When the World Changed

Here is the latest chapter of the story. As always, it's fictitious, so don't try finding your uncle or somebody in it. It's also mine, so don't try stealing it. If reading stuff that involves sexual situations among minors is illegal here you live, or not your thing, then by all means don't read it.

My thanks as always to Nifty for hosting this site - it's worth supporting, and I hope you'll do so - and to Flip, for his editing and encouragement. My thanks also to the readers who've been kind enough to write me - good and bad - about the story. I appreciate the feedback, and look forward to it.

I'll make my customary pitch for my other Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which is in this section as well, though the last chapter posted several years ago now.

I hope you enjoy this.

When the World Changed Part 28

Brady had never ridden in such a fancy bus. The deep, high backed seats were plush, and reclined indolently. The entire football squad – varsity, JV and freshman – were riding up Route 31 toward Dunston in style.

But Brady couldn't get comfortable, or relax. He constantly adjusted his seat, his tie, the way he sat on the tail of his blazer. The enormity of the journey was nerve wracking: The Wilson Cavaliers were on their way to their annual season ending rivalry game, the oldest secondary school football contest in the state, against Dunston Academy. The boys' initial excitement at boarding the bus had quickly faded to a subdued tension. Conversations, when they occurred, were in whispers. Many stared out the large windows at the increasingly hilly and rural countryside passing before them.

Doug was fast asleep in the window seat next to Brady. This infuriated. Brady: How could he be relaxed at a time like this? Sleeping? He unfolded the mimeographed pages showing their several offensive and defensive alignments again, the smell of the purple ink sickly sweet, and studied them as if for the first time. It wasn't, of course – he'd memorized it all days ago, when Coach Glendon had handed them out. He'd even had Coach Drake explain some of them, since they were similar to plays and formations the varsity would use.

They were moving now into what passes in New Jersey for mountainous country, and small patches of snow began to appear in the woods. Brady tried to remember if he'd packed a long sleeved undershirt from the cage at the gym. It was going to be cold. He wanted to ask Doug – he'd remember – but Doug dozed away, heedless, occasionally making a slight snoring or grunting noise. Brady normally would have considered these cute or endearing, but in the present context they were maddening. He folded the papers back up with a sigh and stuffed them back into his shirt pocket.

Mr. Glendon walked back down the bus. "You ready for today, Conover?"

Brady forced a smile. "Can't wait, Sir."

"I want to run some quick ins to you once we get the running game established," he said, looking across the aisle to where Evan Campbell was sitting. Evan leaned forward to hear, looking as nervous as Brady. "We want to control the ball and ram it down their throats. Jack'll do that for us. Then when the linebackers cheat up against the run, the in patterns will burn them."

"Like we practiced, yes Sir," Evan answered. His lips twitched a bit as he spoke.

Mr. Glendon smiled. "Relax, guys. I've seen the films, you're much better. The varsity'll have its hands full, but you guys should do well as long as you play hard to the whistle and keep the fire going. Ferocious gentlemen, right?" They both nodded. "Well, today we're ferocious. Then after the game, when we do the dinner in their dining hall, we're the gentlemen." He straightened up to walk back to the front of the bus. "And remember - the `gentlemen' part is a lot easier if you've won."

Dunston was a hilly campus, with architecture like a medieval fortress as opposed to Wilson's Georgian style. The bus parked on a steep incline next to the football field, whose grass was burned brown by frost. As the bus stopped before it, Coach Drake stood in the front of the aisle to address them. "All right. I know everyone here is psyched and ready to fly around like a madman here today," eliciting some whoops from the boys, "but I want you all to remember what we are, as Cavaliers: We are ferocious gentlemen. That's what I want my teams to be, above all else. We will be fierce on the field, we will give no quarter, but we will always be gentlemen and sportsmen.. Towards the refs, towards our opponents, towards everyone at this School when we meet them at dinner afterwards. Are we all understood?" The boys murmured their assent. "OK then, go suit up."

The gym was massive, with a huge barnlike central space that held a banked wooden track. The sky was brilliantly blue above, but with clouds the color of a bruise swirling away to the northwest. Brady took a deep breath and smelled the air, feeling the faint wind's direction. The sunny sky wasn't going to last.

Doug was stumbling along next to Brady, still waking up. His breath fogged in front of him in huge clouds as he exhaled the cold air to wake himself. "Why couldn't we have come last night and slept here? I thought that was what we did."

"Fieldstone told me they decided they couldn't afford it this year. I think the bus was our consolation prize. Apparently the soccer and cross country guys are coming up on the Guppy."

Brady couldn't help smiling at him now. He was cute when he was groggy like this. But the conversation made him think about the notion that Wilson couldn't afford something, and he recalled David and others telling him how financially strapped the school was. He looked around the Dunston campus again. It was much larger than Wilson's and was better kept – the dorm windows clean and bright, the metal doors and fittings polished to a gleam, the lawns lush (even half frozen as they were), the building large and regal. "How many guys go here?" he asked Evan, who was walking to his other side.

Evan was frowning, apparently looking round just as Brady had been. "About 700," he said flatly.

Doug blinked. "So we're going against a school twice our size?"

"Well, not quite." Evan answered with a shrug. "I mean hell, the high schools and stuff we've played have all been bigger too. We're always the little guy, the underdog and all that."

Brady and Doug exchanged worried glances.

The freshmen got their own locker room, with sparkling new (and undented ) lockers that ran all the way to the floor, not stacked atop each other like at Wilson. Jack Spencer wandered out from the shower and bathroom area. "It looks like a hospital in there."

"Are we gonna need one, d'ya think?" Terry Wolfson asked shakily.

As they dressed, members of the varsity came in from their separate locker room to offer encouragement. Brendan McCracken sat on the bench near Brady. "You OK, Conover?"

Brady's stomach was fluttering. "Sure," he answered in the firmest voice he could muster. "It – it all seems so, y'know . . . big."

"Brendan smiled. "Yeah, when I got up here my sophomore year – that was my first year at Wilson – I was pretty freaked out by all of it." He clapped Brady's shoulder. "It's not a big deal, Conover. It's just a game."

Brady swallowed. "Well, it's Dunston."

Brendan laughed. "So we kick their asses and have a fun ride home." He leaned in closer. "You're the next tight end, next year, you know that right? Show `em what you got."

Somehow that news, which should have emboldened him, only made him more scared.

"Thanks, Brendan. We'll get `em."

When they were dressed and taped up, Coach Glendon gathered the team in a small classroom area at one end of the locker room, in front of a large chalkboard. "Ok, we ready?"

The response was a bit timid. "Cavaliers! I asked you a question!!! Are you ready?" They roared in answer this time, with Jack Spencer banging on the end of the nearest row of lockers with his forearm. The lockers were undented no more.

Coach Glendon went through assignments and coverages one more time, his calm demeanor easing some of the tension. Soon he was teasing them. "Now when Conover trundles out there with his Teflon coated ribs, we're gonna use some quick in patterns, and see if he can survive long enough to run a bit. You think you can still run, Conover?"

Brady smiled as the team chuckled around him. "Yes, Sir, I think so." Actually, his chest was so bound up with tape and padding he felt like an overstuffed doll more than a football player. I hope I get used to this once I'm warmed up, he thought.

The door next to the chalkboard opened, and Coach Drake walked in, wearing a suit as if about to teach class. "Gentlemen," he said in his clipped Boston accent, "a better football coach than I'll ever be once told his players that they would never do anything in their lives as important as the football game they were about to play. That was Yale, against Harvard, back in the `30s." He paused. "Now, that's stupid, of course. This is a game, it's not life. You'll do far more important, and consequential, things in your life, than this. But this day still has meaning. It has meaning because of who you are, and what you represent. Eighty years of young men have worn the uniform you have on, and they've cared about it. Cared about their school. Cared about representing their school. Dunston is our oldest game. They think we're their little brother, and I do mean little." He paused and looked around the room a moment "I think we need to show them we've grown up."

He went on, talking of tradition and commitment, and of their bond as a team. His voice crescendoed. The boys started responding, cheering and stomping. Forearms began pounding lockers all round. Within a few minutes, when Coach Drake pointed to the door and cried, "Go prove it!!!" the team surged forward and sprinted out into the cold air, ready to take on the world.

The stands on both sides were packed – even for their freshman game. The Wilson side erupted as they ran onto the field. Clouds were beginning to cover the sky now; there was snow coming. As they ran their warmups, another cheer rose as Dunston's team emerged from the other side of the field. Brady could see that they had almost half again as many players. He felt the nervousness rise again. Coach Glendon was moving among the players as they stretched, along with Coach Drake and seniors from the varsity, slapping helmets and shouting encouragement. Brendan McCracken pounded Brady's shoulder pads, shouting something that Brady, in his jittery haze, didn't quite make out.

Evan and Jack Spencer went out for the coin toss, while Brady bounced on the balls of his feet. He wanted to get going.

Jack returned the kickoff to about the 35. Brady jogged onto the field, suddenly elated. He was back. Evan called for a counter play immediately, intended to get the defense moving one way but striking back in the opposite direction. Brady settled into his stance. The kid across the line from him was breathing heavily. Their eyes met. Brady saw his fear, and smiled. Brendan was right. They were going to kick Dunston's asses.

It took them ten grinding smashmouth plays to score. Brady repeatedly moved the guy he was blocking against with ease. One of the Dunston linebackers was already shouting angrily at his teammates to suck it up. Jack Spencer seemed to terrify them – a reasonable fear, given Jack's size and power for a freshman. The noise from the Wilson stands was tumultuous. Jack finally scored on a fifteen yard run, blasting through the Dunston linebacker who'd been yelling at his teammates for the final few yards. As they jogged back up the field after the extra point, which Brady had kicked, Jack muttered, "Yell at your buddies to suck that up, jerk."

Brady's kick went to the end zone on the fly, and wasn't returned. Dunston proved unable to move the ball, and soon Evan had them again pressing down the field. On a second down and short yardage, at about midfield, he leaned into the huddle. "Time to mess with their minds, guys. Brady, watch the backer. If he cheats in again before the snap, we'll run the look in." Brady nodded.

They took their stances. Brady watched the defense as Evan called a few dummy signals, inducing them to move. The linebacker on Brady's side was moving right up into the line, expecting a run. A yawning space lay behind him. Brady inhaled. At the snap count, he hit the player across from him glancingly and slipped towards the inside, running diagonally down the field.

Brady barely had his head turned and hands up before the ball was on him. It struck right on his hands, at chest level, and he gathered it in at full speed. The opposite side linebacker lunged for him, a fist punching into his side where the ribs had been broken. Brady hissed in pain as he slipped away and sprinted. All seemed muffled to him, the only sounds the wind through his helmet, the pant of his breathing, and the crunch of his cleats into the shriveled grass. He was trying to outrun the converging defensive backs, splitting between them. They underestimated his speed. One lunged at him, striking him with a shoulder again in his ribs, but couldn't wrap his arms around him. Brady bounced off the hit, shouting from the pain, and ran.

He'd never felt so slow. The cold air stung his throat. His side hurt with every breath. A hand clipped at one of his heels, and he jumped away from it, stumbled a moment, before regaining his stride. He didn't look back for fear of losing speed.

He reached the end zone, spray painted in Dunston's deep red colors. He slowed, jogged in a lazy circle, and saw his team coming to him.

Their leaping celebration hurt worse than the hits he'd taken. He lay beneath a pile of cheering, whooping boys, all intent on pounding his helmet, his shoulder pads, anything. "Watch out for his ribs, guys!" he heard Doug shout, and he started laughing.

He finally stood, to see the Wilson stands in an uproar. Sounds returned, and he suddenly was aware of the tumult. He looked round – Doug was next to him, a grin splitting his face. They embraced. He shouted something Brady didn't quite hear. "What?"

"You need to give the ref the ball, Brady." So he did, sheepishly.

The rest of the half went much the same way. Dunston's freshmen were clearly overmatched. By the time they returned to their locker room, they were up 28 – 0. Halftime was raucous. Coach Glendon was barely able to give instructions, mostly to the effect of continuing to attack and not letting them back into it. As they gathered on the sidelines before the start of the second half, he called the first team together. "Hold them this series and I'm going to let other boys play. They deserve it, and you've all earned the fun of watching for a bit. Deal?"

The result was that Brady played very little in the second half, instead watching the second team boys, while standing with Evan and Doug. As the game wound down - a 42 – 0 Wilson victory - he was suddenly pensive. "Season's over."

Doug looked at him. "Huh?"

"Season's over. We won't do this anymore. Ever again, really. I mean not this group, like this."

Doug blinked. "I guess." There was a long silence between them, as Evan cheered for a particularly good offensive play by his backup, Colin Fuhrmeister. "Well, there's next year, though. And it – it's not like we don't see each other all the time, right?"

"No, of course, I – I just – I guess I'm just really glad to have been part of this, y'know? And, to be back playing, and everything."

Doug put a friendly arm around his shoulder. "You kicked butt, Bray. I was running after you, and that backer was swearing like McShane used to - `How the fuck is that kid so Goddam fast' and stuff like that. The ref told him off for swearing." This clearly delighted him.

Brady laughed. "I was running to keep anybody else from hitting me in the ribs, actually."

Evan heard that, and turned to him. "Are you OK?" Doug's face darkened with concern.

"Yeah, sure." He wasn't quite that sure, really – getting hit had hurt a lot, the whole half. He still felt a dull ache. "Anyway, I guess it's over. For this year anyway."

The game ended to a new set of cheers from the Wilson bleachers. Brady and his teammates circulated among the Dunston players, shaking hands, and walked back toward the locker room. Mr. Glendon gathered the team at the door. "I want you all to know how proud I am of you. This is the first shutout Wilson's had against Dunston – at any level, arsity, JV, freshman – in twelve years. Go on in, get ready to cheer on the varsity. JV is doing well, I hear."

Brady was pulling his jersey over his head when Coach Drake's voice boomed through the room. "Campbell, Garrettson, Conover, Spencer. Come over here." Brady glanced at Doug, confused. Coach Drake stood by the door with Mr. Glendon, who was smiling slightly, as the boys approached. "Good job, gentlemen. You did yourselves proud."

"Thank you, Sir," they mumbled embarrassedly.

"I was wondering," he continued, holding up his left hand, "if you felt like staying in uniform a bit longer today?" His hand held four crisp varsity jerseys. "Jimmy's got fresh uniform pants in the varsity room, just break down the pads in yours and move them over. You earned it."

The boys stared a moment, then started whooping and hopping up and down. A bunch of their teammates joined, slapping them on the back and cheering. "Holy shit, Bray, we're gonna play varsity!!!" Doug shouted.

"Well, dress varsity anyway," Evan added in a practical tone. But he couldn't suppress a wide smile. "Still pretty cool."

Jack Spencer, usually not one to talk much, had a grin you could have driven a truck through. "I like it!"

Brady held the jersey Coach Drake had handed him. Number 88. It was heavy, unlike the worn faded jerseys the freshman team wore. It smelled new. It was the most precious thing on earth to him at that moment. He blinked at Doug, realizing his eyes were moist. He turned away, towards his locker, to pull his knee and thigh pads out. He looked over his helmet, with its various stains and dings. He wished it looked better. The boys gathered their equipment and walked carefully into the varsity locker room, like peasants entering the Holy of Holies.

The varsity room was even bigger, with low napped carpet throughout. "Surrealistic Pillow" was playing from a portable turntable someone had brought. Brendan McCracken saw them first and let out a cheer. "Here's the freshies!!!" They found themselves suddenly the center of attention, with all the varsity boys congratulating them on their win. Brendan was especially effusive about Brady's touchdown run. All four blushed furiously.

They found a set of unoccupied lockers and tried to settle in. Fuhrmeiter, Wolfson, and a couple of other freshmen brought their clothes and gear from the other locker room. Jimmy tossed them uniform pants. "Gimme them old dirty ones when you get changed. Lemme see them helmets." He tut-tutted a moment. "Look like crap, boys. Gimme them too. I get `em lookin' spiffy for yez."

McCracken appeared next to Brady, with a couple of sheets in his hand. "OK, we're using basically the same looks as you guys did, but with a couple of wrinkles. You'll need to know this when you go in."

Brady's stomach leapt. "I'm gonna go in?"

Brendan smiled. "Well, that's the goal, isn't it? We get ahead by a lot, kicking their butts, we clear the bench, everybody gets to play. Don't you want to?"

"Uh, sure, of course. I – I just didn't, y'know, realize –"

"Relax. It's just like any other game. Coach talks it up so we'll be high, but he doesn't need to. Not for me anyway. You wouldn't be in here if you couldn't handle it." He went through a number of formations and play variations with Brady, who realized how cool it was for someone like McCracken to take that much interest in him. He concentrated fiercely on what Brendan was telling him. Evan and Doug leaned in, asking questions of their own.

A few JV kids now showed up. Apparently they had also won handily, and a select few were likewise being rewarded with the chance to dress varsity. Brady only knew them passingly, since they were sophomores or juniors. He watched them change into varsity uniforms as if it were no big deal. How can they do that, he thought. It's a huge deal. Pete Riordan, a junior who played quarterback for the JV, saw Brady staring and grinned. "Relax, Conover, we just get to watch."

Brady nodded. He looked at himself in the mirror, now wearing a sparkling clean, crisp varsity uniform. He started to grin. Doug was beside him, now, and then Evan. They stared at themselves, grinning stupidly. Jimmy returned their helmets to them, shined and immaculate. "Wow," Brady whispered.

Evan was shaking his head. "I wish I could change my socks. They're all dirty from our game. It spoils it."

Doug took a deep breath. "Nothing can spoil this, Evan."

The boys sat together, talking among themselves about various trivial things. The wait seemed interminable. Suddenly a loud hoot rose from a couple rows of lockers down. "Guys, check this out. Look at the program!!!"

A number of other loud voices now joined in, laughing, making inaudible cutting remarks. The boys, curious, wandered down to see what the fuss was about. "Conover!" Raskauskas, the running back, shouted as they came into view. "You're gonna love this. Check out Dunston's roster."

Brady scanned down the list of meaningless names, listed alphabetically. Then, at the very bottom, in a different typeface, as if hastily added, was "81, McShane, Douglas, Junior. DT. Croton-on-Hudson NY."

He went blank. "Holy shit," he whispered.

McCracken smiled. "I am gonna love this. I want him. He's mine, OK guys? I want his ass."

Raskauskas laughed. "Nah. I think Conover needs to take a shot at him."

Brady felt everyone looking at him. He stared at the paper. What do I say, how do I react to this? He swallowed, blinked, and crumpled the paper. "Who cares. Let everybody get him. Plenty to go round, right?" As the players laughed and whooped, Brady wondered if he'd been sufficiently convincing.

Coach Drake came in to give his pregame speech, and the room went dead silent. Brady heard little of it. I won't get in, he thought, no way. This is just a nice honor, sort of. But what if I do? What if I line up against Douggie? He pressed his helmet between his hands, trying to crack it like an eggshell.

Doug's voice slid into his left ear. "Relax, Bray. They're gonna have him on a stretcher before we ever get in."

Brady should have laughed, but didn't.

The crowd noise when the varsity team sprinted onto the field dwarfed what Brady had heard earlier, during the freshman game. It had grown cloudy, and much colder. He stayed toward the rear of the pack, lining up as inconspicuously as he could for warmups (and finding that he was still pretty stretched out from his own game).

He and Doug slipped into the crowd along the bench to watch. He'd never been this close to a varsity game, and seeing its speed and level of violence was eye opening. The PGs, especially, were like grown men on the field, blindingly fast when viewed from up close, delivering loud crushing blows play after play. The noise – the crunch of pads, of boys yelling and screaming - was louder than the crowd. Brady was grateful to be safely on the bench.

Brendan McCracken was a man possessed. He seemed to be everywhere, sacking Dunston's quarterback, running down sweep play from behind, leading Raskauskas around end to crush a hapless cornerback with a block that sent the kid flying back five yards in the air, leaping to catch a pass over the middle for Wilson's first touchdown. Play stopped after the extra point so a Dunston player could be tended to. Brady sat on the beach. "Hey Conover, toss me that water bottle, willya?" McCracken panted as he jogged over.

Brendan seemed oddly peaceful now, as if he were out for an afternoon run. He smiled. "Having fun?"

"Um, yeah. You – you're like, incredible, man."

Brendan chuckled and shrugged. "Tell that to Michigan State. They got a guy up in the press box today."

"You're shitting me," Doug said, looking across the field.

"So look good if you get in later, guys. This is your big chance." He grinned again and ran back to the field.

Doug laughed. "Yeah, right. We're gonna get full rides and win the Rose Bowl or something, right Bray?"

"Nah, I'm winning it first," Evan piped up. They started to relax and enjoy the game. Wilson was clearly dominant.

Brady started looking across the field for Stud Douggie. Occasionally he got a peek at a figure wearing number 81, seated alone at a far end of the bench. They don't play him either, Brady noted with grim satisfaction.

By halftime Wilson led 21 – 0, and Dunston had barely been able to move on offense. The locker room was jubilant, despite Coach Drake's stern admonitions not to lose focus or take anything for granted. Brendan led the team in several school cheers, and more pristine Dunston gym lockers got dented.

Light snow was swirling from bruise colored skies as they ran out for the second half. Players' breath misted in front of them, heat rose in wispy trails from uncovered heads. A wind kicked up as the snow increased. These conditions only deepened Dunston's troubles, since their only hope for coming back was to strike quickly by passing the ball – an art unsuited to such weather. Wilson, on the other hand, was content to continue running the ball punishingly at the tiring Dunston defense.

By the late third quarter, the score stood at 35 – 0, and the Dunston stands were funereal. Coach Drake began taking out his starters, one by one, allowing each – especially the seniors – to be cheered one last time by the Wilson student body. Brendan McCracken pulled his helmet off as he walked off, arms raised in triumph. The center of his forehead was purplish.

As the final quarter began, Brady and Doug started idly jogging up and down the bench area to keep warm. Their undershirts, sweaty from their own game hours before, were now clammy and frigid against their torsos. They alternated between running and bouncing from foot to foot, arms wrapped around themselves, seeking a bit of shelter on the leeward side of the large water cooler. Brady looked back into the crowd and saw David and Dunc, sitting with Vic Stenkowski and Prescott Hills, who had a large bandage over his left temple. They exchanged waves.

"Conover!!!" Coach Drake's voice boomed out, cutting through Brady's reverie. He turned and saw Coach standing with Mr. Glendon, clipboard in hand. The refs were measuring for a Wilson first down.

Brady stepped over to them. "All right, son, go in for Patterson at tight end."

Brady gulped. "Yes, Sir." Mr. Glendon smiled at him.

"Now calm down, son," Coach Drake said soothingly, "it's all their scrubs too by now. Just play hard and you'll be fine. I wouldn't put you in if you couldn't do it."

Mr. Glendon clapped Brady's shoulder. "Show `em what you've got."

Brady snapped his chinstrap and started onto the field, his legs suddenly leaden. He heard Brendan McCracken shout encouragingly, something he couldn't make out, and some cheers as he checked into the huddle. Pete Riordan was now quarterbacking. "Hey Conover." Several of the other players – mostly JV, some varsity reserve guys – extended hands casually. Brady saw a trickle of blood running down Riordan's nose. "Ok, Red right, 34 trap counter on two. Conover, if the backer cheats up I'm going to pull the handoff and look for you on a quick in pattern, got it?" Brady nodded, feeling ill.

He jogged to the line and crouched into his stance. He looked across and froze. Stud Douggie was the outside linebacker, bouncing around and shouting at his teammates. He tore his eyes away and checked out the boy directly across from him. The kid looked young, smallish, and his eyes revealed the sort of panic Brady felt inside. He's just come in now, too, Brady thought. He's just like me.

Stud Douggie moved closer and closer to the line, clenching and unclenching his fists. He'd taken the bait. Riordan, under center called out "Riley!" – the code term for the look-in route. Brady tried to remember if they'd changed the code word since Douggie had been thrown out of Wilson. If he knows it, he'll kill me, he realized.

At the snap count, things moved in slow motion. Brady put one shoulder into the kid across from him, slipped to the inside, and ran diagonally downfield. He saw Douggie vacating the area he was running toward, charging toward the Wilson backfield in an effort to tackle the running back he was sure would have the ball. He'd missed the audible. Riordan held the ball to the back's stomach a long moment, making eye contact with Brady, then straightened and fired the ball. It met Brady midstride, in the numbers, and he took off.

A safety was coming at him from his left. Brady slowed slightly, waited for him to streak close, then cut left across his face as he flashed by. Open grass, dusted with snow, lay before him. Flakes stung his cheeks as he ran desperately. A hand clipped at his ankle, and he stumbled, put his free hand down to steady himself, and came back into balance. He looked back. Another safety had an angle on him as he ran close to the right sideline. He accelerated, trying to slip by, only to be shoved just enough to force him to stumble a stride too far, out of bounds and into the Wilson bench area. He slipped and fell, sliding several yards on his bad ribs, gasping at the pain the fall caused.

He came to a stop, and the world returned to him. The Wilson stands were screaming. As he stood, he saw David, Dunc, and Vic jumping madly and hugging one another. He was lifted from behind by an arm around his chest. Brendan McCracken shouted, "Great run, Conover!!!" into the left ear hole of his helmet. Hands were pounding his shoulder pads and helmet. He held the ball numbly. A referee stepped through the crowd. "I need the ball, son."

Brady handed it to him, shook his head, and ran back onto the field. That's getting to be a habit, he thought numbly. I gotta stop doing that . . .

As he passed the Dunston defense, he heard Stud Douggie snarl, "I want that faggot next play."

Sure enough, when he lined up for the next play, Douggie had taken the place of the kid across from him. "Bye bye, Jethro. I'm gonna fuck you up bad."

Fear flashed through Brady for a moment – the memory of pain, and of being helpless, hearing Douggie opening his pants. Then of Ian fighting with Douggie, and the horror in their mother's voice, and what David had looked like that night, and the fear gave way to rage. At the snap, he threw himself at Stud Douggie, nose into numbers and up through the chest, like a battering ram, his legs pistoning as fast as he could. He was vaguely conscious of the furious scream he was letting out. He drove Douggie back on his heels, faster and faster, as his helmet slid up under Douggie's chin. Douggie vainly clubbed him on the helmet with his forearms. His head rang with the blows. Finally Douggie tripped and fell, Brady's momentum carrying him right over top, somersaulting over and over until he regained control and popped to his feet.

The crowd was mostly quiet – the running play had only gained a few yards. But the Wilson sideline was deafening. Brady saw that he'd pushed Douggie a good twenty yards downfield, and had himself rolled another five at least before regaining his feet. Brad Templeton, a junior wide receiver, ran to Brady and clapped his back. "Conover!!! That was fucking genius, man!"

Stud Douggie lay one his back, blinking. Brady tried not to look at him as he ran back toward the huddle. One of the other Dunston players shouted derisively at Douggie, "Look where you are, McShane."

Douggie exploded. He leaped to his feet, screaming, "Motherfucker!!!" and charged at Brady. He blasted Brady with both forearms from behind. Brady, unaware that any such attack was coming, sprawled to the ground, his head snapping violently back from the impact, then forward to meet the grass. His ribs panged violently, his face drove jarringly into the grass. Templeton shoved Douggie away as Brady tried to stand. Then all hell seemed to break loose. Stud Douggie was trying to get to Brady, who was rising slowly to one knee. Players from both teams were shoving and restraining Douggie, and each other. Brendan McCracken suddenly appeared from the sideline with an animal roar, grabbing Douggie and lifting him high in the air before body slamming him into the hard ground. Whistles and penalty flags were flying, coaches' voices shouted, the stands shook with sound. Douggie was crawling away now, gasping for breath from the force of his fall. Four Dunston players, and Coach Drake, were restraining McCracken. The snow swirled about them thickly, lending an odd muffled quality to the sounds of the melee.

"Are you all right, Conover?" Coach Glendon was beside him.

"Um, yeah – yeah I guess so." His neck still hurt a bit, but he wasn't about to admit it.

Douggie looked up and pointed again at Brady. His voice was raspy. "I'm gonna fucking kill you, faggot!!! You hear me? I'm gonna end you!" He tried to rise to his feet, but he obviously was feeling the effects of McCracken's attack.

Brady's rage returned for a moment; he shouted back, "Go tell it to Ian next time you fuck him, asshole!!!" straining against Mr. Glendon's arm.

Mr. Glendon yanked him back. "Conover!!! You will NEVER speak like that again wearing this uniform, am I understood?" Brady had never seen him this angry.

The look on Mr. Glendon's face stopped Brady in his tracks. "I – I'm sorry, Sir. I'm sorry." He felt like he was about to sob, and he didn't want to sob – not on the field, not in front of everybody, in front of Stud Douggie. He pulled away and sprinted to the sideline, trying to disappear.

Doug was next to him now. "Are you OK? What happened?" Evan's hand was on Brady's shoulder.

Brady tried to hide his face. "Stud Douggie happened. That's what."

"Bray," Doug said, his teeth flashing white as he smiled, "you completely kicked his ass. You put him in the middle of next week, man! I mean wait'll you see the film! He was all stumbling backwards as you blocked him, and he was flailing like a fish out of water. It was great!"

Brady nodded, unconvinced. Coach Drake was beckoning him. He stepped over with a sense of dread.

"OK, Conover, you will now apologize to every member of the officiating crew for your language. You will then apologize to Dunston's captain and coach. Am I clear?"

Brady sighed. "Yes, Sir."

"You use language like that again on the field and you won't wear that uniform again."

"Yes, Sir."

"Conover?"

"Sir?"

Coach Drake's stern face broke into a smile. "You did fine, son. He deserved all of it. But remember: we are ferocious gentlemen. Gentlemen. McShane never will understand that idea. You do. So you live it out, even when you're angry. Especially when you're angry."

"Yes, Sir."

The refs were friendly and appreciative. "That's what I like about you Wilson kids, even when something bad happens. You're classy. Drake runs a good tight ship there."

"Thank you, Sir."

The back judge – a wispy man who seemed impossibly old to Brady – laughed. "I think that boy had it coming, myself. He's been in maybe ten plays and I've warned him several times about personal fouls. And language. Don't see him apologizing, though, do I?" He eyed Brady coolly. "I get the feeling you boys and he have a history."

Brady smiled a bit. "You could say that, Sir."

The head referee nodded. "Well, he's ejected. So is your number 85, the big guy who came off the sidelines. Though I don't think we'd have seen any more of him anyway."

Brady glanced at the small scoreboard: Wilson 48, Dunston 0, 4:04 left in the final quarter. "No, Sir, probably not."

The Dunston coach held his hand out as Brady approached. "No need, son. I saw what happened. You tell Coach Drake we all appreciate how he runs things. That young man won't be back on the field again for us, in any sport."

The rest of the game passed without incident. Jack, Doug and Evan all played, along with Brady, and they quickly forgot what had happened and just enjoyed themselves, grinning at each other between plays: Hey, we're playing varsity!!! Jack ripped off a few punishing runs. The game became a relaxed affair, with everyone just playing out the clock. Brady struck up a conversation between plays with the kid who lined up across from him (the one Stud Douggie had moved aside), and found he actually liked the guy. By the game's end, both teams were smiling and exchanging handshakes.

After those ritual handshakes, the Wilson team turned back to its stands, which now emptied onto the sideline. Brendan McCracken was back on the field in gym shorts and a T-shirt, oblivious to the snowstorm, hugging his teammates and friends, shouting himself hoarse. Doug, Evan, and Brady watched from the periphery, occasionally accepting congratulations from a freshman teammate. "So," a voice suddenly came from behind Brady, "did you and Stud Douggie trade telephone numbers?" David was grinning despite his best efforts to keep a poker face. Dunc and Vic stood behind him, hopping from foot to foot in a vain effort to stay warm.

Brady laughed. "Good way to end it?"

David laughed. "Yeah, I think so. God, I thought McCracken was gonna break him in half."

"He would have if they hadn't stopped him," Doug interjected. "Or I would've."

"I think we'd have to stand in line for a chance at that. The guys wanted to use him like a piñata," Evan said. That idea set them all off laughing, and they walked towards the gym together. The snow was now over an inch deep.

As he left the field, Brady noticed Stud Douggie some distance away in the gathering darkness, still in uniform, around a back corner of the gym, standing with head down against a wall as his father shouted red facedly at him. Douggie's head snap sideways as he got slapped. Brady felt a sudden flash of pity.

Coach Drake gave the team a long speech in the locker room, He was emotional about the seniors, and complimented every member of the team, including the freshmen. The cheers that greeted them made them each glow with pride. Brady was suddenly tired. He kept his uniform on for a while to warm up, then hit the shower and dressed for dinner.

The post-game dinner was a tradition, hosted by the home team in a private dining hall. Dunston's players greeted every member of the Wilson teams in a long receiving line. Brady was relieved to see no sign of Stud Douggie. Many of the upperclass Dunston players kept apologizing for Douggie, leading to animated and amused discussion among the boys of various Stud Douggie stories, which Brady did his best to ignore.

The boy Brady had played opposite was named Darren McWhorter, and was a sophomore, from Torrington, Connecticut. They fell into an easy conversation.

Brady began to notice their surroundings as he and Darren chatted. In contrast to the stark institutional green paint of the Wilson dining hall, the Dunston dining had creamy wallpaper with a subtle fleur-de-lis pattern and a velvety texture. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The tables had bright white linens. Brady started to have the feeling, again, of being out of place, out of his league. Darren was talking about Florida, for reasons he didn't follow. How had the conversation gotten to that subject? "Dad likes to fish for marlin in the winter, off Bimini. We take a house in West Palm Beach every Christmas. Does your family winter down that way?"

Brady opened his mouth a couple of times before managing to reply. "Uh – no, no, we – we prefer to winter, um, in the snow." He saw Doug trying not to crack up behind Darren. "The - the skiing, you know."

"Oh, sure, I understand," Darren said easily, utterly without comprehension. "It's more seasonal and stuff. My uncle Symington prefers that, too. He has a place in Stowe that I really enjoy. Sy's a wonderful skier. But Dad just likes his marlin too much, I guess. Do you know Stowe?"

Brady wanted to giggle. "Yes, I do, a bit." This was true – he'd heard of a ski resort at a town by that name, though he'd sure as hell never been there, or anywhere to actually ski.

"Ah, well, if we visit Uncle Sy over the holidays perhaps we could connect."

"That'd be, um, really great, yes. If." Brady smiled blandly. This guy was nice enough, but Brady had already written him off. He soon disengaged from Darren, as casually as he could.

Dinner was three elaborate courses, served by students in starched white uniforms that bore Dunston's seal embroidered on their breast pockets. The Wilson players exchanged occasional raised eyebrows. Brady caught Brendan McCracken at one point with his finger under his nose, head cocked back in a false aristocratic pose.

After dinner, the headmasters, and then the coaches, spoke. Things got boring quickly, as the platitudes cascaded down on the boys. They were finally getting tired now, the let down from the game, and the food settling in their stomachs, combining to sap their energy. Brady pinched himself to stay awake as Dunston's coach droned on about discipline and service to country, like the brave boys saving the nation from the Red Menace in Viet Nam. Brady started imagining Bill Fieldstone arguing with this guy and carving him to pieces, and started laughing under his breath. Evan poked him in the ribs sharply.

Finally, they boarded the bus for the pitch dark ride back to campus. Brady and Doug talked quietly for a bit, but soon fell asleep. Brady woke sometime later to find himself resting his head on Doug's shoulder, with Doug's head against the top of his and his hand on Brady's arm. It felt right. He should have been excited, or even horny, he thought, but he simply felt peaceful. He sighed and fell back asleep.

The bus passed right by the gym when it got to campus, and pulled down onto the track that surrounded the football field. Brady could see boys milling about in the home stands. As the bus doors opened, a torch appeared on the field and was thrust into a huge pile of wood stacked in its center. It caught quickly, and soon became a huge bonfire. The kids in the stands roared and raced down to it, grabbing players as they did and pulling them along. They sang school songs, danced absurdly, chanted cheers. Bill Fieldstone, in a cheerleader sweater, ran around the fire egging the celebration on, exuding apparently boundless energy.

Prescott Hills stood next to Brady. "Geez, Pres, what happened?" Brady asked, checking out the bandage across his forehead.

"Dunston kid and I clashed heads going after a ball." He smiled. "But I won it." His smile widened. "Eighteen stitches," he added, pointing to his head. "Cool, huh?"

Brady had to smile at that. `Uh, yeah, that's great, man. So did you win the game?"

Pres grinned. "2 – nil. I had the coolest corner, the goalie was hopeless!" Brady nodded, not sure what that exactly meant (he had never even seen a soccer match, though his mother had told how his father used to play), so the terms meant nothing to him.

The coaches of the various sports spoke to the crowd. Evidently the varsity soccer team had managed a tie with a Dunston team generally regarded as much better than they were, their JV had lost, and Pres's frosh won. Bill Fieldstone beamed as Coach Dawson described Wilson's cross-country victory at the varsity level – Brady gave Bill a thumbs up as their eyes met for a moment.

It was late when things finally wound down – it felt late, anyway, to Brady. The events of the day were crashing down on him now, and he was beyond exhausted. He trudged back towards Linsley with Doug, Evan, Vic, David, and Dunc. Doug seemed just as spent. He noticed David watching him out of the corner of his eye a few times. Everyone said a sleepy good night.

"So," David said when they were back in their respective beds, in the dark, "what are you gonna do now?"

Brady was yawning. "What d'you mean?"

"You're not a football star any more. Not for the rest of this year, anyway. No more adding to the luster and shit."

"I'm not a star. I was never a star. I'm a freshman, for God's sake."

"Bullshit you're not. You didn't hear the guys in the stands – even upperclassmen - talking about what a stud you must be, playing again like three weeks after having your ribs broken and all that crap. It got so I wasn't even worried somebody would ask about me, and that's probably the first time I've felt like that."

Brady blinked. "I – they just healed. It's like nature, or something. You get hurt, you heal. What's so . . . unique, about that?"

"People get reputations, Bray," David said calmly. "They get defined. What they do, the way they look and act, how good they are in class, whether they're jocks or drama jocks or whatever. Whether they're assholes or not. Guys make up their minds about each other, and who other people are, and once you're in the box you don't come out."

"So I'm in a box now?"

David chuckled. "Categorized, yeah. Just like you've done with other guys here –"

"I don't do that crap," Brady snapped.

"Bullshit you don't," David laughed. "We all do. I do, hell. And I know I've been defined just like you have."

"Oh. So, what are you?"

David paused a moment. "I'm the smart-assed little faggot who bites people's heads off if they try to woof on him, and who hides behind his jock hero roommate the rest of the time." He sighed. "It's not pretty, really, but it could be a lot worse."

Brady swallowed. "That's not who you are, Davey."

"So far as most of the kids here are concerned, it is. I mean they don't really know me, right? Even here, you don't get to know a lot of guys well. Really well, I mean. You know faces, you pass in the hall or on campus, you eat at the same table for a few days till you rotate someplace else. You're down the hall from them, hang out and stuff. But you don't know them, really. So you do shorthand. That's the box. That's my shorthand, for who I am, to those kids."

"OK." Brady swallowed again. "Wh-what's mine, then?"

David laughed again. "You? You're the fucking Golden Boy. You can do no wrong. At least so far. But now that football's over, guys are going to start to look at you different. What's he do now, how's he act? Does he behave like the hotshot football jock still – "

"I never acted like that, you know –"

"You're talking reality, Bray. I'm talking about how they look at you. Which definitely isn't reality. OK?"

Brady sighed and buried his face in his pillow. "Why is this all so fucking hard?"

"It's life, Conover. You think it's not like this in college? When you get a job? Fighting your way up the org chart and all that crap? This is just the first taste, man."

Brady sighed. "I don't like the taste."

David laughed. "Surprise, surprise, sergeant!!!" He shouted in his best Gomer Pyle voice. "That's why my dad opened his own office. He hated all the office politics crap, even among shrinks. I always thought that was the best: that a bunch of shrinks could be so fucked up that they'd fight little bullshit turf wars with each other. Heal thyself, right? Such a bullshit profession." He fell silent for a long minute. "They're gonna see how you feel about Garrettson, you know. Now that it's not all football team buddy stuff. Somebody's going to see it."

Brady's eyes flew open. "I – I don't show it, though! I can, like, hide it, and – "

"Nobody hides it, OK? Not for long, and not well. You think you hide what you feel really well and all, but you never do it as well as you think." He took a deep breath. "I learned that last year, OK? So trust me on it."

Brady stared into the darkness. Do they already know, he wondered. Does Fieldstone have a big mouth, or did someone hear or see when they sneaked up to the fifth floor in Geiger? Had Doug figured it out? He groaned. "Don't hit me with this stuff now, OK? I'm just – I'm beat, y'know?"

"Right. Big day and stuff. Not easy being the jock hero, I guess."

Brady flared. "What's eating you tonight, huh? You like determined to get me pissed off or something?"

"If I was, looks like I succeeded," David said with audible satisfaction.

"Congratulations then. Guess we all had a successful day. I achieved something I'd dreamed about, and you tore it to shit for me. Thanks." He turned to the wall.

There was a long silence.

"You know Humphries? Douggie's friend?" David finally said in a whisper. "He followed me into the bathroom at halftime today and tried to feel me up in a toilet stall."

Brady rolled over so violently he almost fell of his bed. His ribs shot with pain. "Wh – what'd he do?"

David sighed. "I opened my pants in a stall to take a piss. He stepped in, closed the door and grabbed my ass. He said, he knew I wanted some dick. Great pickup line, isn't it?"

"Jesus, what'd you do? Didn't you tell a Master or something? Didn't somebody see it?"

"Nobody saw. Not that I know anyway." He started to giggle now. "I turned around, I was like shocked. And scared. So I turned around really fast and stared at him. And – and then I realized – well, we both did – that I was still pissing. So now I was pissing on his pants leg." He started really laughing now. "He looked down at himself, realized what was happening, and ran. I think he was more embarrassed than I was."

Brady was trying not to howl with laughter at this image. "That is one way to discourage a suitor, I guess. Piss on his leg."

"Arf arf, you're a hydrant," added David.

That set them fully off, cackling at the image of Humphries, who was a bit too stocky for his own good anyway, waddle running out of the bathroom with piss trails across his pants legs. "Oh Jesus, Davey," Brady finally managed to gasp out, "why does this weird shit always happen to you?"

"Yeah, lucky me, right?"

"I didn't mean lucky, I just meant . . . you know, weird."

David snorted. "Ya. That's what it is. Weird." Brady hard him turn to the wall. I guess that killed that conversation, he thought. He should have said something more, but his own tiredness was washing over him now, and he slumped back under his covers and fell asleep in moments.

He lay on his back, in the center of a huge athletic field of some indeterminate sort, with inarticulate cheering and catcalls raining down on him from all sides. He was supposed to get up and do something, something Important. But he couldn't move. Other players flashed vaguely about him as he struggled to get his limbs working. "C'mon Bray, don't let me down!!!" Doug was shouting while leaning over him in shadowy form. He wrenched himself upward as hard as he could, the effort causing intense pain, but he stayed rooted to the ground. "Please, Bray," Doug was begging him now, and he realized he couldn't breathe either. He somehow freed one arm and stretched it beseechingly into the grey wintry sky above him. "Oh no, no," another, deeper and thunderous voice answered, "you don't think I'm helping the likes of you, do you?"

The voice began laughing derisively, the crowd joined in, Doug snapped "Worthless freak" in a tone of voice so hard and hostile that it felt like being stabbed. He began to sink into the turf, the light dimming and the mocking laughter muffling as he vainly clawed against his smothering fate. He tore a scream from his throat and rolled suddenly, out of bed, onto the floor, and woke upon impact.

"Christ, Conover," David muttered sleepily, "what the hell was that?"