I had drawn the sober straw.  Ed gave me an unhappy look; he had intended that straw for Blind Rob, had expected me to know that and pick the right one.  If I had scored a try they were going to light the toilet paper and I’d have to run around like that, but I hadn’t scored one.  Nobody new had scored a try.  Ed had stood outside in the cold for awhile on a cell phone until finally two female players showed up at the party.  Someone else knew some Spanish girls but otherwise it was just a bunch of men and beer, which meant that Blind Rob could not do too much damage, except that the Spanish girls had brought sangria, which blind Rob was now emptying onto the floor of the van, from out of his stomach.

The highway was dark and empty.  Inside of the van it was at least warm, though it smelled of sangria and Blind Rob’s stomach bile.

Coach was telling me stories to keep me awake.  “She shat on me balls,” he said.

“How did you feel?” I asked.

“I was proud of myself,” he said.  “It was a compliment.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You aren’t all that good,” he said.  “Don’t think you’re that good.”

“I know.”

“You’re a big strong lad,” he said.

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