward me, looked around the room at the five of us standing around Matt's bed. He sneered at Matt. "Are you telling me that you'd rather have this bunch of faggots and those two niggers with you instead of me?"
In an instant Jamal had the man by the front of his shirt and had lifted him off the floor. "You don't ever call me that again, or I'll kill you!"
I stepped in between them. Jamal let go and moved away, but Matt's dad pulled back like he was going to swing. Jamal decked him with a lightening quick right to the jaw.
"You hit me!" he exclaimed from the floor as he struggled to get up. "You all saw it! He hit me! I'll have you thrown in jail for that, boy!"
I stepped in front of Matt's dad. His face was red and his mouth curled in anger. "If any one's going to be arrested," I said, "it's you. I'm a witness, and what I saw was you take a swing at Jamal, but you fell on your face instead. Jamal never even touched you."
He looked at me in disbelief.
"That's exactly what I saw," said Darnell.
"And that's what I saw," said Dr. O'Brien. "Now, Mr. Stevenson, you are leaving." With that he punched a button on the phone on the wall and said, "This is Dr. O'Brien. I need security in here stat!"
Stevenson had no sooner pulled himself up off the floor than a security guard was in the room.
Dr. O'Brien spoke to the guard, "Escort Mr. Stevenson out of the hospital. If he returns, I want him arrested for trespass."
When Stevenson and the guard left, no one spoke for a long time. Then Matt said softly, "I'm sorry."
That broke the spell. Everyone started to talk and move around at once. Mrs. Phillips went over to Matt's bed and said, "Don't worry, Hon. We all love you. Don't you pay him any mind. I sure don't."
We all laughed at her remark, even Matt.
Dr. O'Brien spoke to Matt. "We'll do the surgery at eight tomorrow morning. I want you here by six thirty for prep. I'll have the nurse bring in some pain medication to take tonight. She'll also bring in some crutches and a knee brace. Don't put any weight on the leg. Don't get in the shower. You can take a bath, but have someone help you get in and out of the tub. Understand?"
Matt said that he understood, and the doctor left.
Coach Darnell asked Jamal if he could get Matt back to their apartment and in for surgery in the morning.
"Momma drove over here, so we can get him home, but I still can't drive."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot about your D.W.I.," Darnell laughed.
I spoke up, "I'll bring him over in the morning."
Darnell thanked me and shook my hand again. He patted Matt on the shoulder, said good bye to Momma Phillips, and lightly punched Jamal in the arm as he left the room.
After what seemed like another long wait, a nurse came in with crutches and a small vial of pills. She demonstrated how to use the crutches and repeated the doctor's warnings about putting weight on the knee.
"Take one pill every four hours for pain, if you need it," she said. "These pills should take care of the pain, but I wouldn't plan on being awake for very long after you take one. They're pretty strong."
Now that we were about to get out of the hospital, we all realized that the only clothes Matt had on were his sweaty tee shirt and an equally sweaty jock strap. Jamal, Matt and I looked at each other and Momma Phillips just burst out laughing.
"Well, I'm going to bring the car around. You boys figure something out to cover him up."
She was still laughing when she left the room.
I had an undershirt on beneath my shirt, so I took my shirt off and handed it to Matt. He wrapped the shirt around his waist and tied it up using the sleeves. With a grimace he moved off the bed and started to get the crutches.
Jamal and I got on either side of him. He put his arms over our shoulders, and we more or less carried him out to the waiting car.
(To be continued)