Date: Wed, 03 Nov 1999 15:02:53 GMT
From: Dean Lidster <deanie16@hotmail.com>
Subject: Adoration

     ADORATION
     A (very) short story by Dean Lidster

     Hey  peeps!  Sixth  form and A-Levels  are  keeping  us  both
ridiculously busy (not necessarily in an academic way, but  that's
a  different story!) and hence not a vast amount has been done  on
the  old  writing  side.
     BTW,  my new contact e-mail address is Deanie16@hotmail.com -
the guy who was very kindly  voluntarily  hosting my  site  had to
take it down as his boss decided  he wanted to  charge him for the
priviledge. Easy come... :-)
     Just the sight of Lee playing  rugby the  other day drove  me
to scribble this down: Life just keeps getting better...

--Dean

==================================================================

     The  sun  struggles  to break its way through  the  turbulent
clouds,  the  odd  beam making contact with the  earth  sending  a
stripe of brilliance across the fields and hillsides.
     I  pull  on my coat and walk down the shale covered  lane  to
the  games fields, my hair being blown all over the place  by  the
wind.  It  is  October and the last few leaves on  the  trees  are
beginning to loose their grasp on the bows that bore them for  the
past few months, being carried away in an urgent spiral until they
land on the ground, so completing their duty.
     As  I approach the fields, I hear feint shouts from the Rugby
game that is being played, again the wind making the direction  of
the  sound difficult to pinpoint. I climb over the rickety  wooden
fence  into the games field and see thirty lads engrossed  in  the
game they are playing.
     Getting  nearer, my eye picks out one of them in  particular.
He's fairly tall - at least six foot I'd say - with a mop of dirty
blonde  hair  which is now matted with sweat. He gets  thrown  the
ball and, in one fluid motion, he jumps for it and turns, allowing
him  to  escape  up the left wing of the pitch.  I  watch  as  his
muscular legs propel him towards the touch line, the opposing team
failing  miserably to impede his progress. He senses one  of  them
getting  closer  and  so  makes  a dive  towards  the  line,  arms
outstretched.
     He  lands heavily, mud splashing out from either side of  his
maroon  rugby  top,  but it has served it's purpose.  The  referee
blows his whistle, acknowledging the five points he has scored for
his team followed by three longer blasts.
     His  team has won by two points thanks to the try he has just
scored.
     In  keeping  with  public school etiquette, he  shakes  hands
with  the other team, but can not keep the smile from his face  as
he  does  so,  his team mates patting him on the back and  smiling
just as broadly as he is.
     He  suddenly looks over in my direction, flashing that  broad
smile  at me, making me feel warm and fuzzy inside. He makes  some
half-valid  excuses  to his team-mates and starts  jogging  in  my
direction. He slows down as he approaches me, dragging his fingers
through his now mud-caked hair.
     I  comment on how good his game was and he agrees with a  shy
smile. I wet a finger and wipe a splash of mud away from his  left
eye.
     Without  saying another word we begin to walk, hand in  hand,
back up football lane.
     I am the luckiest guy alive.


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