The Judge's Blessing (boyxboy)

The Bowling Tournament (Late Winter, 11th Grade)

Asher didn't know about the Clifton Heights High bowling team when he first transferred, but when he found out about it, he enthusiastically joined. The team competed in the county high school bowling tournament. Though not the best bowler, Asher was consistent enough to be the team anchor.

The team had had a stellar year, and it was one of the favorites in the tournament. The semifinals were held in an alley not far from Asher's house. Asher was excited about the tournament, which would be held on the next Saturday. After the tournament was done (and his team had triumphed), He hoped to meet up with Danny to celebrate.

The week went by quickly for Asher. Danny had the flu starting that Sunday, and with Danny under the weather, Asher had little to distract him from focusing on the upcoming match. Danny needed sleep, so there was no late night texting. Asher was better rested than usual.

As Asher usually did when trying to mentally prepare for a given event, during that week, he went onto the internet and began reading about bowling strategies. It would take most of his spare time to get through the material he found and to mentally prepare for the match.

By Friday, Danny was starting to rebound, but Asher knew he needed to focus on the match. No Danny 'til Sunday.

The bowling alley was hosting not just the county high school tournament but also some for other organizations. The alley was packed with people, and Asher smiled at the prospect of his team winning and moving onto the final. Looking at the opposing team warm up, Asher liked his team's prospects. This shouldn't be a difficult match, Asher thought, even if it was the semi-finals.

The match started off well for Asher's team, as they dominated their competitor. In the eighth frame of his match, leading his opponent by 40, Asher picked up his ball and stood in the middle of the lane, focused on rolling the ball into the pocket. With a strike, he'd lock up the game and likely the match. His teammates were watching intently, silently willing Asher to throw a strike.

And then it happened. Above the din of the packed alley and the clash of pins against one another, he heard it. It was unmistakable, and as he stood in the lane, he heard the voice again. No one noticed the twitching of his legs or the pounding of his heart. No one could see the sudden show of fear registering in his eyes as color left his face. No one could have known about that voice.

And looking at the lockers on the side of the alley when he heard the voice, his mind instantly flashed back to the scene of his locker—before the transfer to Clifton Heights High. The curses, the written taunts, the directives like "Die Faggot—choke on it," and the titillation by the students passing him when the locker wasn't completely open. The worst was the one written in non-erasable Sharpie: "Try Some Cunt Sometime, Queer Boy." The school just painted over it. All of it flashed before him as the panic started. But none of that compared with the physical abuse, much of which Asher thought it wise to keep hidden from his father.

Asher quickly put the ball back on the rack, turned to his teammates as he clutched his stomach, hoping, praying that the voice was far enough away that he had time. Please, dear God, give me time.

"I'm sorry guys, but suddenly, I feel really sick. I'm not going to be able to finish the match. I've got to go before anything else happens and I make a mess."

His teammates were mystified as to what was going on, but they also knew that if Asher thought he couldn't finish the match, he must not be feeling up to it.

Asher turned away from the lanes and quickly made his way to the side exit from the alley. The sweat was starting to bead up on his back, and the urgency of his situation continued to grow.

When he reached the exit, he dashed through it and looked for the corner of the building. He was confident no one had seen him, no one had followed him through the door. He sat down a little distance in from around the corner in a crotched position, trying to relax and let his breathing return to normal, letting his heart slow down, clutching his stomach as he almost felt again Bo's punching it while Mike held Asher's hands behind him in the school hall after school had finished for the day—usually, though not always, when no one was around. He hadn't lied to his teammates—he did, in that instant, feel sick.

And then he heard the exit door around the corner creak open. He opened his mouth to breathe through it. Silently. Perhaps he was wrong. No matter, being as quiet as possible wouldn't hurt at all. He just needed to wait for the door to close and then he could start walking home. It was barely an hour's walk away. And then he heard it again.

"Look, man, I told you he wasn't here. It was your imagination, or maybe just a mistake. We've got a game to win. Let's go back and win it," someone said as the sound of feet on gravel caught Asher's attention. Were they coming towards him?

His heart quickened and he steeled himself for a run. Survive, he thought. He needed to do whatever it took to survive. And he also knew that he would have to do so on his own. The images flashed in his head of Mike punching his stomach and his bending over clutching it, Mike constantly tripping him with his arms full of whatever--leaving him unable to brace his fall with those painful, swollen cheeks afterward, the scattering of everyone when the bell rang—except for Mike. "You'd better be gone by the time this period's over, or I'll finish what I started. Damn queers. Why can't your kind just leave us alone." The memories came flooding back, the pain that nothing but time seemed to take care of, and even that hadn't been enough to soften the memory.

"No, he was here. The homo was here. Faggots need to stay away from me, from us. They need to stop trying to convert us. All of us. I know he was here. I just don't know how he got away so fast." After a pause, Mike said, "It doesn't look like there's anything we can do about that wallflower now. Let's get back to the game. My girl really wants the trophy."

Asher heard a little more noise of gravel moving, and then the slamming of the door. By now, Asher's eyes were welling up, and a tear began to flow down his face. The twitching had given way to shaking, and he wondered if he would be able to stand up. He quickly found himself upright and sprinted for the street, then running as fast as his legs could carry him home, desperate for its security.

He didn't hear the reappearance of Mike at the exit door, saying "I swear he was here. Maybe the coward's around the corner. Hadn't thought of that before." Slight pause. "Damn, not there."

When Asher got home, he bolted the door lock and stood with his back to the door, panting briefly before taking a series of deep breaths. His heart began to slow down as he crouched down in front of the door and began to cry. Loud crying. While his body shook, he thought it a miracle that he had gotten away from Mike's hands. And he was grateful that Danny wasn't there to see all of this. The day was already bad enough without having to deal with that.

That crouched position was how his father found him when entering the house from the garage.

"What's going on?" Alan asked, looking at Asher.

"We lost the tournament," Asher replied.

"You lost the tournament?" Alan said, slowly, in a measured quiet voice, emphasizing each word, not sure what to make of this scene.

"Yeah," said Asher. "I was the reason." He paused and then continued, "I need to shower and change." With that, Asher ran by his confused father stomping up the steps and into his room, slamming the door behind him. His father didn't pick up on the panic, the unbridled fear in Asher's eyes. Asher was still quite terrified.

Alan didn't know what to make of the situation, but he didn't have time to concern himself with it, either. Asher seemed to be ok, or at least unwilling to say what was going on if there was a problem. He could hear the shower come on. It's probably nothing, he thought.