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'Hey, buddy, you feeling
ok?"
I looked up to see Coach Phil, peering back down at me with a concerned look
in his friendly face.
"Yeah, no prob, Uncle Phil- I'm just burned out from practice."
Coach Phil, my football coach, was also my uncle, both he and Dad being career
PE guys, Dad being a basketball, track and lacrosse guy and Uncle Phil being
football, wrestling, and tennis.
"Well, that's my job." and he slapped me across my sweat soaked grey
shirted shoulders.
I'd learned not to respond, much less bitch, when Unc and Dad tried to tell
how much harder they could work me. But they seemed determined to pour all
the jock techniques that they had ever learned into me. Lucky me.
But I'm not complaining- I'd never be as tall as Dad or Unc but my weightlifting
and careful diet had molded me into a brick shithouse.
As a fullback, I had been All-Conference for 3 years and All-State last year.
And I didn't mind pushing myself as hard as I could.
Sweating and exertion helped to take my mind, and my body, off all the weird
dreams I'd been having lately.
I got up, stretching my 6'2'' frame, and ran my hand through my butch cut
blonde hairs. I'd only gotten off enough of my gear that I was in my jock
and my scrub shirt. We were always the last ones out, sometimes an hour or
two after the rest of the team had gone, anjd Im knew taht there was no hurry.
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