My heart raced as I raised my hand. Coach Zeller’s eyes brightened.
—Hey there, Miles.
—Hi, Coach.
—Good flight?
—I drove, sir. One day.
—One day? he said. Now there’s a man ready to contribute!
Everyone seemed to be watching me. Do not smile.
—So what you think, Miles? Zeller continued. Why’d the Americans win the war?
—They won because they wanted it more, Coach.
Zeller snapped his fingers.
—Good, son. Good. That’s exactly right. These little armies, they had somethin’ to fight for—homelands to protect, causes to believe in. The big armies were fightin’ just because they were told to, because they had the money. Y’all see what I’m gettin’ at? We had a rough season last year—goddamn do I know it. And I ain’t saying it’s gonna be peaches and cream this fall. But if we believe more than our opponents do, we’re gonna shock folks. And that’s what we’re gettin’ started on today—formin’ those beliefs, believin’ those beliefs.
He stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his khaki shorts.
—So what do y’all say? Y’all with me?
—YES SIR!
Players who brought cars to campus acted as shuttle drivers for the players who hadn’t, and before I knew it six teammates were piling into my Saturn, a car decidedly not designed to accommodate some 1,300 pounds of sweating, bouncing, shouting humanity. Like a lifeboat captain trying not to capsize, I had to fend off an other three players who somehow thought there was still room to squeeze in. Once they gave up, we were on our way to Training Table.
Training Table was the facility on Central Campus where we ate team meals. A drab hexagon that bore a suspicious resemblance to the maintenance sheds down the road, its roof was made of corrugated steel, its sides painted in sun-faded browns and tans, and its windows flecked with shredded grass that had been spewed out by a ride-on mower. The interior was no more impressive: faux-wood wall panels, a linoleum floor scored by generations of chair legs, and two dozen folding tables that were identical to the ones my family ate doughnuts on in our church’s basement. At the far end of the room was a glass-roofed buffet, which for lunch today was offering iceberg salad you could slather with ranch dressing sweet as cake icing; a pile of overcooked spaghetti accompanied by a vat of red sauce burbling like lava; breaded chicken bricks stuffed with nondenominational cheese; and sweet potato pie topped by a molten wreath of marshmallows. The food here was always wretched, but that was compensated for by its utter freeness.
I sat at a table with three other freshmen, each of whom had already been renamed by the veterans. Jamal Winston and Jamal Reese were a black wide receiver and defensive back, respectively, best friends who’d attended the same high school in Alabama and had over the years developed uncannily similar ways of looking and talking, from their matching cornrows to their speedy southern mumbles. The vets had nicknamed them J1 and J2, less to help tell them apart than to surrender to their basic indistinguishability. The other freshman, Clarence Turrell, was also black, a pug-nosed, owl-eyed defensive end from Irvine whose name had been reduced to C.T. in the Team Room this morning and then immediately revised by a premed vet to Scan, as in the computerized tomography procedure the vet was planning on studying in medical school.
Scan dominated the conversation with a litany I was to learn was common among King players: he listed all the other, better D1 programs that had recruited him and then provided too-convenient explanations for why he’d chosen King.
—UCLA wanted me, bad, but I needed to get the hell out of California. Florida State was on my nuts, but Florida’s just too damn hot. And Ohio State? They acted like my—
A great din rose up in the hall, vets striking silverware against their plates.
—SCAN! SCAN! SCAN!
We looked around, clueless. Devonté, the starting tailback and Reshawn’s host from the official weekend, leaned over from the next table.
—Time to sing the fight song!
—SCAN!
Scan looked around, grinning, nervous.
—Stand on your chair, nigga!
A giddy jolt ran through me at hearing the first “nigga” that wasn’t in a rap song. Scan was less excited. He climbed onto his chair, so nervous he didn’t realize he was still holding his fork.
—Introduce yourself!
—I, uh, I’m Clarence Turrell.
—Don’t you lie ‘bout your motherfuckin’ name!
—People are calling me—
—SCAN! SCAN! SCAN!
—Scan.
—So how ‘bout a song, Scan?!
—Y’all just gave us that shit two hours ago.
—Goddamn right!
—I—
—Get to singin’!
Scan blew out a defeated breath. He squinted at the buffet, as if the lyrics might start inscribing themselves on the steam-smogged glass. Finally he began reciting in a flat, tuneless voice.
—Reign, reign Monarchs.
—Oh no. You sing that shit!
Bullets of sweat pushed out of Scan’s forehead. He started again, now in a creaky, map-less falsetto.
—Reign, reign, Monarchs, give me your … iron fist?
Vets howled, slapping tables.
—I hope he buys you dinner first!
Scan belatedly realized what he’d said. He blushed, but had no choice but to continue.
—Score, score, Monarchs … All you see and all you—
—BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Players jumped out of their seats, clapping and laughing. Our starting punter threw a dinner roll at Scan’s head, leaving a faint floury imprint on his right temple. Scan stepped down from his chair, looking like he was considering committing hara-kiri with the fork he was still clutching.
The room calmed, conversations resumed, and now it was J1 and J2’s turn to explain why they’d come to King. I was only half listening, having taken out the laminated card and begun furiously trying to commit the song to memory. I had a feeling I was next, and indeed not five minutes passed before silverware pounded plates.
—MILES! MILES! MILES!
Chase led
