“Brye,” he says, his voice a husky condemnation. “Brye, that Minutemen tackle is making you look stupid out there. Stupid, do you hear me? Michalski. When the play is a break and run, you’re supposed to break and run. How many times do I have to tell you? Leave your man alone. Break and run. DeGeller, the same goes for you. And D’Armato. Where the hell are you?” He makes a big point of searching out the hidden safety. “For Christ’s sakes, when we’ve got a man on the goalyard, get down there on the street and put those knives of yours to work. I counted three separate times when you could have broken up a big gainer if you’d been on your toes.”

D’Armato doesn’t take kindly to criticism. He’s seated on the floor, his rifle propped up between his knees. He swings around slightly so it’s pointed, apparently by accident but pointed nonetheless, directly at Coach Carrerra’s belly. He fingers the trigger. “Aw, fuck,” he murmurs with the disdain a butcher uses in declaring an animal unfit even to slaughter. He hops to his feet, and goes to the drug bin. He props his rifle up on it, and digs inside, pulling forth three green tablets. He swallows one, and puts the other two inside his waistband for use during the game.

“And T.K.” It’s a measure of how much Coach Carrerra wants this one. He rarely, if ever, singles out his quarterback for public censure. “On third and short yardage, they’re stacking on you. Anticipate it. Throw the bomb.” To show his capacity for giving as well as taking away, he also bestows a few plaudits. “Orval, good game. Don’t let that cast hamper you. Use it like a club. Swing it in there, man, swing it in there. Pfleg. You’re hitting real good. Keep it up.”

Coach Carrerra walks to the blackboard and hastily sketches a variation on the Prospectors’ basic long-stem T offensive formation. All the while he’s doing it, he keeps one eye warily on the television set in the corner. It shows Timothy Enge superimposed on one of the game’s early plays. The sound is turned down, so there’s no way to tell what he’s saying. The set remains on so the Prospectors will know when they’re being shown here in the locker room. Granted, locker room scenes are always broadcast silent, still, the wise exercise a modest amount of caution whenever they see themselves on camera. The use of lip readers is not unknown. And, of course, white lines on a blackboard need no spoken commentary to explain them. Should Coach Carrerra see himself appear on screen, he’ll flip the blackboard around to hide his diagrams.