Ball Games Ch. 16: Infamy

One of my first followers, Betty Maxx, repeated her offer of a rematch over the social media platform while accusing the newspaper of "disgusting homophobia, last seen in the 1970s." They "should be ashamed of themselves."

She broadcast across the Internet, although directed at me, a naked picture of her on her latest film set with the tagline. "I'm waiting for you to come and join me!"

Other people commented too; the league split opinion and several other teams publicly rallied to the league's defence. As the two representatives at the International tournament, Woodford Wanderers and AFC Kerlon were mentioned more than the other teams.

It was getting intense and I felt trapped. I became paranoid that day, unsure if I could venture into the town to get lunch as I scanned our company car parks for paparazzi. It was irrational.

But Betty Maxx and numerous other relaxed "open minded" people supported us and they publicly chastised the newspaper. We got provocative offers of debauchery to rile and upset the right-wing newspaper, and as the criticism from moronic publicity seekers grew louder, the support for all the clubs at home, and abroad, grew stronger

And although much of it was sexually indecent, I felt like I had friends. Dozens of strangers and projects offered support and although in the coming days the newspaper refused to offer an apology, I felt like we had scored a victory over them.

Anna was relaxed about the furore and my initial fears of dozens of paparazzi descending on my house never happened. The net effect for me for all the newspaper's coverage was that I suddenly had a social media profile, that was being followed by the most popular UK porn star, hundreds of gay and bisexual men and thousands of football fans.

And our next match as a complete sell-out. A small group of right-wing protesters waved placards outside our small ground and chanted that we were going to hell. A camera crew arrived and we watched as the police tried to ease the gridlock that surrounded the small village.

National exposure had meant a lot of attention and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. We had gone from playing in front of 50 people to over a thousand, at our home ground. It was chaos, and we had to put on a show.

Fortunately, we were playing Leyton Kennels: the wiry footballers remained, but they had discovered an effective battery of tactics that played to their skill level. They passed the ball quickly to their front player whenever opposition attacks broke down and relied on their nimble and pacy striker to outrun defenders.

It was effective; they scored 10 minutes into the first half and again just before the break. We may have had a dozen shots on goal, but Leyton had scored twice without reply.

The crowd were intrigued by the league more than stunned; we had many first time visitors and the strength of our opponents were a mystery to them.

Our coach settled us down at half-time; he changed tactics and made a couple of substitutions. More than that, he inspired us. He gave us reason to think that we should win and remind us that we were playing as a team, and to play as a team. The crowd were there to see us and he told us to ignore that they'd come because we were infamous, just to accept that they had come.

Ryan came on for the second half and his goal started the comeback; Dmitri completed it with a delicate chip over the goalkeeper. Lastly myself, victim for some of the ire from the homophobic national newspaper, popped up at the back post to score the winner in the final minutes.

I saw the ball breaking in a packed penalty area and with nothing but the drizzly wind in my face, lashed the ball past the despairing arm of their goalkeeper.

The crowd cheered; I celebrated in front of our only stand, tearing my shirt from my body to expose my bare chest to the screaming fans.

I felt like a god.

Adrenaline replaced every feeling in my body as I celebrated wildly with my team-mates, savouring every moment of our impending victory with a raw declaration of wild celebration.

To fuck with the homophobic newspaper and their denigration of our league as a mere vessel for debauchery. Our league was not about a beaten footballer bouncing off the end of my cock, or being taken by a wild fucking. Our league was so much more than that.

Our league was passion and desire; our league was never giving up and working as a team. That moment summed up our league more than a hundred articles in the National Mail ever could.

We played football for the love of the game, not the love of being balls-deep in our opponents. Every goal mattered, every mistake hurt and as the light drizzle in the late February twilight twinkled against the floodlights, I felt on top of the world.

Our opponents were stunned; their heads dropped and their shoulders were weighed down with a hundredweight of disappointment. Dejected and demoralised they filed into our changing room twenty minutes later: naked and cold.

The bawdy celebrations were in full swing as we partied with cans of beer and cider, provided by our coach. As a team, we'd come through the hardest week of our club's life and we'd won -- on and off the pitch. It wasn't vintage football, but we'd rallied together when we needed to and I felt closer than ever to my fellow footballers on the pitch.

They were like brothers to me.

I grabbed one of our beaten opponents; his skin slightly damp from the rain and spun him in front of me. I squeezed his buttocks and felt his cock as we partied.

And then I pushed him to the floor, standing majestically astride the dainty midfielder with my cock proudly erect. His lips sucked the sporty sudor from my balls, and his hands explored my hirsute thighs.

Like tree trunks to him, his fingers grabbed and swept over my muscles. His eyes met mine; a painful look of defeat. I grabbed hold of the back of his head and drew fistfuls of his long, golden locks.

He squealed as my cock pressed against his lips and I skull-fucked him. His little dick erect as I savagely took the delicate footballer and rammed my cock into his face. Into his mouth. Into the back of his throat.

And all the while it felt incredible. To feel the release of pressure from the agony of the previous week was an explosion of relief in itself. His cock was leaking pre-cum, mine was ready to blow.

Tension mounted in my balls as I drove harder and harder against the young man, swirling in his submission as I played the dominant role. His tongue rolled against my cock and my buttocks clenched. I panted, exerting my energies to the backdrop of a dozen men enjoying the remaining losers.

I thrust my dick deep into his throat and held it as my orgasm erupted and wave after wave of cum was pumped into my midfield opponent. He looked at me, with his mouth full of my dick and his hands on his cock.

I told him to finish himself off, and he came in seconds, squirting over the back of his hand with a merest whimper as I leaned against the wall, watching the young player pant breathlessly.

The wild debauchery continued: we shared our beer and our cider and then decamped into the pub adjacent as hundreds of our new supporters joined us for a wild night of drinking and chatting. The landlord had never been so busy.

By 9pm, I staggered home, but as I arrived at my house, my phone beeped.