When they get knocked out, he stays on the field as long as they need him: take their pictures, ask their questions, tell their lies. He smiles, and they smile, and even Michael can't tell what he's thinking.

Michael finds him in the dressing room after everyone else is dressed and gone; David is on the bench, still in uniform, bunching a towel between his fists. He looks up at Michael, and he doesn't smile, not now.

"I'm sorry," he says blankly.

"It's not your fault," says Michael. He never could blame David for anything, least of all for this.

 

back | e-mail