"Not bad, won four lost two. The coach is a young guy from Missouri. I like him. Talent's thin."
"Missouri?"
"Yeah, nobody within a thousand miles would take the job."
Neely glanced at him and said, "You've put on some weight."
"I'm a banker and a Rotarian, but I can still outrun you." Paul stopped quickly, sorry that he'd blurted out the last phrase. Neely's left knee was twice the size of his right. "I'm sure you can," Neely said with a smile. No harm done.
They watched the last of the cars and trucks speed away, most of them squealing tires or at least trying to.A lesser Spartan tradition.
Then things were quiet again. "Do you ever come here when the place is empty?"Neely asked.
"I used to."
"And walk around the field and remember what it was like back then?"
"I did until I gave it up.Happens to all of us."
"This is the first time I've come back here since they retired my number."
"And you haven't given it up. You're still living back then, still dreaming, still the ail-American quarterback."
"I wish I'd never seen a football."
"You had no choice in this town. Rake had us in uniforms when we were in the sixth grade. Four teams—red, blue, gold, and black, remember? No green because every kid wanted to wear green. We played Tuesday nights and drew more fans than most high schools. We learned the same plays Rake was calling on Friday night.The same system. We dreamed of being Spartans and playing before ten thousand fanatics. By the ninth grade Rake himself was supervising our practices and we knew all forty plays in his book.Knew them in our sleep."
"I still know them," Neely said.
"Sodo I. Remember the time he made us run slot-waggle-right for two solid hours in practice?"
"Yeah, because you kept screwin' up."