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Email feedback can be sent to trager2275@gmail.com. © 2015 by Eric Trager.
CHAPTER ONE
"God damn it!"
The blaring alarm clock takes the brunt of the foregoing exclamation and a pretty good swat on the snooze button as 6:30 a.m. is really not a proper hour to wake up a 17-year-old on Summer vacation.
Never mind, he reasons - it's the hour he picked and it is what it is – time to get his ass out of bed and go for the standard morning run to keep in shape for the upcoming Football season.
Pre-season practice starts in late August, which is only a three-and-a half weeks away, anyhow, right?
Sean Branson Wyman – he always thought his middle name a little odd although it had been his mother's maiden name - peals the covers back and swings his legs out of bed, with the rest of his half-sleepy body reluctantly following.
Sean's pretty sure Dad's gone to work already and he's used to doing mornings alone.
A couple of stretches to sweep out the cobwebs, a good piss, and he's ready to go - pulling on a jock strap, running shorts, a loose, white wife-beater and his running shoes.
A quick look in the mirror is not dissatisfying to Sean – according to his last year's athletic physical, he stands six feet even, and with almost shoulder-length golden blonde hair is a supple, yet fit 180lbs.
Sapphire eyes accent his almost impossibly high cheekbones, and are set aside a perfectly proportioned straight nose following into a square jaw and a mouth that, more easily than Sean likes, goes into a default toothy, impish grin that along with his mischievous eyes is often mistaken for a smirk if you don't know him.
He admires his hairy, muscular legs, and the manly chest hair that moves down to a darker, thicker treasure trail. Smooth Sean is not – and he likes that.
Sean knows he's got to keep in good shape over the Summer – next year will be his Junior year at Tremper Senior High and he's got a lot on his shoulders.
Tremper is a huge school with almost 2,500 students, but out of all of them last year in October Sean was - in his mind anyway, for better or worse - thrust into the limelight when the Football team's starting quarterback, Senior Steve Gimmel, was badly injured in the third quarter of the game against crosstown arch-rival Bradford High.
As backup quarterback – although only a Sophomore – it was on Sean, as Gimmel's back-up, to take over the team's offense.
The Head Coach, a crusty, corrugated old guy by the name of Irv Anderson who Sean thought must be older than dirt told Sean gruffly, "Wyman, it is what it is. It's up to you now – we got three games left and it's on you, kid. Time to grow up and act like a man."
Sean guided the Trojans to victory that night. The score was in Tremper's favor 24- 21 when Sean took over and they won the game 38-28. He threw for one touchdown and ran another one in from the 4-yard line.
In his first huddle as quarterback, Sean carefully studied the circle of his older teammates looked each of them in the eye and simply asked of them, "Believe in me!"
After the game Sean was pleased when his teammates slapped him on the back, fist- bumped, chanting "We believe in you!" and when Coach Johnson came up, shook his hand and said, "Holy crap! You were as cool as an ice cube out there, Wyman!"
For the remaining games, Coach Anderson modified the offensive plays a little bit to compensate for Sean's relative inexperience, but Sean had an arm, good field smarts – and what's more, Sean was totally unflappable. Sean acquitted himself well in the remaining three games of the season – what was he supposed to do, fuck it up?
The Tremper Trojans varsity football team ended up winning two of their last three games and with that the conference championship. The game that was lost was a non-conference game against another Division I school, Janesville Craig, and that game Tremper only lost 21-17 playing away in Janesville instead of at home.
Going into his Junior year, Sean was pretty sure that it would be on him again to be the starting quarterback. He knew as well as anyone else that in High School coaches a lot of the time play favorites, he was the favorite, and there didn't look to be any real competition for the job on the horizon. He reasoned that competition would probably have to come from a Senior or another Junior, but there didn't appear to be any Seniors, or Juniors looking for the job, or cut out for it. He pretty much dismissed the possibility of a challenge from a Sophomore as none of the guys who would be Sophomores in the coming year had the combination of size, talent and experience that Coach would look for.
Sean didn't mind his football situation – he pretty much had it made.
Sometimes, though, he did mind other things in life. Dad was on him abut his grades which although standing a solid 3.900, and with all the AP classes to boot, were right on the edge of what he needed to get him into the University of Wisconsin-Madison where his Dad went and was one of the top schools in the country – a "Public Ivy."
And Sean knew his Junior year would be his toughest one academically, too, having got past the Sophomore classes, Junior year is when the course-work gets more advanced - not easier – and by the time you're a Senior it's too late – you already have to apply to college.
Dad was determined that Sean would go to Madison, and what's more go to the School of Business. It was just one of those things that Dad's do Sean thought to himself, but at the same time told himself, "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."
At the same time, Sean felt something else tugging at his brain: "Can't I just be myself?" Sean thinks. "Can't I just do what I need to do? I know there's a lot more to do after High School determining the rest of my life, not being the starting Quarterback, not being popular – I never sought popularity. Can't I just be ME? School of Business: maybe, maybe not. Can't I figure this out on my own?"
Sean knew that for the time being the answer was "no" and he did what he always did being the low-maintenance guy he was: he took mental inventory of the situation, weighed up what was most likely versus what was unlikely to happen and simply got on with the job.
In life Sean was exactly the same as he was on the football field: he didn't get rattled.
Sean wasn't shy in any way, but he was a more aloof than someone in his position might be expected to be. While friendly, Sean wasn't always the first to start conversations with others, didn't go out of his way to be loud, or brash at parties, didn't chase girls, didn't drink until he passed out, or puked, wasn't really part of any certain clique, and he was content with that. More than once, he'd been told or overheard others saying that he was a mellow guy.
Sean's motto was, "You can observe a lot just by watching."
His one vice was that he'd sometimes hang with the school stoners – or at least the stoners who had jobs, or good grades and weren't total losers - in getting high.
For Sean, that was more of a release than anything else, and truthfully, Sean enjoyed variation in company and time away from his jock friends was fine with him – it gave him a different window on the world.
After stretching on the front lawn, Sean was now off for his standard morning run which took him through the tree-dappled morning sunlight of his upper middle- class neighborhood and then he turned east toward Lake Michigan where his route took him past the sand beaches, the white caps and the gulls – the scenery made the drudgery of the run effortless.
Two miles down, then two miles back and a mile each way to and from the Lake made for a good workout.
"Hey WYMO!!!" pierces Sean's ears as he nears the turn-around point of his route.
"Fuck!" thinks Sean, "I know who that is – it's that fucktard Braden, the dumb fuck! Christ, out of all the people I didn't want to run into this morning!"
Sure enough, Mark Braden's car pulls up and stops. "Hey, Brade!" says Sean, "What's up?"
Mark Braden was the Center on the Football team, a Senior in the coming year and was just the kind of person to set Sean's teeth on edge. Big at about 6'3", a little tubby, pimply face, not attractive, loud, boorish and in Sean's opinion downright stupid – with pasty light brown hair that appeared to be stuck to his head with body oil. Braden was what Sean termed "fugly."
Braden was also a bit of a bully. Sean in his uncomplicated way simply categorized Braden as "an asshole" and had absolutely as little to do with him as was possible.
"Not much" says Braden. "Hey, didn't see you over at the party last night. Couple o' those fags from school showed up. I ran `em off, though. Damn near gave one o' them fuckers a swirly!"
"You're a fuckin' class act, Brade, I tell ya!" Sean said with an eyeroll while running in place and with his trademark smirk, which Braden mistook as a friendly gesture.
All the while Sean was thinking, "What a cunt!"
Sean knew he couldn't afford to make an enemy of Braden, though, as he needed him at the Center position this year. For all his repulsiveness, Braden at least was an excellent Center.
"OK, well, see ya, Brade – I gotta keep movin' here and you're blocking traffic! Have a good one!"
"See ya, Wymo!" and with that, Braden grinned, rolled up the window and sped off.
"Douche bag!" Sean spat with another eyeroll.
He hadn't bothered to tell Braden that instead of going to the party he hung at Andy Churchill's place that night.
Andy was the school pot dealer and despite what connotation that brought, Andy was a stand-up guy, and in fact one of the nicest guys around. Sean and Andy had been friends since Kindergarten, and although traveling sometimes in somewhat different circles during their late teenage years, their friendship had endured as it always had been. Both were only children, although Andy ended up with two younger stepbrothers when his mom remarried after his dad died. Sean and Andy, at least subconsciously, regarded each other as the brother they never had.
Churchill was one of those guys that Braden and some of his buds sometimes taunted by exaggeratedly whispering "faaaaag" whenever they saw him around at school and especially in the gym locker room.
That bothered Sean, who – in his ever clear-headed way - simply thought such inane behavior was uncalled for.
For Andy's part, he knew that the Braden gang ended up buying his weed anyway through a third party, and what they didn't know didn't hurt `em. Besides, money is color-blind: it's always green.
Andy made sure he got his fair profit margin out of it, too, and never said a word – he was the kind of guy who in his low-key, un-flashy way would have the last laugh and you'd never know it.
Sean wondered what would make the idiot Braden use the "faaaaag" taunt against Andy anyway – Andy was about 5"10" and 160lbs, with a lean, swimmer's build, dark ash blonde hair and brown eyes.
Anyone who knew Andy knew that he was probably going to end up being a builder and there was absolutely nothing feminine about him.
True, Andy Churchill never had a girlfriend, and didn't chase girls, but he didn't chase guys, either, and there was nothing saying he was gay.
Sean turned down the main road that took him back to his street and just then realized that he had forgotten his cell phone when he started out. "Oh, well, who was I gonna call anyway?" he thought as he ran up the driveway toward the front of the pretty, cedar-shingled Tudor-style home that he and his Dad called home.
Sean's mother died fairly suddenly four years ago of ovarian cancer – six months from diagnosis to her death – at the age of 41, and while Sean cherished her memory, the veil of time allowed Sean enough healing so that he was at least able to accept that we're all born with a number and when it's up, it's up.
The Doctors had done everything they could, but in the end, it was what it was.
Every so often, Sean would visit the cemetery, finding his mother's headstone which read, "Valerie Wyman, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1968-2009" just to lay some flowers there and to let her know what was going on in his life.
That was all he could do.
And more often than not, when Sean was done filling his mom in on the latest happenings in his life, a single teardrop would grace his cheek.
It still hurt some.
To all who knew her, Val Wyman was exceptional. She was truly elegant: her blonde hair was always flawlessly done, she dressed as sharp as if she was about to meet the Queen of England even if she was vacuuming the house, her dinner parties were renowned, she loved to travel and entertain, a sparking conversationalist with diamond-like eyes, a million-dollar smile, and she never had a bad word to say, at least publicly, about anyone, and nothing – nothing – ever got under her skin.
On her deathbed she privately told her then-13-year-old Sean, "I gave you half of me on the day you were born. You are my son – when I am gone I will always be your guardian angel. I am your mother and mothers know everything, don't you forget that. You are a good son, Sean, and I am proud of you in every way."
She clasped his 13-year-old hand and went on, "Don't worry about me, sweetheart – you just take care of yourself and of Dad – and don't despair, for you have my strength and steadiness. It is what it is, and when it is your time I shall see you in Heaven. This isn't good-bye, this is just `I'll see you on the other side.' You be true to yourself, my boy. I love you."
If Sean inherited his personality from anyone, it was from his mother, Val. At her funeral, Sean's dad summed it up: "Val knew with equal ease how to win, and how to please."
Sean walked twice around their large home in order to cool down from his run and to not let his muscles suddenly stop working – often if he didn't do that he'd get painful cramps in his calf muscles and thighs.
Walking into the house, he spied his cell phone on the breakfast counter where he'd forgotten it.
An alert on the screen told him he had a text message.
It was from his Dad, and read, "ub home 6pm 2day we need 2 talk."
"KK" Sean texted back.
END CHAPTER ONE.