So it's standing in the stuffy auditorium for hours while the Dean 
drones out her list of names, and of course all the Academic All 
Stars go first. Fair enough and no complaining, but love to see what 
Amy Pickering, Merlon Award, B.A. (Interactive Arts) magna cum laude, 
or Chanshal Bannerjee, B.Sc. (Mathematical Psychology), Winner of the 
Fulkes Medal-love to see what they would have done with an extra 
seven hours of football practice every single day of the term, plus 
games, not counting doctor visits.

Which is bullshit too, because they wanted it and he didn't, not like 
that, and that's the bottom line. So instead he's got his 2.1 and his 
B.A. (Communications) without any significant laude at all. Kind of a 
crap degree, especially since it didn't take a genius to figure out 
he wasn't cut out to do sideline or studio work when his playing days 
were over, which was sort of his deeply clueless half-a-plan when he 
signed up. Not that he hated Communications. Actually, his last 
summer work-study had been kind of fun, putting together promotional 
holos for the Athletic Department. 

But it wasn't exactly what anybody in Blanco meant when they said the 
word "work."

So you could have knocked Mike over with a feather when he finally 
walked across the stage, received his diploma and thumped down the 
steps into the audience, wedged himself into a protesting folding 
chair, disentangled from Mom, and turned to see his Dad sitting 
absolutely still, his hand stuck out stiff as the flag on a mailbox, 
and honest to Jesus tears in his eyes. 

"Hey, Mikey," his Dad said. Jerking Mike's big hand like a pump-
handle, and his voice all knotted up! This from a man who had reacted 
to the news of him being taken in the high second round with the 
words, "Well, all right then. I'll just put your mother on the line 
and you can tell her all about it."

"Hey Mike," his Dad said again. "I'm real proud of you, son. Just 
real, real proud."