Date: Sat, 1 Jul 2017 10:13:56 +0000
From: revjpgibson@hotmail.com
Subject: Under the cherry tree chapter 15

			   UNDER THE CHERRY TREE
				    By
		  Rev. Jesse Penfield Gibson, MDiv, DMin



Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.  The characters and situations are
purely imaginary.  Any resemblence to any living persion is coincidental.
This story is primarily a romance but does contain some scenes of explicit
sex, primarily homosexual but not exclusively.

Complaints, compliments and comments to revjpgibson@Hotmail.com

Please remember to give to Nifty to keep the stories coming


					FIFTEEN

	Surprisingly, Xander made to the mandatory hall meeting for Spring
Semester but we didn't talk.  I did wonder idly who had told him about it
since he had been a ghost since we broke up.  It was clear from the way
Chip talked to him that he had noticed that Xander effectively had moved
out of the dorm which is actually a violation of the policy.  However,
Chip, to his credit, didn't push the point; I'm sure he was relieved that
he didn't have to deal with conflict between him and Carter.  He stayed
away from me and Robbie, who had made it clear that he didn't care for him.

	Carter asked me to help him with math, to tutor him.  He was
struggling with algebra.  I agreed a little reluctantly because I felt
sorry for him.  He had really not made any friends on the hall and I saw
him some eating alone.  He had, at first, been hanging around the BSU types
a good bit but when I saw him now he was generally alone.  Apparently, he
had withdrawn from that social circle and was seriously becoming a hermit.
I can't say that I really liked him because he had always been pretty
judgmental but, lonely and alone, I could tell he was miserable.

	He was bad at math.  I tried to explain the logic of it to him but
it seemed to go over his head.  That frustrated me because the thing I like
the best about math is the beauty of the logic.  For me, the rules just
made perfect sense.  He seemed to think that they were just arbitrary
things that you had to remember rather than being immutable principles.
However, once I convinced him that there was a reason for every rule, he
did better.  I was explaining, for the third time, the use of the quadratic
equation when I noticed a book on the spare desk that should have been
Xander's.  It was folded open about halfway through and was titled
"Buddhism for Beginners".  I picked it up and looked at it.

	"So what's this?" I asked him.

	"It's just something I'm reading," Carter replied as he bit his lip
and appeared to concentrate on the problem before him.  But I saw him peek
up at me.

	"Thinking about converting?"  I teased him

	"No.  To be honest, Xander gave it to me.  I was asking him some
questions and I was curious, that's all."

	I sensed that there was more to it than that.  "And what do you
think about it?"

	He stopped what he was doing and thought carefully about his
response before answering.  "There are some appealing things about it.  I
like that they don't seem to think that they have a monopoly on truth for
one thing.  That uncertainty and doubt aren't considered weaknesses or sin.
Then there are a lot things that I don't agree with, too.  I've been
thinking about things a lot lately.  Considering some things."

	"Such as?"

	He exhaled a long sigh.  "For one thing, I've always been taught
that the way to heaven is through Jesus Christ and that's the only way.
You can live a life of evil and sin but if you have a death bed conversion
you still get to go to heaven.  On the other hand, you can be very moral,
kind, generous, whatever but if you don't have a personal relationship with
Jesus Christ you go to hell for all eternity.  That's what we were taught
and I never questioned it.  The Buddhists believe in a universe where
everybody gets what they deserve in the end, good or bad.  It's a troubling
distinction."

	I thought about it and agreed.  "It does seem ...arbitrary?"

	"Yeah."

	He seemed content to leave it there.  But for whatever reason, I
wasn't.  I think that part of the reason was that when I came out, he had
made it a point to condemn me and quote scripture at me.  But another part
was that there was clearly more going on with him than he was willing to
say out loud.  In a way, I recognized that I might be the perfect sounding
board.  Our backgrounds were similar enough that I could relate to him and
I had been struggling a lot with my own faith and beliefs in light of my
sexuality.

	"Can I ask you something?  I've always heard that preacher's kids
were the wildest ones but that isn't true for you.  I've always kind of
wondered about that."

	He smiled ruefully.  "A preacher's kid gets to see the gap between
what's preached and what's practiced.  You get to see the whole range of
church hypocrisy.  The petty infighting that goes on has a direct effect on
your future.  Plus, there's the pressure to be perfect.  You can't even be
a normal kid because everybody's got their eyes on you.  And you read the
Bible and it has one message but the reality is that ministry is a
business, at least a little bit.  So, some kid's rebel, I think.  Kids like
me put their head down and conform."

	"I never thought of it like that.  Do you regret just conforming?"

	Carter looked sad.  "I didn't think I had another option.  Things
were really strict in my house.  Plus, you have to understand that a pastor
is always on call.  If you finally get a vacation and someone dies, you
have to come back.  The family takes second place to the congregation for a
lot of pastor's.  I think some kids rebel just so they can get some
attention."

	"And you didn't?" I asked him.

	"I didn't want the attention.  Getting my father's attention was a
bad thing."  Having met his father, I could see that.  I stayed silent and
he kept talking to fill the space.  "Don't get me wrong.  My father didn't
have a gap between what he preached and what he lives.  He preaches an Old
Testament, fire and brimstone, vengeful God and that's what he lives.  He's
not much on the love and forgiving spirit of God."

	"It's kind of sad," I said.

	He got up from his desk and went to sit on his bed.  He sat with
his feet wide apart, hands between his knees and head down.  "You know,
when you and Xander broke up, he was kind of lost.  We started talking
some.  I think he was trying to understand why you felt the way you did.
That's what got me to thinking."

	I got up and went to sit down beside him.  His unhappiness was
palpable.  It was so heavy on him that I was genuinely concerned.  He was
in a deep spiritual crisis.  I was worried where it might lead.  "You know,
maybe you ought to talk to somebody, like a counselor or something.  They
have people that can help you."

	"Yeah, maybe I will," he said, looking up at me.  "How's your new
boyfriend working out?"

	I knew he was through baring his soul to me.  He had said as much
as he wanted to say.  It was a strange segue because I knew he disapproved
of my `lifestyle' and now he was asking about it.  That didn't make sense
to me.  But since he asked and he was sharing his innermost thoughts, I
felt compelled to do the same.  "It's good, I think.  I think the part that
makes it work is that I know that it isn't forever.  He's going to graduate
and he all ready has this killer job with a big accounting firm in Atlanta
all set up.  By June, I'm history and he's history.  In a weird way, it
gives me confidence to be more myself.  Plus, with Xander it was just super
intense, you know?  This is more casual.  I don't have a lot of experience
being a boyfriend and I'm kind of learning how to do it with Reed.  I
wasn't ready for Xander's intensity."

	"Yeah," he said feebly, still holding his head down.  "He loves
you, though."

	"Not anymore I don't think," I replied, getting my stuff together.
"Listen, Carter.  We're friends so if you need somebody to talk to, I'm
just across the hall.  Maybe we ought to hang out some."

	"Yeah, maybe.  I'd like that," he said.

	Later on, I was I talking with Reed about tutoring Carter.  I had
gotten some pot from Tommy, who lives on my hall and who has become a
regular customer of Cass and Dex, and was sharing with Reed.  It was on a
Sunday and I had dedicated that day as a day of rest: nothing school
related.  Mainly I was telling him about the tutoring as a lead-in to how
depressed Carter was and how I was worried about it.  That is the sort of
thing that you should be able to share with your boyfriend.  But Reed
didn't let me get very far before he was jumping in to tell me that I
should charge him for the tutoring.

	"I was just helping a friend out." I protested, taking the pipe
from him.

	"I'm just saying that you could make some money at it.  When you're
a doctor are you going to charge people or are you going to do it for
free?"

	I blew out the smoke.  "In the first place, I'm not a hundred
percent sure that's what I am going to end up doing.  In the second place,
if I become a doctor, I'm sure that I will have to do some free care just
as a public service.  But that's not the point of what I was saying."

	"Money's not the point?  Money's always the point.  Money is what
makes the world go `round," he said as he lit another hit.

	"I'm pretty sure that's gravity.  What I was trying to tell you is
that he's become like a hermit, all depressed and stuff."

	Reed blew out the smoke.  "Too bad for him. But money is key."

	"There are some things more important than money, Reed," I said as
I got up from the chair and stood in front of the window, looking down at
the alley 4 stories below.

	"Like what?" He snorted.  "Money is how you keep score, man."

	I turned toward him.  "And when you die with the most money, what
do you win?"

	"I'm just saying," he replied, throwing up his hands. "You could
use the money.  You drive a 5 year old truck and wear knock off clothes.
You shouldn't turn down cold, hard cash."

	I turned back toward the window and steamed.  I was furious at him.
"And you're being a fucking asshole," I said to the window panes.

	"Don't take it like that," Reed said, getting up and coming behind
me, wrapping his arms around my waist.  "It's all good.  I was just trying
to help you.  You need to be realistic.  Brain power, intellectual capital,
is valuable and you have it in spades.  You need to exploit it."

	"And you're not increasing your chances of getting laid," I shot
back but the anger was starting to ebb.  He snuggled up to me as if to
apologize.  I reached back and rubbed the hair on his.  "The point was that
I am worried about this kid."

	"I'm sorry, okay?  Tell your RA.  That's what they want you to do
and it's his job to take care of things like that.  It's not like you're a
psychiatrist.  You can't fix it.  Tell the RA and he'll get him in with
counseling and shit."

	Despite the crappy way he got there, it was actually good advice.
Chip did need to know and I wouldn't feel right if Carter did something to
hurt himself and I had basically done nothing to help him.  Still, Reed's
constant fixation on money and status was beginning to wear thin.  I
understood that he was a business major and making money was his main goal
but he was overboard about it.  I'm not saying that I want to take a vow of
poverty but I do think that there are other values besides money that have
to be honored.  While I admit that part of my attraction to him is that he
dresses in good clothes and looks good in them, drives a fancy BMW and grew
up in big house, it's disappointing that I've yet to find anything deeper
in him.  In that sense, he is the opposite of Xander, who has layers and
layers of complexity, each one of them more disturbing than the last.
Maybe disturbing is the wrong word.  It is more accurate to say that with
him, I got to the point where I didn't want to know what the next layer
was.

	Reed knew that he had upset me, even if I think he didn't know why.
Suddenly he became solicitous and apologetic.  He tried to tease me out of
my funk with some wine, which I found sour and unappealing.  Inevitably,
though, I softened.  The pot made me horny and, like all males, I don't
think clearly when I'm horny.  We soon found ourselves on his double bed
with the 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, or maybe 800 count, I
don't know.  500 dollars is a lot to pay for sheets but they do feel nice.
Even though what we had wasn't really an argument, or not much of an
argument at any rate, there was an element of make-up sex about it.  I
don't know if make-up sex is the best sex but it is pretty good.

	We were soon naked.  We were both hard.  I went down on him, which
is something I have come to enjoy.  My technique has improved in only a few
months with steady practice being the key.  I think what I like about it is
that it is cool to know that you can give someone so much pleasure from
that one act.  I was trying to give all the sensitive areas a little
attention: the balls, the so-called taint, and of course his rigid member.
After licking up the shaft, I put him inside my mouth.  Reed reached down
and put his hands on my head, pushing me down on him.

	"That is so good," he panted as he made me take him to the root.
"Um, God, that feels good."

	I stroked myself as I did him.  I knew that a long, sensual screw
was not what I wanted or what I was going to get.  It was going to be much
more animalistic and I was okay with that.  In fact, I was more than okay
with it.  He pushed me off and made me lie on my stomach so he could
penetrate me.  Grabbing some lube, he slopped some around my asshole.

	"Condom," I had to remind him.  Lost in his passion, he would have
done me bareback.  Even though I am mostly a bottom and he is a total top,
I won't let him do it bareback.  It's too dangerous, even in the era of
good HIV drugs.

	"Oh, yeah. Sorry," he mumbled, fishing out a rubber and putting it
on.  Spreading my ass cheeks apart, he entered me in one smooth motion.
"Oh, God, you are so tight," he exclaimed.

	I threw my head back and groaned.  There is nothing quite like
getting fucked.  I felt so full and on fire.  I had once feared this but
now I yearn for it.  It feels incredible.  I could feel his body weight on
me as he fucked me in long, rhythmic strokes.  His hot breath on my neck.
They call it being sodomized but that doesn't do the feeling justice.  I
don't feel cheap, emasculated or anything that straight men think. I feel
alive and sexually energized. He was having his way with me and I didn't
want it any other way.  Reed got up on his hands, taking his weight off of
me, and began to slap it in hard.  Whether it was my dick rubbing against
the sheets or the sheer pleasure of my ass being filled, I shot a large
load in an amazing orgasm.

	I ended up sleeping in the wet spot.

	My FYS instructor was Jim McMahon, who teaches in the art school.
He required us to go to the Winter Student Show at the art school as a part
of the course.  The title of the course is "Engaging the World", and
naturally McMahon thought that art was a primary way that was done.
Personally I thought that he mostly just wanted to boost the attendance at
the show but all of us were used to the so-called "fourth hour" being used
by the instructor for some pet cause or project.  Apparently, we engaged
the world by being our instructor's pet monkey.  I had special reason for
not wanting to go: I thought Xander would be there.  McMahon warned us that
most of the art was from graduate students, patronizingly adding that it
might be more sophisticated than our present appreciation level was used
to.  I could have ditched it and probably gotten away with it but I didn't.
I am good student who does like he's told.  The fact that it was mainly
graduate students was reassuring.  I doubted that a freshman would have a
piece there.

	The show was held in Hardeman Hall.  The long lobby area, paneled
in dark wood and Victorian fixtures with cold marble floors, was devoted to
the art that didn't hang on walls or wasn't too big.  There was pottery,
glasswork, jewelry and small sculpture.  I was idly looking at things along
one wall, liking some and disliking others, when my hopes that Xander
wouldn't be represented were crushed.  I saw the glass ball, an oversized
marble, that I had held during our foray here being displayed.  I looked
around the lobby and didn't see him.  There were more people here than I
thought would be, some students but more older.  A little further down, in
a display case, was the small color shifting pendant.  That made two pieces
that they had placed.  McMahon had emphasized to us that this was a
refereed show, meaning that the pieces had been selected by a panel of
judges as the most worthy.

	Along the other wall was his third piece.  In a case was a gold
necklace with a strand of red glass woven through the links and a pendant
shaped like a cage with a red glass rose in it.  Beside it was the same
piece but hammered, smashed and mangled.  The small plaque read: "Love's
Labor's Lost.  Alexander Crowe.  Gold and Cranberry Glass."  Ruefully, I
thought that the Shakespearean reference was a nice touch.  I had
absolutely no doubt that he had done it in the immediate aftermath of our
break-up.  I wasn't flattering myself, just being realistic.  I could see
him doing that piece in the throes of one of his meltdowns.

	The paintings, prints and larger sculptures were in the Gallery
Room behind the information desk.  There was a general buzz in the room as
people chatted and admired the art, eating the small snacks provided.
There should have been wine but Willingham, being Baptist, is a dry campus.
I was wandering around when I saw it.  He had finished the painting that
consisted of the mass of short multicolored lines.  Close up, it just
looked like a mass of lines, a sort of abstract expressionist painting.
But if you backed up 5 feet or so, the picture came into focus.  It was
actually a picture of a nude teenage boy.  He had said it would be
brilliant and it was.  It worked as an abstract painting and, with the
optical illusion, as a representational piece.  I was floored by it and
thought it might be the rarest of artistic achievements: something really
original.

	Beside me was a middle-aged African-American woman dressed in a
gray skirt and blouse that was business attire and couture at the same
time.  She oozed elegance and sophistication.  "Simply amazing," is all she
said.

	Dr. McMahon walked over to where we were standing.  Ignoring me, he
addressed the woman.  "I see you picked it out right away.  Needless to
say, you have a good eye, Jillian."

	Gracefully, she acknowledged the flattery.  She looked at the card
beside the painting.  It was inscribed `Self Portrait. Alexander Crowe. Oil
on Canvas'.  Backing away again, she continued to stare at it.  "A freshman
painted this?"

	"Well, I think that this could only be painted by a younger
artist," Dr. McMahon opined.  "The physicality of it, the vigor, vibrancy,
defiance of convention: all hallmarks of the young."

	"There's not one 18 year old in a million with the technical
ability to bring it off," she declared.  I had to agree with her. I had
some idea how one 18 year old in particular had struggled with it and then
remembered that he solved the problem only in the throes of mania.  "Is
this a one-off production or does he have more?"

	"There's some jewelry pieces and glass. For some reason, he feels
compelled to waste time on them but there is another painting.  I have to
say there's only one other freshman in the entire show, who has a single
piece, and only one student all together with more pieces."

	She turned to him and seemed to want to ask a question.  Then she
caught herself and instead asked, "Are optical illusions his signature
device?"

	McMahon told her that he didn't think so but privately I wasn't so
sure.  The other painting that he did during that same manic spell, the
study in gray, was also essentially an optical illusion.  McMahon took her
several places down and showed her another painting.  I followed along
despite McMahon giving me the evil eye.

	"It must be a pleasure to teach a gifted student," Jillian said as
we walked.

	Dr. McMahon disagreed.  "A pleasure? I'll be bragging about for the
next twenty years, but I wouldn't say a pleasure.  He's willful, stubborn,
unfocused and undisciplined."

	"That sounds about right," Jillian remarked.

	We stopped in front of a painting dominated by the blacked out
human forms I had seen him draw before.  They seemed to be walking on an
invisible path snaking from the upper right to the bottom left.  The forms
were walking singly or holding hands, some running or skipping and others
seemed to be jumping. In the center was a nude male figure in color walking
away from the viewer, across the path and perpendicular to it, but turned
looking backwards, like Lot's wife.  It was a haunting picture.

	"Well, that's entirely different.  I think it's the mark of an
artist who hasn't completely found his voice yet," she said.  I bristled at
the implied criticism.  This one was as good as the other, as far as I
could see, just in a different way.  "Do you suppose that the figure in the
center is Christ, turning his back on mankind?"

	"Why would you go with a religious interpretation?"  I heard Xander
say behind us.

	The woman turned around.  "The figure has a gold halo around,
similar to Byzantine iconography."

	"Yeah, I knew that was too much when I did it," Xander admitted,
stroking his chin.  "Gotta learn to edit."

	"Ah, Xander.  This is Jillian Andrews, the curator of the Museum of
Contemporary Art," McMahon said, doing the introductions.

	"We've met," Xander replied.  "I got to hang out with Phillip
during New Year's."

	"And I don't think I want to know what you did either," she said
with a tight lipped smile.  "I had enough sleepless nights in high school
worried about what he was doing."

	I could see Dr. McMahon was confused and surprised.  Jillian turned
to him and said, "I was acquainted with Alex's mother, when our children
were young.  How is Kerry, by the way?  And the baby?"

	"Good.  She does interior design.  She's pretty good at it." Xander
said.  "But that's what we're calling it now, acquainted?  I had been
`acquainted' with Dylan when I painted this.  It was because of the
`acquaintance' that I painted it."

	I squirmed a bit at that.  He had marked me out. The figure was
lean with black hair and I could see that it was mostly likely me.  Jillian
turned and considered the painting again.  "A lost lover?  Well, it's very
good, Alex, but the subject seems a little puerile.  My initial take was to
give it greater profundity than it actually had."

	Xander turned to me.  "Should I be insulted by that?"

	"Puerile means adolescent, childish," I told him.

	"It's not intended as a personal criticism," McMahon jumped in,
laying his hand gently on Xander's shoulder.

	"Art should come from a real place.  Broken hearts are real"

	She nodded.  "I suppose that's true.  I really ought to see Kerry
while I'm in town."

	"She'd like that.  You were her favorite."

	Again, I thought she was about to say something and thought better
of it.  "Of course we'll want to get these for the museum.  Displaying the
artists of tomorrow is our mission.  I don't suppose the starving artist is
willing to donate them?"

	"You know how art works: you rip your soul to shreds and sell the
pieces for less than there worth."

	"2,500 a piece" she offered.  I was floored.  It was a lot of
money.

	"5 K a piece" Xander countered.  I could see that McMahon was
stunned that he would try to dicker with her, knowing that being put in a
museum was the launching point for his career.  McMahon clearly thought
that he should not be holding out for top dollar.

	"I can't do that.  That would take committee approval.  Why don't
we skip the tedious negotiation?  The bottom line is that I will pay 6500
in total and that includes the jewelry piece and the marble.  Not the
smashed up one because that is too much of theme with this painting.  Do we
have a deal?" she asked, sticking out her hand.

	Xander took it.  "Deal."

	"Good," Jillian said.  Then she hesitated again.  "There are a lot
of things that I would like to say to but I guess I forfeited that
privilege a long time ago.  You're going to be a brilliant artist in all
likelihood.  I just wish you could find a way to be happy."

	"Happiness ain't a good state for art, you know," Xander responded
dismissively.  He was looking at me when he said it.  "C'mon, Dylan,
there's something I want to show you.  I'll be back for the check."

	I went with him as he led me downstairs to the work areas.  We went
to the print shops and he pulled out a rolled up poster.  "I made some
prints of the self-portrait as gifts.  I'd like you to have one.  It might
be valuable one day.  You never know."

	I unrolled it.  It was beautiful; you have to give him that.
"Thanks. I'll have to get it framed."

	He seemed to be rocking back and forth restlessly as he twisted his
mouth, considering his words.  "How's Reed?" he asked looking down.

	"He's good, I think."

	"Okay" Xander replied.  He closed the locker door where the prints
were kept and started out of the room.  Then he turned to me and said, "I
hope you don't take too long to figure out what he really is.  I love you
but ..."

	"Listen, whatever happens with Reed has nothing to do with you," I
said.  "I'll never forget what we had together.  It's like you said, you
never forget the first person you have sex with or the first person you
trip with.  I was glad it was you.  But you can't unring the bell, you
know.  You ought to find someone who can appreciate the good things you
have to offer.  I'm with Reed now."

	"Yeah, that last bit is the feeling of my heart getting stomped on.
Look, I get it.  I'm not stupid, even though you wouldn't know it from my
GPA.  It's like when Jillian left my mom.  She must have thought that she
would come to her senses and come back but she didn't.  Eventually, my mom
moved on and found Emily.  It worked out for me, I guess.  If she hadn't, I
wouldn't have my best friends.  I'm just saying ... If the shit goes down
with Reed, call me.  I'll be there."

"I won't need to take you up on the offer," I said with more conviction
than I actually felt.  "But thanks for the print.  I'll treasure it,
really."

	That weekend I had to go home because my parents were pressuring
me.  On the good side, I got my laundry done and got some decent
home-cooked food for a change.  I got back on Sunday in time for the first
lacrosse game of the year.  I went with Carter and it was his idea.  He and
I had started running together every morning.  It slowed me down some but I
think it helped him.  For one thing, he needed the exercise.  At the
beginning of the year, Carter had been a little doughy but the freshman
fifteen had made that much worse.  He was beginning to verge on being fat.
I guess being alone and depressed is not that healthy for lots of reasons.
He got more energetic and that made him more positive.  Because he was
slower than me and, at first, couldn't hold out, I got less exercise for
the same amount of time spent.  But I made it up in the gym.  I can't say
that helped much, though.  Over that time, I perhaps got more cut and
defined but I didn't bulk up any.  I had to face the fact that I would
never have the Greek god physique that I so admired in other guys.  I was
destined to be on the skinny side.  Despite that, I was actually enjoying
weight lifting which is something I never really had before.  I had taken a
PE class in school with weight lifting but I hadn't pursued it.  I thought
of myself more as a runner.  I realized that being in all-male environments
used to make me uncomfortable because I was unwilling to confront my
sexuality.  Now that I had, I felt more at ease there.  I had the time to
go every other day because Reed and I weren't spending as much time
together.  We still went out on the weekends together and had sex two or
three times a week but things were beginning to cool off some.

	It turned out that Xander had also given Carter a copy of the print
too.  I was morbidly interested in the dynamics of that relationship
because when Xander and I were together, he rarely mentioned Carter and
almost never in a positive light.  I supposed that his so-called roommate
was basically a non-entity in his life.  Now it seemed that they had forged
something resembling a friendship.  Two more unlikely friends I couldn't
imagine. Carter didn't talk about it much except to say that when he was at
his lowest Xander had helped him out.  Beyond that, he wouldn't talk much
about it.

	Part of why Carter wanted me to go to the game was that, for some
reason, he wanted me to get back together with Xander.  In my mind, it
wasn't going to happen but I was free that afternoon since I was caught up
on schoolwork.  So I went.  Willingham was playing another club team from
Georgia Tech.  The club may have practiced on the intramural field but they
played on Smith Field, which is the field for the Division I soccer team.
The lacrosse team wasn't just another Student Recreation club team, it was
a semi-official varsity squad.  Willingham had all ready announced that
next year, they would be playing a real varsity Division I schedule with
the allotted 12.5 scholarships.

	The game superficially resembles soccer with sticks.  But that is
deceiving.  Lacrosse is much faster and has much more scoring than soccer
but just as many turnovers and just as much running.  I thought it was the
love child of soccer and hockey but raised by basketball– fast, physical
and exciting.  Sitting in the bleachers, I saw that the home team wore
white jerseys, which is the opposite of football.  Willingham won the first
face off and soon the ball was in the hands of an attack man behind the
goal.  They passed it around and made several dodges to try and get into
position to shoot.  In what looked like a designed play, Xander threw a
hard pass to a guy about 10 feet from the small goal that was poorly
defended.  In one smooth motion, he caught the pass and shot for the first
score.  In lacrosse, substituting is done on the fly and I could tell that
there were designated offensive midfielders and defensive midfielders.
Xander was an offensive one.  The Bears held the Jackets with our goalie
knocking the shot down and clearing it.  Quickly we were up by three.

	Xander was in his element on the field.  He was competitive and
physical.  Playing required skill and focus on the immediate task at hand.
Those were things he could do for the length of time for the game.  The
fact that it was primal and not intellectual at all must have appealed to
him.  I could tell from his body language that he was having fun.  He
actually was a part of a really slick play.  The attack man got a pass
behind the goal on the far side of the field.  Xander was running toward
him from the near side. When they met directly behind the goal, the attack
man flipped the ball up and it appeared for all the world that he had
passed it Xander.  All eyes were on him as he dodged on the periphery of
the circle surrounding the goal.  Tech's goalie positioned himself for a
shot from Xander only to discover that the pass had not been made.  The
attack man whizzed the ball in for a goal.

	Willingham was up 11-1 at the half.  The second half went slower as
the Bears intentionally slowed things down to run off the clock.  Tech
couldn't do much with our defense though and ended up losing 16-2.
Afterwards, Carter and I went over to Moe's in the village to eat, which is
a BearCard location, meaning that it went to the meal plan money.  Reed
called a couple of times but I let it go to voicemail.