Down in the 3-point across the line from Evans. Dre warned him about 
Evans. "Just hanging on, man. Just hanging on to make his five years 
and full pension. O-line's always dirty sons of bitches, but he's the 
worst. He makes up in mean what God didn't give him in talent, if you 
hear me."

*

(But Dad! That's cheating!)
(Did I hear you making excuses, son?)
(No, sir.)
(Because I thought I heard you say that other boy wanted it more than 
you.)
(No, sir.)
(Because that would disappoint me, Mike.)
(Yessir. Dad?)
(Yeah?)
(Does that mean I should cheat too?)
(Of course it doesn't, Mike. I think that other boy's a coward and a 
fool. But do you think God made this earth without cowards and fools?)
(No, sir.)
(Then what do you have to do when you meet them, son?)
(Work harder, sir.)
(All right, then.)
(Want it more.)
(You show me, Mike. You go out there and show me.)
*

Evans is a monster. Jesus, in broadcast, he's just a guy hanging on. 
But Live in 3-Space he's four-year league veteran and he knows stuff 
they never, ever warned you about at Columbia. The running plays are 
brutal: the first team O-line has been together three years more or 
less intact, and they trap like mothers.

Pass rush is a little better. God gave Mama Royal's little boy a fast 
first step, and Evans has a hard time keeping up. Swim on first, 
outside second, feint-swim and then HARD out on third down, clear the 
corner and get a tight wrap on the QB, drop him like a roped calf. No 
victory dance, though. Just doing a job.

*

(Son?)
(Yessir?)
(Next time you get you a sack?)
(Yessir?)
(Act like you've been into the backfield before.)
(Yes. Sir.)
*

"That just cost you your job."
It's the first thing Evans has said to him in two weeks of three-a-
days, every day since the "optional" camp opened.
"Beg pardon?"
"You should have drilled him. Broke his ribs. You had the chance."
"I'm not here to break my own quarterback's ribs."
Evans spits. "That what they teach you at Columbia?"
Ignore it.
It's a dogpile on the next play, bodies like slabs of beef 
everywhere. Fumble! Holy shit! The ball squirts by like a watermelon 
seed, and right then someone bites him, hard, in the calf. There's 
blood and everything.
The O-line coach gives his squad a sharp talking-to, but walks away 
smiling.

*

(Sorry I'm late, Dad! The copter broke down. We walked over to Hank's 
to get the part, but turned out it didn't fit right, so we had to 
hitch into Fredricksburg . . . Never mind. Anyway, I'm here now.)
(In thirty years I never did meet a man who was late who didn't have 
a damn good reason.)
(Yessir.)
(And you know what that reason was?)
(Sir.)
(Because his word's no good.)
(Yessir.)
(That's the only reason there ever was or ever will be.)
(Yessir.)
(Now git on inside. Your Mama's waitin' supper on you.)
(After dinner, I still mean to-)
(I did it myself, Mike. Now get on.)
(Yes, sir.)
*

"Every year I cripple one player," Evans continues, squatting down in 
his stance.
"What?"
"Coaches like to have a player like that on the team. It keeps the 
opponent edgy."
Ignore it.
"This year it's going to be you."
"You just bring it on, Evans. Come on, then."
"It's not personal. I don't give a rat's ass about you." Behind 
Evans's fat butt, the backfield goes in motion. Down and distance 
considered, you have to guess play action pass. "It's just business. 
You're expendable."