The sun was high then. It was about eleven-thirty in the morning. The players would pass the white translucent plastic water bottles among them, and the spectators, thick along the sidelines, stood under the big shade trees. The last half hour or so, with the squad together, was used for scrimmaging, or if there was no contact work, which was the procedure for the first few days, the team ran through its plays—the ones we had learned the night before in class—the players moving into both offensive and defensive positions in relays. Morning practice was over at noon. The afternoon practice, which followed exactly the same procedures and timetable, began at two-thirty and ran for two hours.

During the practices I stayed with Scooter McLean and the offensive backfield most of the time, sticking close behind the two quarterbacks. McLean would motion them over to say, “Now, you quarterbacks… I want to make sure…” and he would make sharp, quick motions with his hands to show them the line of the play he was describing. I sidled along behind. My distance from the two quarterbacks was about that of the best man from the bridegroom at a church wedding—a discreet distance—but I was close enough to keep an ear on the instruction.