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Chance encounter in a fitting room leads to a happy holiday.



*** Triple Play ***


There is an easy way to tell my sisters and my folks were devout Roman Catholics who practiced the Rhythm Method for a few years -- until Mom got tired and made Dad get a vasectomy if he ever wanted sex with her again. We kids were all born with the minimum delay, ten months apart, just long enough for the next to be planted and cooked. We should have been named for popes. Bren and Cyndi were always in the same school grade; I was a grade behind them and Alicia was a grade ahead of them.

Dad and Mom kept their high-school letters, his for football, hers for softball. They wanted their old glory to continue flying, for my sisters and me to rule the world of team sports.

My sisters were great at that. Tomboys from the start, they kicked ass forever, and by the time Bren and Cyndi were freshmen and Alicia was a sophomore, they just about owned the state college ballfield. Alicia pitched knuckleballs that nobody could touch. Utility outfielders Bren and Cyndi could hit any ball that neared them, hit it far and gone.

The league was their plaything. But they did no grandstanding. They supported their fellow ball-girls to the max. Really great team players.

I was not so social. I did not like teams, being subordinated, being bossed.

I thought American football was stupid, crude, and good only for head and skeletal injuries. But that is how you made buddies, networked, linked. You might make stockbroker if your brain was not turned to goo, or used-car salesman otherwise. No other team sports appealed to me. Most featured too much slamming into people.

So I went field-and-track, especially field. I loved cross-country. I could practice by running for hours, partly focusing on breath and posture and all that, but mostly listening to digital audiobooks on my earbuds. Literature, lectures, and lessons. And a little phone-sex-type porn, of course.

My big, beautiful, bossy sisters looked down on me for bypassing total jock-dom. They had always thought I was a wuss, the little kid who was not quite good enough to be good. Sometimes I was just their servant boy.

"Hey Daryl, when you gonna grow up?" Bren would tease.

"Hey Daryl, can't you do anything but run away?" Cyndi taunted.

"Hey little brother, you grown any pubic hairs yet?" Alicia tortured me.

What, me worry? I was not competing with them. I wanted my scholarship to be academic, not athletic. I did not care that cross-country led nowhere -- nowhere I wanted to go, anyway. I wanted Ivy League, not Class B state college colors.

One thing. Team jocks got the girls -- or guys. Teams had groupies. Almost any team player could snap their callused fingers, male or female, and see fans flock to them, tongues dragging like pathetically horny and willing puppies. Cross-country did not have cheerleaders or groupies.

So I ran a lot and I got my track letter, yada yada. But I did not get laid.

The early spring break in my last semester before college (yes, I was accepted by Princeton!) clobbered me because my sisters came home, full of athletic glory. They had played decent-enough basketball over the winter. The women's baseball pre-season would start after break. They had a long week to do something else.

I became the "something else."

My youngest, closest sister stepped into my bedroom. Her eyes idly swept over my bookshelves, posters, stacks of electronics, neatly made bed, no piles of dirty clothes, et fucking cetera. Then she turned on me.

"Hey Daryl, how goes that running stuff?" Bren asked, not too unkindly. She was closest to me. That was like being closest to a minor goddess, but still...

"It keeps me off the highway. And, y'know, Princeton..."

"Yeah, yeah, brag about it. They play that faggy touch football there, right? And they do track so you can still run away from stuff."

I did not mention that her career, and our sisters' careers, would likely be as junior or state college coaches.

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