Harland Minick, center/lineman, Lester Brye, guard/lineman, and Hellinger Clausen, halfback/deep safety, sit in a circle in the middle of the floor. All of them have rosary beads. Minick, an ex-altar boy, leads them in prayer.

Ken Dedemus, a guard/lineman, never suits up until minutes before the team goes out onto the street for warm-ups. He spends his pregame hours in the locker room shower letting the water run across his shoulders, down his back and chest. Every half hour or so, he masturbates.

The most unflappable man on the team, Lammy Howe, a halfback/deep safety, takes a nap, spread out under the trainer’s table. His snores echo loudly throughout the room.

Ros DeGeller and Mike Michalski, the ends, slap each other’s shoulder pads and trade light combinations of punches, mostly uppercuts and jabs.

Kneeling in a comer, Buddy Healy, a tackle/lineman, throws up into a gray plastic bucket. Zack Rauscher, the mediman, holds Healy by the shoulders, giving him what little comfort he can.

Gus D’Armato, the hidden safety, dry fires his rifle, drawing in on a target pasted to his locker door, slowly squeezing his trigger, SNAP.

There are two large bowls set out, one on the trainer’s table, one on a bench in the dressing room. Both contain a smorgasbord assortment of pills, brand name uppers donated by leading pharmaceutical companies in return for free endorsements. Most players sort through the pills on their way by the bowls, pluck out and ingest a few of their favorite tablets. T.K., in line with his long held belief that a reliance on chemicals for extra endurance shortens long-term playing life, abstains. Although he doesn’t feel the slightest bit of disdain for those who don’t. T.K. doesn’t care what his teammates do to get up for games, as long as they perform their duties out on the street.

Coach Carrerra enters the locker room and calls for attention. A swarm of giant man-slaying moths drawn to the flame of inspiration, his players step forward and surround him.