I left for Blenheim at dawn on the first Sunday of August, and in one of those death-daring stunts sixteen-year-olds specialize in, I drove straight through the 1,600-mile trip, stopping only for gas, bathroom breaks, and fast food feasts. I didn’t permit myself to drink caffeine in those days, but I didn’t need the help staying alert—my mind was racing with thoughts of the three-week training camp I was driving toward, of the new teammates awaiting me, and especially of Coach Johannsen and the promise I’d made to him in February. About that: Our relationship was mortally wounded by the conversation we’d had that night in my dad’s car, and after a series of increasingly sporadic Sunday dinners in which neither of us could figure out where to point our eyes, Coach Johannsen had stopped coming around altogether—no explanation, no goodbye, just silence that baffled my parents and humiliated me. I blamed myself, naturally, and the chief lesson I took from my coach’s withdrawal was that I needed to short-circuit every gay signal I was sending out if I wanted to avoid getting abandoned by other people I loved.
And yet if Coach Johannsen made me feel monstrously insecure off the field, his belief that I could play professional ball also made me more confident than I’d ever been as a player, and as I sped through Kansas, Missouri, Indiana, Kentucky, and Virginia I became convinced that I would exceed expectations at my inaugural college training camp. Generally speaking, freshmen have one of two paths in camp: either they play well enough that they earn a role in games and use their first of four years of NCAA eligibility, or they struggle to learn the playbook and/or adapt to the power of the college level and sit out the season, “redshirting” so they can mature. Underweight by a good fifteen pounds for a D1 outside linebacker, I was expected to finish camp a redshirt. But size, I told myself now, was only a piece of what made a player great; far more important than poundage was your football soul.
And I knew I had soul to spare. Certainly more than Chase McGerrin, whose sweaty pink face had been appearing to me in nightmares—whose casting us as enemies felt exactly right—whose spot as the second-string Will linebacker I had every intention of stealing by the end of August.
I pulled into the players’ parking lot just after ten the next morning, punch-drunk and back-sore from my epic drive. After living in my car’s air conditioning for the past twenty-odd hours, it was a shock to step out of my Saturn and be engulfed by my first southern summer, the sun a heavy-breathing host with no concept of personal space, the air crazed by a strange insectoid chirring that radiated from the trees.
I followed the posted signs to the Hay building’s first floor and entered a hallway raucous with players waiting to report for camp: daps, playful shoves, how’s-your-mama, Minnesota honks, Tennessee purrs, Bronx burls, tattoos so fresh they shone with Vaseline, bodies so big it was impossible to believe the oldest boys here were still in their early twenties. I wished to God I had changed out of the outfit my mom had bought me, a short-sleeved collared shirt and cargo shorts so new they still sported the store creases.
—Freshman? the black player ahead of me in line asked.
—Yeah, I’m—
The veteran was uninterested in introductions, and instead handed me a laminated card the size of a driver’s license.
Reign, reign, Monarchs,
Rule your realm with an iron fist.
Claim, claim, Monarchs,
All you see and all you wish.
Score, score, Monarchs,
Touchdown, field goal, try, and safety.
King, King, forever!
We’ll fight and win, never “maybe”!
—King’s fight song, the vet explained. Every freshman has to sing it during camp.
—Sing it when?
—When? the veteran behind me asked. Yo, meat just asked when he’s gotta sing the fight song.
The people around me found this hilarious. I smirked, as if I meant to make the joke, but I was more confused than ever.
—How do we sing it? I tried again.
They laughed even louder, and I knew better than to ask anything more. Blushing, I kept my eyes on the card and studied the lines, trying to get a feel for their rhythm, humming softly what seemed a plausible melody. I was starting to get the hang of them when I heard the first familiar voice of the morning, albeit the last one I wanted to hear: Chase’s. He had just reported and was moving against the line of players in my direction, alternating between playfully nudging teammates in the arm and wickedly flicking them in the balls. I pretended not to notice him, but I kept my hands at my sides, ready to fend off what I was certain would be a flick.
—Furling!
I flinched and clutched my hands over my crotch. This delighted Chase.
—Jesus, freshman! I thought guys loved touching sacks in Iowa!
—I’m from Colorado.
—Iowa, Coronado, whatever. Everyone west of the Mississippi eats corn and fucks sheep.
I shook my head and looked away.
—Lighten up, he said, pushing me. I’m your Big Brother.
It was tradition for every freshman to be paired with a veteran player who served as his guide during camp. Chase was not only responsible for getting me situated today, he would be rooming with me at the Marriott for the next three weeks. I didn’t want to keep standing in line with the guy, let alone live with him for most of the month. But there he remained, cracking more jokes about bestiality in Colorado, and after I gave a graduate assistant my name and received my Marriott room key, Chase led me down the hallway to a counter that was built into the wall and resembled nothing so much as a bank teller’s window.
A balding, frumpy, middle-aged white man named Cyrus Pyle greeted me from behind the counter. Pyle was from Atlanta, and would later tell me his ancestors’ general store had been
