Date: Sun, 15 Jul 2012 18:18:20 -0700
From: rlhsanclemente <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed, Part 10

Here is the next part of the story.  The usual diusclaimers apply - it's
fictional, and if matters sexual (especially involving teenaagers) are
illegal to read wherever you live, don't read this.  My thanks to Flip,
author of SoCal Summer 1969 here, who has graciously volunteered to take on
the thankless task (especially given my typing shortcomings) of editing
this for me as we go forward.  As always, I welcome all comments and
critiques.  I'll also again point readers here to my previous Nifty story,
"Seal Rocks," which is in the HS section here with a final chapter posted
in April 2011.  Thanks again to all, and I hope you enjoy it.


When the World Changed, Part 10

	The rain lasted throughout Monday, cancelling work program (a good
thing) and flooding every sidewalk on campus (a very bad thing).  Brady's
shoes were squishy before first period even began, and he knew there
wouldn't be enough newspaper left to dry them that night.  He resolved to
try using his dirty laundry instead, and risk staining something from the
leather.  Maybe just the underwear and socks, he thought.  Not the dress
shirts.

	Classes, chapel, more classes.  The cold and wet and gloom were
unrelenting.  During free periods boys either huddled in their rooms trying
to dry off or moped around the canteen.  This was a large single room that
had been a science lab in the late nineteenth century, before the larger
classroom buildings were constructed.  Now the high ceilinged room had been
converted into a snack bar of sorts, where boys could drink sodas and eat
ten cent doughnuts served by a stunningly ill-tempered woman behind the
counter,

	If Gertie hadn't been in Roller Derby, well, she should have been.
Her face was narrow and hawk-like, with a pointy nose that reminded Brady
of the Wicked Witch of the West.  Her curled grey hair was tightly cut to
her scalp, and her eyes were fierce behind slanty framed bifocals.  Her one
redeeming grace was that she seemed to despise the McShanes even more than
David did - a feeling they reciprocated, seldom failing to insult her or
call her obscene names in a stage whisper designed for her to hear.

	Brady had convinced Gertie to carry Tastykakes, and he .carefully
budgeted himself to be able to afford a Coke (ten cents) and some cream
filled chocolate Tastykakes (another ten cents) every other day.  His
mother had dropped whole boxes of them at Linsley twice since school had
started, but the other guys had devoured them almost instantly.  Those
encounters had been brief and awkward - his mother visibly making an effort
to keep her composure, and Brady uncertain how much emotion he could show
as well in front of his dorm mates.  David was always polite but shy.  Doug
seemed to brighten her a bit, which gladdened Brady immensely.  He wanted
her to like Doug.  She seemed to make a point of asking about him in their
nightly telephone calls - even the ones where her words seemed a bit
slurred and her description of her day made little sense.  Brady pushed
that worry to the back of his mind.  He was good at boxing emotions away
and choosing to ignore them.  He'd done it for years already.

	Both McShanes were in the canteen when Brady slipped in after first
period, hoping to get a Coke before chapel.  They were on opposite ends of
the room, gathered with their own respective group of sycophants.  A few
other boys - seniors, mostly - including Bill Fieldstone, were by the
jukebox.  - "Penny Lane" was playing.  Doug, Evan, Alan Black and Dunc were
at another table off to the side.  They waved, and Brady joined them.

	There seemed to be some tension in the room.  "What's going on?"
Brady asked quietly as he slid into a chair.

	Alan grinned slyly.  "Ian and Stud Douggie were mouthing off big
time at each other.  Guess Ian's on probation for punching Vic last night,
and Douggie's pissed off at him.  Ian told him to fuck off.  Said he was a
loser puke and he wasn't going to take shit from him anymore.  Douggie
looked like he wanted to kill him or something.  Gertie threatened to call
Storeman.  That shut 'em both up."

	They all shared a satisfied conspiratorial giggle at this.  "Weird,
isn't it?"  Doug interjected.  "I mean I thought they were like joined at
the hip - brothers in being jerkoffs and stuff.  What shit does Stud
Douggie ever give Ian, anyway?"

	Brady blinked rapidly and looked down at his shoes, as if nspecting
them.  "No idea."

David was right, they were losing it.  Ian was standing up against his
brother.  Would Douggie allow that?

	"Hey New Boys!!"  Stud Douggie suddenly called out.  "Up on the
table and dance, now!"

	Alan rolled his eyes.  "You're not a senior, Douggie, we all know
that.  Drop it, OK?"  Brady glanced over to see Fieldstone watching things
warily.

	"But I am."  Talbot, the senior who'd accosted Brady along with
Stud Douggie in the dining hall walkway Saturday, was sitting next to
Douggie .  He rose.  "Last week of New Boy Rules, we gotta have some fun.
Let's see some dancing."

	The boys stood uncertainly.  "The table's too small for us all to
fit on it, " Evan said.

	"Then we'll go one at a time," Stud Douggie answered.  "Right,
Jimmy?"  Talbot grinned and nodded.  "Let's start with farm boy here.
Maybe he can do some hillbilly crap for us, huh?" Brady blushed, and
noticed Ian moving towards them with a sly smile on his face.  "Let's go,
Jethro, up an' at 'em."

	Brady looked at Stud Douggie as calmly as he could.  "I don't
listen to you, pal."  Douggie bristled visibly.  He turned to Talbot.  "Is
that your order?  As a senior?"

	Talbot seemed a bit taken aback.  He blinked, glanced at Stud
Douggie, and stammered, "Well, yeah, I guess, I mean yes, up on the table
and dance!"

	Brady moved a chair over by the table.  "Keep an eye out," he
whispered to Evan as he climbed onto the table.  It sat only four, and had
a single central support post.  He stood carefully in the center and
started moving clumsily, self consciously, with the music.  Some of the
other seniors started laughing at his discomfort and applauding, shouting
encouragement and teasing insults.  He started laughing himself at how
ridiculous he must look.  Most of the kids in the room were laughing with
him, some clapping in time.

	That was when Stud Douggie shoved down one side of the table,
toppling him over.

	Brady had anticipated it.  David had warned him.  He saw Douggie
slipping close to the table as he danced, with Ian watching from behind, a
reptilian glint in his eyes.  When the table started to tilt abruptly out
from under him, he lifted his legs quickly and tucked himself sideways as
best he could in the direction the table had fallen, hoping to hit the
inclined top and slide to the floor.  He instead hit the edge, though, and
fell awkwardly to the side onto a couple of chairs.  Still he managed to
catch his fall pretty well considering.  And Evan, Doug, and Alan were
almost immediately there to steady him and prevent further damage.

	The room erupted in angry shouts.  Doug stepped angrily toward Stud
Douggie, his fists balled up.  "What the fuck was that?"

	Stud Douggie was visibly disappointed that Brady hadn't broken his
neck.  "W - what?  He - he fell, that's all, he's just fuckin' clumsy."

	"You tipped the table, asshole!"  Doug shouted, trying to move
around the chairs and other kids to get at Douggie.  Brady was trying to
disentangle himself from the chairs he'd fallen onto in time to restrain
Doug.  They'll come after Doug too, David had said.  "You fucking devious
piece -"

	That's enough."  Bill Fieldstone's voice cut through the din and
silenced everyone.  "Talbot, this is your fault.  You let McShane order a
New Boy around, and you let him put him in danger of getting hurt."

	Talbot was purple.  "I - I didn't do -"

	"That's right, you didn't do anything.  Not to stop it, not to
protect the New Boy. Sound familiar?  You might as well take off the senior
sticker, you're done using New Boy privileges.  You'll be lucky to not get
DC."

	"Fuck you, Fieldstone," Stud Douggie sneered.

	Bill turned to him calmly.  "Oh yeah, you.  I almost forgot about
you, I was busy doing my job.  I'm stinging you, and I'm reporting you to
Storeman.  You flipped the table on him. You tried to hurt him,
deliberately."

	Ian protested.  "He never touched the Goddam table!"

	Fieldstrone smirked.  "Nice try, Ian, but bullshit.  Everybody saw.
Right?"  There was a general murmur of assent.

	Stud Douggie was blinking rapidly.  "I - I - it was an accident, I
was like slapping the table 'cause I was having fun, with him dancing and
all, and - and it just tipped.  I didn't - "

	"Can it.  Come up with something better than that for Storeman,
OK?"  By this time Brady was standing, with a restraining hand on Doug's
shoulder.  Don't go at him, he was thinking, that's what he wants.  You
throw the first punch and he'll pound you.  Doug was trembling with anger.
Brady's hip, where he'd hit the edge of the table, was throbbing.

	Stud Douggie had turned a shade or violet that made Talbot look
pale by comparison.  "Th - this is bullshit, Fieldstone, you can't sting me
for anything - "

	"I can sting anybody who fucks around with New Boy Rules - I'm in
charge of it, remember?"  Fieldstone said in a biting tone Brady had never
heard from him before.  The image of his determination while running that
previous Saturday returned to his mind: don't fuck with this guy.  "You
think you're the shits, here, Douggie, but you're just a junior - and by
the way, a total asshole, in my humble opinion.  You've been egging Talbot
on to crap like this ever since New Boy Rules started.  This time you
fucked up, you got caught at it.  End of story."  He stepped over to Brady.
"Are you OK?"

	"Fine," Brady muttered.  He could feel a knot growing on his hip,
but didn't want to acknowledge anything in front of either of the McShanes.
"I'm fine."  Just don't make me walk anyplace for another minute or two, he
thought - he was still having trouble putting weight onto his right leg.

	"Good."  He turned back to Stud Douggie.  "You want to come with me
to see Storeman and give your side, or you wanna wait till he pulls you out
of class next period?  Your call."

	Stud Douggie sputtered.  "I - I didn't do anything, I already told
you that!  You go to fucking Storeman with this, and - and -"

	"And what?"  Fieldstones' eyes were flinty.  "Come on, I want to
know.  What, Douggie?"

	The silence was oppressive.  Stud Douggie stared a long moment at
Fieldstone, then whirled and strode out of the canteen.  "Fuck this, fuck
all of you!!"

	Fieldstone nodded as he left.  "Yeah, that's about what I thought.
You sure you're all right, Conover?"

	"I told you, I'm fine.  Can we just forget it, please?"

	Fieldstone shook his head.  "Can't.  I get that you don't wanna
hassle this, but I saw it so it's my thing to deal with - even if you don't
want to."  He smiled at Brady.  "Relax - at least you won't have to do any
of that shitty-assed dancing again anytime soon."

	Brady smiled thinly.  "God I hope not.  It kinda sucked, didn't
it?"

	"Out loud.  Ok, I gotta go here, Later."

	The boys slowly moved back to their respective tables.  Brady
dropped into the nearest chair, trying to evaluate his ability to walk
without actually trying it.  Doug held his arm as he sank down.  "You OK,
man?  I know you put up the tough guy thing for Fieldstone."

	"I think so," Brady answered, even though he really wasn't sure.
Evan and Dunc were talking excitedly about what a jerk Stud Douggie had
been.  Alan had already gotten some ice in a towel for Brady to put against
his hip.

	Ian McShane stood, arms limply at his sides, for about a minute,
watching things.  When most people had turned away, he leaned in toward
Brady.  "If Storeman comes to you, keep your mouth shut, Conover, got it?
You were just fucking clumsy.  That's it."

	Brady shook his head.  "Don't you get it, Ian?  It doesn't matter
what I say, or don't say. You want to stop it, go bug Fieldstone, not me.
I got no interest in fucking with your brother - or with you.  I just wanna
be left alone, OK?  Why are you guys always on my case like this?  It's
total bullshit, you know that."

	Ian's cheeks flashed red.  "Just keep your fucking mouth shut,
asshole.  Learn your place, OK?"

	"What's his 'place,' exactly, Ian?"  Evan Creed was leaning over
the table and looking like he might lift it up and smack Ian in the face
with it.  "Who died and made you and Douggie king anyway?  Get your head
outta your ass and get the fuck out of my sight, OK? "

	Ian glanced at each of them, in turn, his face reddening.  "Fuck
all of you."  He stormed out the door.

	The entire room seemed to exhale at once.  Doug glanced at Brady
with a slight smile "'Fuck all of you.'  I think I detect a theme here."
Their laughter washed away the remaining tension.

	Brady found he could move pretty well after the initial throbbing
went away.  After fourth period (a particularly unpleasant day in algebra
with Mr. Wadleigh), he slipped into a bathroom on the second floor of
Mueller and dropped his pants to have a look.  A long purple bruise, about
the width of his thumb, ran along his right hip where he'd hit.  It was
painful to touch, but the surrounding skin seemed OK, and he could flex his
leg fully.  He spent a couple of minutes idly regarding it.

	"Hey Bray?  You all right?"  Doug burst in a look of concern on his
face.

	Brady tried to grab his pants and underwear, to pull them up.
"Fine - I - I , ih, I was, um, just - "

	Doug laughed.  "Pervert.  You jerking in front of the mirror or
somethin'?"

	Brady forced a laugh he didn't really feel in his embarrassment.
"No, asshole, I'm checking out my bruise and stuff."

	"I know, I'm just giving you shit.  Lemme see, is it bad?"

	Brady blushed deeply.  He felt himself stir a bit.  "Um, OK .. ."
he said softly, and slid his clothing back down over the hip.

	Doug peered closely.  "Not big, but wow is it really dark."  He ran
a finger along it.  Brady winced - it hurt, but at the same time felt
wonderful.  Doug was touching him.  No one else had ever touched him there
- well, maybe his mom, but that didn't count anyway.  He swallowed hard.
"Does that hurt?"

	"A little.  Bu - but it's OK, really."

	Doug's hand flattened out against Brady's skin, and he felt the
area around the bruise. "It's not spreading or anything.  I think you're
gonna be OK, right?"

	"Yeah."  Brady found breathing difficult at that moment, much less
speaking in any articulate manner.  He abruptly hitched his underwear and
pants up, turning slightly away from Doug to hide his growing hardness.
"Gonna be fine."

	Doug leaned back against the sink as Brady zipped up and tucked his
shirt in.  "You knew he was gonna do that, didn't you?  I saw the way you
reacted, like you knew it was coming."

	Brady smiled slightly.  "Well, I knew - or at least I guessed -
he'd do some asshole thing. That was kinda predictable, you know?  David
said something like that would happen."  He realized what he'd said.  "I
mean, just in general, you know.  With New Boy Rules ending, and stuff.
Can't end too soon ,right?"

	"Yeah, I'm really sick of these beanies and looking like an idiot
all the time."  He turned to brush his hair back from his forehead.  Brady
wanted to do it for him.  "What's the deal with Tanner and McShane, anyway
- both of 'em, for that matter?  Has he told you what that's about?"

	Brady licked his lips quickly.  "No idea," he said in the most even
tone of voice he could muster.  "Some guys, you know, they just don't,
like, mix.  The minute they see each other, they just wanna kill each
other.  I think maybe it's like that."

	"Hell, McShane's like that with everybody it seems.  Unless you
like suck up to him and all.  I don't get him, or Stud Douggie.  There's
shit going on there someplace I just don't get."

	"Yeah," Brady said quietly, "I guess."

	Doug turned from the mirror, a smile across his face.  God he's
wonderful, Brady thought.  "I broke out my dad's golf umbrella.  It's
really big - you can get like twenty people or something under it.  C'mon,
we'll go back to Linsley together."

	Brady laughed.  "Twenty?"

	"Well, you know, it's big, that's all.  C'mon."

	Smoking was forbidden for all students at Wilson except juniors and
seniors with parental permission.  It was therefore no surprise that Ian
McShane was spending this free period along the side of Linsley, under the
eaves and behind some shrubs, puffing away on a Marlboro.  He watched Brady
and Doug walking together, laughing inconsequentially beneath the wide (and
garishly orange) umbrella, arms casually about each other's shoulders, with
eyes narrowed.

	Brady enjoyed football in the rain.  You slid wildly across the
field and got ridiculously muddy, and the rain kept you cool.  Mr. Glendon
ran the team through some basic calisthenics, then split off the first team
(only thirteen boys - most, including Brady, Doug, Evan, Alan, and Ian, had
played both ways in their game against Summerton) and gathered them around
him.  "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed the weekend.  You earned it Friday,
you all know that." He paused a moment.  "Now, here's the hard part, for
all of you.  This is a freshman team.  That means that a lot of the boys on
it have never played the game before.  I know a lot of you have - Pop
Warner, some junior high programs, whatever.  You know what you're doing,
in basic terms at least.  The other boys don't - the ones who didn't get to
play last week."

	He paused again.  "Part of my job is to teach the game to all the
members of the team.  You all know there's only one way to really learn,
and that's to play.  That's how you all did it, right?"  Some nodded.  "So
I'm going to start playing the other boys a lot more the next few weeks -
not because I don't think any of you are poor players, but because they're
part of this team, too, and they don't deserve to work hard all week and
then not play."

	Ian McShane pulled his helmet off.  "How can we win if the best
players don't play?"

	Mr. Glendon looked at him calmly.  "I don't think that's a choice,
Ian.  I think we can win like this, too.  And if we don't - well, that's
all right in the larger sense, because the goal of this team is to develop
players.  You aim to win on varsity.  Our goal here is to teach all of you
boys to play so you can contribute to varsity someday.  That means all of
the team members get to play."

	"Sir," Ian interrupted again, his tone acid, "this is bullshit.
You play to win – "

	"Don't swear at me, young man."

	"Sorry ,sir."  He didn't sound very sorry.  "I don't know about
anybody else, but I'm not playing on this team to have some limp wristed
special help period for guys who don't know how to play.  I'm here to win."

	"You're here to bring honor to your school and your classmates,
Ian.  Part of that is being generous.  I'm not responsible for your ego.
I'm responsible for teaching every member of this team how to play the game
and play it the right way.  Now, I pulled you boys over here to tell you
this because you're the leaders.  You need to understand what I'm doing,
and you need to support it, and support the other boys as they play and
learn.  Because they'll make mistakes, ones you might not make."

	"Sir, you didn't do this last year!  Last year the starters played
almost all the time!"

	"That's true, Ian, and that was a mistake.  I didn't do right by a
lot of boys last year.  And frankly, our team last year wasn't that good.
I needed to play the first unit more so they'd learn, before I could focus
on the others.  I don't have that worry this year, you boys proved that
last Friday.  This year, I can teach more."

	"So we're getting benched because we're too good?"  Ian refused to
let it go.  Brady was getting uncomfortable.

	"No one is getting benched," Mr. Glendon said in a clipped tone
that indicated he felt the discussion was over.  "You boys will continue to
start - so long as you don't get beaten out by someone else playing better
- and play a lot.  But you're not going to play all the time like you did
last week.  Now, are you going to accept this, and support your teammates,
or am I going to have problems?  If it's problems, I can recommend other
schools you can go play for."

	The silence that followed was strained.  Evan Creed was the first
to speak.  "I - I think it's a good idea, sir.  I'll do all I can."

	"Me too," said Alan Black.

	"Yeah, I'm in," Doug said.  He glanced at Brady.  He nodded, and
Doug grinned.  Brady could feel Ian McShane's anger from across the small
group.

	The rest of the first unit agreed.  Mr. Glendon spoke for another
five minutes or so about how he expected them to be like coaches with their
fellow players to help him in the process, to be positive, and to keep
playing hard.  They agreed again.  When the team reunited, Brady could see
the excitement among the other players - they'd clearly been told the same
thing, and the prospect of real playing time had them thrilled.

	The rest of practice was devoted to drills of various sorts - not
terribly difficult or strenuous, but made tougher by the rainy conditions.
Brady talked animatedly in line during drills with some of the guys who
hadn't played, telling them how to make or fend off blocks from his own
experience.  The enthusiasm of the entire team seemed to be redoubled.

	Only Ian McShane seemed disgruntled.

	Ian let his anger show again in the locker room.  "Fucking
Christ!!!"  he shouted, kicking the locker next to his.  Brady and Doug,
peeling off their soaked jerseys two rows away, glanced at each other and
rolled their eyes.  "Playing the fucking scrubs.  We're gonna fucking lose,
and it's gonna be Glendon's fault!!!"

	"Pipe down, McShane," they heard Evan Creed respond.  "You got a
beef, keep it to yourself, OK?"

	  "Or what?  You wanna get your face rearranged by some lineman who
doesn't get blocked right while you're trying to pass?  Maybe I should let
a couple through and let you see how it feels."

	"You'd do that, too, wouldn't you?"  Evan said, contempt dripping
in the tone of his voice.  "You're like that."

	Brady and Doug walked together toward the shower room, Ian was
standing by the scales, his towel around his waist, muttering to himself.
He looked up as they passed.  "And there go the faggot twins, joined at the
ass.  Jesus Christ."

	Doug turned back.  Brady tried to pull him on to the showers, to no
avail.  "What'd you just call me?"

	McShane smirked at Doug.  "Truth hurts, huh pansy?"

	Brady saw Doug's left fist ball up.  "Don't," he said aloud without
meaning to.  "Just don't, OK?  Leave it."

	"Good advice, Jethro.  I don't fucking believe this place."  He
stalked off back to his locker.

	"C'mon Doug, it's not worth it, right?"

	Doug turned to face Brady.  "God he pisses me off.  Calling
everybody a faggot and crap."

	Brady's heart sank a little.  "It's just him, man, he doesn't mean
it like literally."

	Doug shook his head.  "I know, it just gets me sometimes."

	"I'm trying to ignore all of it myself.  I don't care what dumbass
things he says."

	Doug was still angry.  "With him, you gotta ignore like everything
then."

	"Pretty much," Brady agreed.  "But that makes it really easy,
right?  He opens his mouth, you click the off button."

	In the shower, Brady tried as usual not to stare at Doug - the
sight of his body, sleek and wet beneath the spray, always threatened to
arouse him.  Not to mention his huge cock.  Luckily, that day a number of
the other players, excited over their opportunity, made it a point to tell
Brady and Doug how they wouldn't let them down.  "I know you guys are
pissed," Dennis Hills said quietly, "but I promise I won't let you down."
Dennis played linebacker, despite standing barely 5'6" and looking like he
needed several months of good meals to bulk up past the early stages of
malnutrition.

	Brady smiled.  "I'm not worried about that.  I think it's great
that everybody's gonna get a chance to play."

	"You sure?  I mean," Dennis dropped his voice, "Ian's pretty pissed
off."

	"Ian's pretty pissed off about most everything in life, so who
cares?"  Doug answered. "The rest of us are fine with it, so don't worry.
They had me play some linebacker, let me show you some stuff tomorrow, OK?
I'm pretty new to all this too, so I got a lot to learn anyway - might as
well do it together, right?"

	"Thanks," Dennis said with a shy grin, He blushed a bit and lowered
his head.  Brady saw his eyes stray to Doug's penis, and widen.  He started
laughing at Dennis' incredulity.  Dennis looked up at him, blushing even
more.

	"Scary, isn't it?"  Brady said quietly, and both began laughing
openly.

	Doug realized what they were laughing at, and theatrically grabbed
his dick.  "Yeah, you all want a piece of this, don't ya?  Get in line,
baby, the stallion's here!"

	Brady did his best to look away, while joining in the general
laughter.

	The next three days were actually among the most fun Brady had ever
had playing.  He and most of the starters spent almost half their time
working with the other players, teaching them basic techniques and even
running some drills.  He and Doug worked together a lot on offensive line
play, and proved to be good at the teaching aspects.  They were able to
turn mistakes into harmless jokes to be laughed off in a way that
Mr. Glendon (a man who never seemed to be less than intense) never did.  He
found himself making friends with a whole new group of guys, who seemed
strangely deferential towards him while they seemed to like his company.
Brady felt good about it but at the same time slightly embarrassed.  These
were all kids with rich families and parents who could get them all sorts
of stuff, and they were acting like he was their leader or something.  He
didn't want to be that, however good it felt at times.  He just wanted to
be Brady.

	The week also went quickly because the seniors were keeping things
lively.  The last week of New Boy Rules seemed to energize them, and all
the New Boys found themselves skipping or doing other foolish things at
almost every opportunity.  Nothing was malicious or cruel (maybe because
Jim Talbot had indeed had his privileges revoked, and was often seen moping
about campus with hands thrust deeply into his pockets).  Brady was
photographed kissing the flagpole on center campus along with a large group
of other New Boys, he was directed to sing "Hang on Sloopy" at dinner
Tuesday (he got pelted with dinner rolls, and Storeman got royally pissed),
and he watched Doug and Evan do a clumsy waltz in the canteen to the
jukebox's recording of "Tiny Bubbles," to general delight.  They were both
terrible dancers.

	The freshmen were set to play Dumbarton School's freshman team that
Friday, up in north Jersey someplace.  Dumbarton's varsity would then visit
Wilson the next day.  At assembly that morning, Brendan McCracken and Bill
Fieldstone took the podium after Leeds had given his usual (and
excruciatingly boring) summary of rules to remember and upcoming
activities, to announce that all New Boys were required to attend a special
assembly that night.  Both had trouble suppressing grins as they made the
announcement.  "Kangaroo Court," he heard David whisper to Jerry Goldman,
who nodded knowingly.  Brady wanted to lean back and ask them what they
were talking about, but Billips and Taber were patrolling the aisles
checking for people talking during assembly - a major sting if you got
caught - so he resisted.  He glanced around.  Most of his classmates, being
New Boys like he was, were glancing around looking equally concerned.  Ian
McShane, on the other hand, was beaming.  Doug was frowning, looking
questioningly at Alan Black.

	As soon as assembly was dismissed, Brady grabbed David.  "OK, fill
me in here.  What's going on?"

	"It's probably Kangaroo Court," David answered.  "The seniors get
all the New Boys here the last night and make them do stuff on stage and
all.  Hit them with shaving cream, stuff like that."  He leaned in.  "Last
year, what they did do McShane??  It was brilliant, man."

	By now Doug, Evan, and Alan were close by as well, with Dunc and
Vic Stenkowski close behind.  They waited for David to elaborate.  "What??"
Evan finally begged.

	David turned, stopping the group and bringing them into a tighter
cluster.  His voice was low, but glistening with delight.  "They kept him
up there for like 20 minutes.  They did all the basic stiff - shaving cream
pies and all - then they poured maple syrup all over his head and put this
huge glob of Atomic Balm in his underwear and like smushed it so it went
all over.  Then they hit him with powder so it stuck to the syrup.  He
smelled like pancakes for almost a month."

	The boys reacted with a combination of revulsion and acid thrill at
this news.  Brady noticed Ian lingering near the back of the theatre,
watching them.  "Why'd they go after him so hard?"  he asked.

	David stared at him like he was a Martian.  "Why d'ya think?  He
was a total prick.  He thought he could ignore seniors who told him to do
stuff he didn't want to do.  He pissed off most of the class.  It worked
out great; they didn't do much of anything to anybody else."

	"What about you?"  Alan asked.

	David shrugged.  I got pied with shaving cream, and tickled."  He
blushed a little.  "Somebody told Tom Wilson I was ticklish," he glanced at
Brady, who realized who it must have been, "and they had me kind of
squirming up there for a minute or so, when I couldn't really see through
the shaving cream.  It was funny, really."  He started walking toward the
doors, with the boys stumbling to keep up.  Brady noted that with
amusement: I'm not the only one who can't keep up with this kid when he
walks.  "Anyway, I don't think it'll be a major deal for anybody this year.
I haven't heard of anybody being really defiant or anything like last
year."  He used that phrase carefully, since as he said it while walking
through the door Ian could be seen conspicuously lounging on the steps of
the theatre.  He glanced at the boys as they passed.

	"Ready for your comeuppance, there, Jethro?"

	Brady ignored it and kept walking.  David smirked.  Alan Black
glanced at the others, twisted his face in disgust, and turned.  "Fuck off,
McShane, your asshole is talking again."

	McShane snorted.  "Ooooh, that's a good one, Black.  It'll be fun
watching you get fucked up tonight."

	Alan started back towards Ian, but Dunc and Evan pulled him along.
"We been stuck together on this Goddam campus too long," Evan said.  "We're
all getting on each other's nerves a bit."

	David snorted.  "There's an insight.  Wait till like February."

	Brady walked resolutely away back toward Geiger, poker faced but
yearning to beat the crap out of McShane.  Doug hid his anger less well,
his jaw set, the color rising on his high cheekbones.  Brady glanced over
at him.  God that's beautiful, he thought for a moment, before tearing his
eyes away hoping no one could notice.

	Lunch was a mass of whispered rumors about what was in store, none
of them good.  Vast quantities of Atomic Balm had supposedly gone missing
from the training room, all the fire extinguishers in the senior dorms had
been taken and filled with fish chum to spray on New Boy victims, there
were ropes hanging from the fly rails in the theatre, . . . .  Brady was
glad that he boarded the bus to Dumbarton right after lunch for the game,
if nothing else to escape the gossiping.

	Dumbarton was located in one of the tonier suburbs of Morris
County.  It was much larger than Wilson's campus, a vast expanse of open
lawns and deliberately understated clapboard buildings.  The football field
was immaculately groomed.  Even the locker room was comparatively plush -
brightly painted and well lit, without the vague smell of sweat and old
jocks that permeated the Wilson locker rooms.  McShane made his opinion
known that this was what a real school looked like, as opposed to Wilson's
shabby facilities.  Brady felt like telling him to go to fucking Dumbarton,
then, but again managed to hold his anger.

	The team's mood was nervous - a lot of the boys who had never
really played in a game were about to get their first extended experience.
Mr. Glendon was low key.  "This is a learning game for a lot of you, and I
only ask one thing: give it everything you have.  Passion and enthusiasm
are what make football players great, not necessarily being a good athlete.
Go out and attack."  Brady and Doug smiled slightly at each other.  Evan's
head was bobbing up and down.  Alan stared at the floor.  McShane's face
was already mottled.

	Wilson received the opening kickoff, and found the going easy
against Dumbarton's defense.  It took ten running plays to score.  Brady
felt as if he'd barely broken a sweat.  It proved equally easy to make a
defensive stand, and when they got the ball back the offense again ran the
ball down the field with that particular methodical cruelty that football
can be when one team is hopelessly overmatched.  By the time Jack Spencer
bulldozed through both of Dumbarton's inside linebackers for a six yard
touchdown, the first quarter was essentially over.

	Brady kicked the extra point, and Mr. Glendon called an unexpected
time out.  The team gathered around him.  "All right, gentlemen, time for
the nest unit to get some time in.  Good job in the first quarter, now take
a blow for a bit."

	Ian protested.  "We only played one quarter!!  Let's bury these
guys and then let the scrubs play!"

	"You call any of your teammates 'scrubs' again and you've played
your last down for me - are we clear?"  McShane's face reddened, and he
dropped his head.  "Sit down - now."  Mr. Glendon turned to the rest of
Brady's unit as the new kickoff team sprinted enthusiastically onto the
field.  He lowered his voice a bit.  "You boys are clearly better than
these guys, and you know it.  Right?"  Everyone nodded.  "OK, then. Let's
let some of the other boys have some fun.  This is where you need to be
cheerleaders for your teammates.  Be leaders."  He clapped his hands and
turned to the field, shouting encouragement at Terry Wolfsen, a smallish
podiatrist's kid from someplace in Ohio, who was about to kick off and
looked like he might not be up to the task.  Brady and Doug began yelling
to Terry as well, and the sheepish smile he gave in return made the whole
team break out in laughter.

	Terry's kickoff was, to be truthful, an awful shank, but it made it
to the Dumbarton 20 before it got picked up, and it took so long to run
down that there was essentially no return.  Brady and his teammates
clustered along the sideline clapping and shouting to the new players.  The
first two plays were not good.  The new boys were hesitant and timid, and
they got smacked hard.  Dumbarton made almost twenty yards.  Mr. Glendon
kept clapping for them.  "Conover, go in at right end and talk them up a
bit."

	Brady grabbed his helmet and sprinted to the defensive huddle as
the chain crew fumbled to reset the down markers.  Billy Hinchcliffe, who
was playing right end, looked like he was about to cry.  "They didn't even
run this way, Brady - it wasn't my fault!"  he protested.

	"Relax, Billy, it's only for one play, you're doing great."  He
smacked Billy on the backside and sent him to the sideline, where
Mr. Glendon pulled him into a hug and started talking intently into his
ear.  Brady turned to the huddle.  The boys were visibly upset and shaken.
"Hey, it's all right, you guys just need to settle down.  They're pussies,
OK?  Tony, what are we running this play?"

	Tony Gaetano - the hairiest boy Brady had ever seen, especially for
a high school freshman - looked uncertainly around the field, and at David
Hills, who stared back wide eyed and shook his head.  "Uh, right hashmark,
first down, midfield about, . . .  uh, Mike 5-2 left slant?"  He was more
hopeful than assured.

	"Perfect," Brady responded, and grinned all around.  He really
wasn't so sure about this - their faces were still ashen - but he knew he
had to pump them up somehow.  "OK, I'm buying a week of Cokes for the next
guy who makes a tackle for a loss.  Any takers? "  They started clapping at
that - which surprised Brady; it seemed so silly an offer - and Brady
thrust his arm into the center of the huddle as the referee blew play back
live.  "This play, we kick their asses.  Let's go!"  The rest of the boys'
hands piled in atop Brady's, and they broke the huddle with a shout.

	Dumbarton tried the same running play - a basic off tackle plunge -
that had given them success the previous two times.  But the defense now
was ready.  Tony Gaetano saw the quarterback's pivot back from center and
shot his gap He, the quarterback, and the running back met more or less
simultaneously, and the ball skittered away behind the resulting
collision. Brady, having shed the tackle blocking him, let out a whoop of
delight as Perry Berg, a pudgy defensive tackle who seemed always to finish
last in wind sprints, moved faster than he'd ever seen to fall on the ball.
The entire team began jumping up and down, cheering and slapping each
other.  Brady lifted Tony into a fierce hug, then pulled Perry to his feet.
"Great play, Perry!!!  You're like a cat!"  Perry laughed loudly, a free
and open laugh that held in it a tension release that was palpable.  Brady
turned and waved Billy Hinchcliffe back in.  "C'mon and play offense,
Billy, I need to rest!"

	On the sideline, Evan and Jack Spencer were leading one of the
school's odd yet compelling 1920's era cheers, with the entire first unit
shouting along hoarsely.  Doug slapped Brady's helmet as he reached the
sideline.  "Whatever you said, it worked!"

	Brady laughed.  "I offered to buy the next guy to make a good play
a Coke - is that weak or what?"  They giggled, watching the second unit
offense try a running play, with limited success.

	By halftime, the second unit had managed one touchdown, but had
given up two.  Ian McShane was pacing agitatedly about the locker room,
yelling at random people.  Brady discreetly followed him, along with Doug
and Evan, encouraging each member of the second team, and in not quite so
many words telling them to ignore McShane.  Mr. Glendon seemed pleased.
"You guys are learning fast, doing very well.  Now, let's talk about some
of what we missed that half."  What followed was a patient rehash of basic
position by position responsibilities, with Mr. Glendon conspicuously using
members of the first team as examples.  "Now when Conover, overpursued
here, he let that back get by to the inside for some yardage - right,
Conover?"

	"Yes, sir."  Their eye contact told Brady that he was being used as
an example for a reason.

	"All right, so when you're in, Hinchcliffe, you stay at home here.
You made the same mistake a couple of times and they got inside you just
like they did to Conover.  Stay at home, string it out to the sidelines,
let your teammates help," he emphasized, drawing long sweeping lines
outward towards the edge of the chalkboard.  Billy Hinchcliffe nodded
gravely.

	"All right, we're going with the same rotation this half.  Same
unit that started plays third quarter, and the other unit finishes it up.
Let's learn some things here today, gentlemen."

	As they started back onto the field, Brady heard Ian McShane
mutter, "Absolute fucking bullshit."

	The first team offense again moved the ball smartly down the field
to start the third quarter, after stopping Dumbarton's initial offensive
possession, and again did so without needing to pass the ball.  Jack
Spencer was trampling the linebackers.  They soon had a third down and
short yardage play on the Dumbarton 36.  "OK," Evan said in the huddle,
"let's have a little fun.  Dive 34 fake, slant short 9."  He looked at
Brady.  "They've been seeing the belly play all day, the backers'll bite so
hard on it you'll be in the end zone before they even realize it was a
fake."  Brady grinned, the rest of the guys let out a whoop, and they broke
the huddle enthusiastically.

	Evan was right.  Brady had no one anywhere near him as he slanted
sharply over the middle.  Evan's pass was chest high, and Brady caught it
easily, splitting the safeties who had likewise bought the run fake and
charged the line at the snap.  Brady was laughing as he sprinted easily to
the end zone, but became confused as he heard whistles behind him.  He
crossed the goal line and turned.

	Two referees were trying to pull Ian McShane off a Dumbarton
player, Ian had a firm grip on the boy's face mask, and seemed determined
to yank it, the attached helmet, and possibly the enclosed head, off.
Mr. Glendon and the Dumbarton coach were running toward the scene,
Mr. Glendon's face red.

	One of the referees took the ball from Brady.  "The score won't
count, son, the penalty is before the play was over.  And your guard there
is going to sit the rest of the day."

	Ian was finally disentangled from the Dumbarton player- a smallish
boy who, with his helmet off, looked abashed to be part of the whole
situation, and vaguely frightened.  Ian was shouting various obscenities at
him, ignoring Mr. Glendon's own angry yells.  "Get on the damned bus and
sit there - now!"  Mr. Glendon bellowed.  All the Wilson players froze -
they'd never heard Mr. Glendon utter any sort of swear word before.  Even
Ian was shocked.  He stared a moment at Mr. Glendon, suddenly silent, then
strode off the field toward where the bus was parked on the far side of the
gymnasium.

	Brady was back by the line of scrimmage now, and saw Doug shaking
his head.  "He just lost it on that guy," Doug said, "Started punching him
and pulling him by the face mask.  No idea what made him do it."

	Mr. Glendon was apologizing to the Dumbarton freshman coach "Frank,
you know that isn't how we play ball at Wilson."

	"I do know that, Tom.  I had the refs warn you about that boy in
the first quarter - he's been punching groins and doing dirty things like
that all day.  I'd hoped you would talk to him."

	"I did.  It didn't get through, clearly.  Look, that was his last
game in a Wilson uniform, I promise you.  Is your boy all right?"

	"I think so.  I want to have the trainer look at him.  Neck stuff
can be tricky."

	The game resumed, but the fire was gone from the Wilson side.  They
were embarrassed.  The Dumbarton team, by contrast, was infuriated, and
began playing aggressively.  They scored against the first team on their
ensuing possession, and were driving again when the quarter ended.

	"All right, second unit, let's go see if you can get some momentum
back for us!"  Mr, Glendon shouted, clapping his hands.

	Brady couldn't stand it.  "Sir, can we just stop this drive?  I
know we can. And - "

	"Conover, your unit failed.  You're all responsible.  I promised
the other group this quarter and they're getting it.  I know this isn't
your fault, son, but I'm keeping my word."

	The look on Mr. Glendon's face was resolute, but shadowed.  He and
Brady both knew what was going to happen.

	The second unit proved totally unable to stem the tide.  Dumbarton
scored three touchdowns in the fourth quarter, winning the game easily.
Brady and his unit kept as much encouraging cheering up as they could, but
their hearts weren't in it any more.  When the game ended, the second unit
players trudged back to the sideline disconsolately.  Tony Gaetano looked
like he wanted to cry. Dennis Hills, his face blotchy and scratched, was in
tears.  Billy Hinchcliffe sniffled as he approached Brady.  "I'm sorry, I
tried, we all tried so hard -"

	Brady patted him on the shoulder.  "It's OK, Billy, I know you did.
It's OK, really."  He managed to sound happier than he was.

	Mr. Glendon gathered them together.  "All right, we got taken out
of our game today, and it cost us.  That's our own fault.  Bad things
happen in a game, and you can't lose your focus, or give your opponent a
rallying point.  We did both today, and it cost us a win we should have
had.  But I'm proud of the way out second unit played, no matter the score.
You all learned a lot, and got better as the game went on.  There'll be
other days, and we'll be a better team for this."  For once, Brady wasn't
buying it: they'd lost, and it hurt.

	Ian McShane was at the back of the bus, still in full pads, when
the team got back on.  No one sat with him.  He avoided all eye contact.
The ride home was deathly silent.

	Mr' Glendon took Ian with him as soon as the bus got back to
campus, to see Coach Drake or Dean Storeman or something, Brady guessed (or
hoped).  Not having him around loosened the team up a bit, and by the time
they had finished showering, some of the second unit players were talking
proudly about plays they'd made.  Brady, Doug, Evan, Alan, Jack and the
rest of the first unit did their best to remain encouraging, but
occasionally would make eye contact with each other and see the
disappointment in each other's faces.  After the Summerton game, Brady had
felt that no freshman team could ever beat them.  They'd go undefeated for
sure.  But they'd lost, and to a team that Brady knew was hugely inferior
to them.  It was painful, and galling.

	They were back and cleaned up in time for dinner that night, but
Brady wasn't in an eating mood.  Mr. Taber briefly indicated he knew what
had happened.  Mercifully, the others at the table didn't press for
details.

	David waited for him downstairs.  "Hey," he said quietly.  "I'm
really sorry.  Ian fucked things up, huh?"

	Brady found himself walking even faster than David, for once.  "He
- he just, like, blew up.  I dunno what set him off, he just tried to kill
this kid, and the refs couldn't get him to stop and even Glendon barely
could.  I - I just got no fuckin' idea what happened.  And - it just - we
like died after that.  They got pissed, and we were, I dunno, embarrassed
or something.  We should've won by like twenty points or something."

	Dunc ran up beside them.  "Ian's off the team, did you hear?
Glendon kicked his ass off.  And he may have another DC for what he did,
too."  He seemed about to dance for sheer joy, until he saw Brady's face.
"Sorry, Bray, I guess today still kind of sucked, huh?"

	"You said it."  He sighed.  "But we'll do better."

	"You're a better team with him gone, Brady," David said.

	"I guess.  I'm just still pissed over it all."  He sighed again.
"I'll get over it."

	"Conover!"  Brady turned to see Brendan McCcracken striding towards
him, his tie blowing over his shoulder in the chilly evening wind.  "Heard
today went not so well."

	"That's an understatement," Brady answered.

	McCracken nodded.  "You get those days.  Just wanted to tell you -
Fieldstone and I expect you in the front row tonight.  Understood?"

	"Right."  He'd forgotten about Kangaroo Court.  He was suddenly
conscious again of his beanie cap.  He'd warn it for how many weeks now,
ever since school had started.  It felt like part of him now, but tonight
was its last night on his head.  That was a weird idea.

	Back in their room, David counseled him.  "Wear something crappy,
in case they really go after you."

	Brady was used to the theatre being a somber place, with the boys
gathered politely for assemblies where Leeds would drone on about school
rules and various other deathly boring subjects.  Tonight the place was
electric, with the Old Boys packing in the rear rows and balcony, leaving
the front rows for the New Boys in their caps and mismatched socks.  Brady
nervously chose a seat by the aisle in the front row, conscious of
McCracken's directive.  Doug sat next to him, and they unconsciously
huddled against each other as the din increased.

	Bill Fieldstone finally walked onto the stage, wearing a black
choir robe, and the Old Boys hooted and cheered.  "This is the last night
of New Boy Rules," he intoned, and this time it was the New Boys who let
out a cheer.  "But before they pass, we need to mete out a little justice,
and recognize a few of our New Boy Cavaliers, who've made themselves
conspicuous these first few weeks of their careers at Wilson."  More
cheers.  "All right, we start off with best singers.  Creed, Garreston,
Black, and Stenkowski, front and center.  Doug glanced at Brady,
frightened.  Brady shrugged with a slight smile and patted his leg.  He had
a momentary flashing desire to caress it, but held back.  The group slowly
assembled onstage, where the curtains had by now been drawn back, revealing
a number of seniors, including McCracken, all wearing black robes similar
to Fieldstone's.  The groups assembled center stage, glancing at each other
nervously.  "All right, let's have a strong chorus for once, you guys!"
The Old Boys began making a huge racket as the boys, glancing at each
other, started trying to sing.  They were pretty awful, and Brady found
himself laughing along with the rest of the boys.

	Suddenly McCracken and three other seniors slipped up behind each
of the boys on stage and plastered them in the face with towels filled with
shaving cream.  The cheers were deafening as the boys reacted, doubling
over, spluttering, stumbling, and trying with only limited success to wipe
at least their eyes clean.  All were laughing hard.  Evan wiped a large
handful of cream off his face and threw it at McCracken, who pulled a can
of Foamy from his pocket and sprayed him in the face.  The din grew even
louder, if that was possible.  The seniors then handed the boys towels,
clapping them on the back, and led them to the stairs and off the stage.

	Doug was still laughing as he sat back down next to Brady.  He was
a mess, with shaving cream across his shirt and still under his chin.
Brady again resisted the effort to touch him, to help clean him up.
McCracken was now calling some other boys to the stage, as Doug flicked a
dab of shaving cream at Brady.  "Was that as dumb looking as it felt?"

	"Well, it was pretty funny," Brady answered, watching as a New Boy
who was a junior, who had apparently refused to follow some seniors'
orders, had a large can of what appeared to be maple syrup thrown over his
head.  "I wonder what they have in store for me."

	"It'll be fine, Fieldstone and McCracken are cool.  Poor Vic was
ready to piss his pants going up there, but I told him it was gonna be OK."
They looked over to the right side seats, where Vic Stenkowski was wiping
himself clean and jabbering excitedly to anyone in the vicinity, looking
more animated than Brady had seen him all year.

	The evening proceeded in much the same fashion.  Various New Boys
were called to the stage, to recite school facts or sing the fight song,
only to be shaving creamed or otherwise get something dumped on him.
Fieldstone seemed to have some clever and funny line to say about everyone,
and the proceedings became more lighthearted as the New Boys realized they
weren't going to get paddled or anything.  About forty minutes in,
McCracken stepped forward.  "OK, we need to deal with this right now.
Conover, step up here!"  Brady heard the boys roar their approval as he
rose, Doug clapping him on the back, and Fieldstone laughing easily.  His
robe by now had several shaving cream blotches on it.  McCracken's looked
like it had been through a barbershop war.

	As Brady walked onto the stage, Fieldstone stepped toward him,
dropped a water balloon down his back inside his shirt, and slapped it
hard.  It burst, and Brady felt the flood of water down his back and into
his jeans.  Several of the seniors behind him threw balloons at him,
dousing him thoroughly from behind.  Brady, cringing, found himself
laughing.  McCracken stepped to his side.  "Now this New Boy, they tell me,
plays tight end!"  The crowd jeered.  "And they tell me his team beats
other schools' varsity teams, too!  I'm not so sure I like that."  More
raucous noise.  "I like my job on the team, Conover, and don't you forget
it."

	Brady was laughing nervously.  "Yes, sir," he managed to giggle
out.

	"Oh, he's laughing, is he?  Laugh at this!"  Suddenly McCracken
grabbed him and pinned his arms to his side.  Fieldstone ran up and shoved
two cans of Foamy into the front of his pants and started spraying.  Brady,
helpless, laughed so hard he almost cried, squirming in vain as the shaving
cream filled the front of his pants and ran down his legs.  It took nearly
a minute to empty the cans completely, by which time drools of cream were
appearing around his ankles.  When the cans were finally empty, Fieldstone
pulled them out, squeezed the nozzles to demonstrate to the crowd that they
were indeed used up, and tossed them away.  McCracken released Brady, who
stood oddly bowlegged.  He had no idea how to walk in this condition.

  	Then McCracken slapped the front of his pants, causing a couple of
spurts of shaving cream to fly out, upwards, coating Brady's chest and the
underside of his chin.  The laughter that caused was riotous.  Brady was
blushing, but also giggling helplessly.  He slapped his pants himself a
couple more times to show the spurting better.  "He likes it!!!"
Fieldstone shouted, grinning salaciously, and the boys hooted back.
"G'wan, Conover, go try to sit down," Bill said to him with a sly grin.
Brady waddled to the stairs, shaking his lags in an effort to shed some of
the shaving cream from his pants before he hit the stairs.

	Sitting back down was a squishy process, and more shaving cream
drooled out of his pants onto his belly as he did so.  Doug was in tears.
"Oh God, Bray, that was funny!  You shoulda seen your face, when it was
like you were coming in your pants and shooting all over the place!!"  Evan
was pounding his shoulder, also in hysterics.  Brady felt a mix of slight
embarrassment and a glow of belonging.  He hadn't been mocked, he'\d been
teased, like a friend would, He'd been through a sort of passage, a ritual,
and he hadn't even realized it.  He was part of the place now.  Pride
stirred in deeply in him.

	The rest of the hour passed in much the same manner, though no one
else was singled out the way Brady had been.  At the end, the New Boys rose
as a group and sang the school fight song, with the seniors onstage
conducting them.  As people began to disperse, Bill Fieldstone appeared.
"Have fun there, Conover?"

	Brady blushed.  "That was really funny.  Um, thanks, too.  I was
kind of scared that you guys were really gonna do something radical to me
or - well, you know. , , , something."

	Fieldstone waved his hand dismissively - a feminine gesture, Brady
thought.  "Nah, there wasn't anybody this year who pissed off the seniors
like last year, so we went pretty easy.  Besides, Leeds was pissed after
last year so we had to tone things down some.  Gersten deserved a lot more
than maple syrup, believe me, but we went easy."

	As Brady turned to leave, Ian McShane shoved his way up to
Fieldstone.  "What the fuck, you call that a Kangaroo Court?  What kind of
bullshit is this, Fieldstone?"

	Bill returned Ian's angry gaze coolly.  "If you're pissed off that
no one got all that you did last year, Ian, blame yourself.  You earned
every bit of what you got.  How's football going, by the way?"

	This question clearly infuriated McShane.  "Fuck you, Fieldstone."
He shouldered his way back into the crowd.  Fieldstone shrugged at Brady,
smiled slightly, and walked away.

	David was waiting for Brady, Doug and Evan at the exit.  "Have fun,
guys?"  They walked back to Linsley at a relaxed pace (unusual for David),
laughing and rehashing the events of the evening.  The air was cool, damp,
portending more rain.  Faded brown and orange leaves were plastered to the
flagstone sidewalks.  Brady's pants made occasional liquid noises as they
walked, to general amusement.

	The tension the next morning was visceral.  Classes passed quickly
and unremembered.  Brady wolfed down his lunch, not even listening to the
conversations at his table.  Mercifully, Mr. Taber was out helping prepare
the PA system and other stuff for the game.  The sky was leaden grey,
threatening to pour at any moment.  He passed Brendan McCracken as they
left the dining hall, and saw the faraway fixed look in his eye.  He knew
better than to speak to him.

	A fine drizzle began falling by the time that Brady and David,
along with Doug, Evan, Jerry Goldman, and the rest of the crew, walked out
to the football field and crowded into the stands.  Brady was surprised by
how many adults - alumni, he supposed - were there, many in jacket and tie
(the school blazer and necktie being especially favored apparel).  As the
teams warmed up, a helicopter swung low and landed on the JV soccer field,
disgorging a small party of smartly dressed men who were already visibly
tipsy.  "That's Schornavacchi," David explained.  "They own a shitload of
racing horses over in Colt's Neck.  Their kids all went here."

	Brady nodded.  I've heard of them.  They're like Mafia, aren't
they?"

	Tony Gaetano gave Brady a friendly shove.  "There is no such t'ing,
as de Mafia,' he intoned in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent.  Tony already
had a thick dark beard that looked like it needed shaving constantly.  The
line, and the way he looked saying it, cracked them all up.

	"So Tony, what's your dad do, anyway - plant bodies for the Columbo
family?"  Evan Creed asked in a fake innocent tone.

	"Highly classified,' Tony laughed in response.  "But if I told you,
I'd have to kill you, OK?"

	Their banter continued, with none of them wanting to admit their
nervousness.  The time was almost upon them.

	The drizzle intensified as the game started.  Dumbarton's varsity
looked little better than their freshman team had been.  Brady recognized
all three of their plays as they gained little yardage against the Wilson
defense after receiving the kickoff, with McCracken sacking their
quarterback on a third and long.  Wilson's offense took over near midfield,
and ground toward the end zone, with the boys' excitement growing with each
play.  Then, on a quick slant intended for McCracken, the ball was tipped
and intercepted.  Groans rose to the heavens.  Dumbarton managed a couple
of first downs this time before stalling.  Brady noticed that Stud Douggie
was only put in on occasional pass rush downs.  Mostly he sat alone on the
bench.

	On their next offensive possession, Wilson left nothing to chance.
They ran the ball again and again, pummeling the Dumbarton defense and
moving inexorably down the field.  The small Dumbarton contingent behind
the other sideline grew desultory and silent.  Brady and Doug were hopping
up and down, screaming.  Raskauskas was already making their secondary
dread hitting him.  He finally broke loose around left end, along the
Wilson sideline, for a thirty some yard touchdown run, the team waving him
on, and the boys in the stands cheering deafeningly.

	As he dropped the ball to the ground after scoring, New Boys poured
out of the stands and crossed the track, throwing their beanies into the
space behind the end zone, hopping to peel off damp purple and gold socks
to add to the debris.  They were New Boys no more.  They shouted, they
danced, they hugged each other randomly, fists pumping skyward.  The extra
point was forgotten amid the tumult.

	Brady stood alone for a moment, barefoot amid the wet grass and
discarded socks and beanies, panting.  Doug strode over to him, his face
beaming more than even Brady had ever seen it.  Brady's heart melted as
Doug grabbed him into a fierce embrace.  "Bray, Goddam, I love this," he
whispered into Brady's ear, his hair tickling Brady's nose.  Brady inhaled
the scent of him and hugged back, yearning to kiss him and tell him all he
felt.  He never wanted to let go.  "I never thought I'd love it like this,
Bray." He pulled back, still holding Brady by the sides.  "Isn't this
great?"

	Brady pulled him back into his arms, not daring to do any more.
Was he hard?  Were they both hard?  What was real, what was he saying, or
doing, or letting slip?  "It's great," he finally managed to whisper into
Doug's damp brown curls.  They smelled so much like him, intoxicating.  "I
love it too.  I love it so much."