ABSTRACT
In the recesses of my mind I can find almost nothing fun about high-school football practice. Minutes after school ended each day, we entered a locker room filed with a repugnant smell of sweat, dirt, mildew, and various bodily emissions. Each evening after practice we put our jocks, girdles, cut-off T-shirts, and other assorted garments into a mesh ditty bag for the coaches to wash. I assume the coaches used the cheapest powdered laundry detergent available because when we put on the still-damp gear the next day, it still had the same putrid smell of perspiration from the previous day's practice. My teammates often engaged in spirited banter that would expose each player's weaknesses. I was in constant fear of film sessions with rabid coaches questioning what seemed like every step I took. The footage would reveal to the entire world that James Craig had whipped me the previous Friday night for four quarters, and the key holding penalty was me holding on for dear life trying to prevent the bearded brute Craig, who looked like he was twenty-five, from killing my brother, our quarterback.
