Heard from Frank Borman’s office at Eastern about a position. Wants to fly me down to Miami. So that happened. God help me. I have to go. I have no other leads. So I’ll go. On a wing and a prayer. I’m sorry for all my bad behavior. I’m sorry for making a mess of things. I’m sorry for how sorry for myself I am. I’m sorry to my family and I’m sorry I got sick. And I’m sorry for how long and whiny this is. If I had more time, as they say, I would have written something shorter.

March 17

[ MARCH 17 ]

“Jesus Christ, McGhee, it’s like you were born late. Are you waiting for your engraved invitation? Get on the goddamn bus.”

Pacing the carpool lane of the Jesuit parking lot, Coach Moyle looked down at his clipboard without really reading it. He hiked his jeans and combed his mustache with his palm.

“So much for an early start. Gonna hit rush hour and pay for this all the way down 35.”

“Sorry, Coach, Steve O’Donnell is ovulating in the locker room and I had to talk him through that.”

It was a surprisingly lewd comment from the apprehensive preacher’s son. Rob threw his duffel bag into the belly of the Ranger bus as Coach Moyle shook his head.

“O’Donnell’s time of the month? Fantastic. Are all you ladies on the same cycle? We have to move with a goddamn purpose. Who’s left in the locker room?”

The answer was the entire Jesuit swim team. Coach Moyle slapped the clipboard against his thigh and stomped off toward the doors to the athletic wing. As Moyle came into the school, Rick and Dan came out. He yelled at them for taking their sweet-tea time and ordered them onto the bus. The Ranger swim team was (slowly) gathering to drive to San Antonio for the TCIL state meet hosted by Central Catholic. The only good news about this: missing a day of school with an excused absence, and that State this year wasn’t at Cathedral in El Paso, which was a drive that took longer than Lent. Rob nibbled at his fingernails, trying to figure out the best seat on an empty bus. The back of the Ranger bus was reserved for upperclassmen, too close to the front was like sitting in an octane exhaust cloud, and anything near the wheel well subjected you to a death rattle at the slightest pock in the road.