From the window of his Russian Hill apartment, T.K. idly contemplates the continual stream of monstrous air-cushioned freighters whooshing in and out of San Francisco Bay. Nine out of ten are painted with the gray and white piping that signifies ownership by one of the Asian nations—Japan, Vietnam, Korea, Thailand—banded together to form the world’s most progressive and powerful industrial cartel. T.K. considers the ships a nice contrast to the dark green of the bay, an observation which fairly well sums up his disinterest in the whole area of world politics and economics.

Today is Tuesday, his favorite day of the week. The pain and fatigue taper off on Monday. Wednesday and Thursday are practice days, scrimmages and theory sessions eat them up. Friday is traveling day or, if the game is being played in San Francisco, the day he and Coach Carrerra select the playing area. Saturday he scouts the street, and he rests. Then, of course, there’s Sunday.

T.K. usually spends his Tuesdays in bed with some willing young lady. Unfortunately, this Tuesday’s young lady has literary rather than romantic collaboration in mind.

For the past few months, Sarah Lauffler has accompanied T.K. everywhere, to practices, to other cities, to bars, to chalk talks. After games in which he’s been badly injured, she’s even gone with him to hospitals. She’s watched him play in and win eleven games.

Now she sits cross-legged on the floor with a massive sheaf of papers beside her.

“This is a final draft of my article,” she explains. “What I’d like you to do is to read what I’ve put together to make sure I have all my facts straight.”

He accepts the manuscript and carries it to his favorite chair, a mock leather recliner. He flips on the overhead pin-light and begins to read.

Considering its eventual destination, the article’s balanced, almost flattering tone surprises him.

“You’re really going to run this in EBS?” he asks when he’s finished.

“Yes. I think the story makes an interesting point, one that EBS too often overlooks. Namely, that football players are human beings, subject to the whole range of human emotion, to pride, to love and even sometimes to compassion.”

“That’s all so much chic journalistic bullshit.” He waves her manuscript at her. “You completely overlooked the whole reason I play football. For the money. To support myself in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed.”

Vigorously she shakes her head. “That doesn’t add up. Even given your high style, you still make twice as much money as you openly spend”

“I save a lot.”

Again, the headshake. “Your bank account shows a balance of a little more than two hundred dollars.”

“EBS writers are a sneaky bunch.”

“I’d call it being thorough. Granted, you may be in it for the money. If so, where does that money go?”