For the next hour, the Jesuit boys devoured this carousel of cuisine. Dan and Rob, whose diets had been apportioned their whole lives by their mothers, quickly regressed into a semiferal state of hoarding every morsel and went back multiple times. Under the aurora of the buffet, everything glistened and life was a banquet of possibilities. Rob watched Rick pile salt, Bac-Os, and enchilada sauce on his mashed potatoes and did the same. Dan cursed his stupidity at taking a fried chicken breast—Way too much white meat to chew through—when there were the superior crispy-skin ratios on the drumsticks and thighs. And then there was dessert, which was equally unlimited, and the boys made four or five trips to try everything. First was the giant carameled flan—a sucker’s move, Dan realized; better to save room for the key lime squares and coconut cake and brownies and Blue Bell with hot fudge. On top of this were endless refills of Hawaiian Punch, Orange Crush, Big Red, and Dr Pepper, and maybe the fountain mix was a little off, and the ice machine made a lot of noise but very little ice, but that was okay, you had all you could eat or drink, and the gluttonous freedom of that kept Sticky and Rick scraping their plates into the trash when the Tillotsons weren’t looking and heading back for more. At one point Dan looked over at Mr. Donahue, who was carefully inspecting his meatloaf. Moments later, his fork went down, next to a plate of uneaten food, as Dan stabbed at his beef enchilada, which induced an orange slick of grease to ooze forth.

The buffet pillaged and insulin levels rising, Coach Moyle stood to address the team.

“Gentlemen, first off, raise your cokes to the Tillotsons, who kept the kitchen open for us.”

Sticky, bold and brave, tried to sneak off to the buffet for a third dessert.

“O’Donnell, get back in your chair. Guys, ‘all you can eat’ doesn’t mean you have to eat it all. Okay . . .” Coach Moyle frowned at his Casio watch. It was almost eleven thirty, and qualifying heats started tomorrow at eight a.m. “Mr. Donahue is going to drive us over to the motel and we are doubled up on rooms, so the curfew is the minute you enter that room. We’re running really late tonight, so everybody brush their teeth and hit the hay—lights-out midnight. No exceptions. Radcliffe, how much flan is that?”

“Fenatacci bet me—”

“Stop it. Stop eating flan to impress your boyfriend. You’re a goddamn athlete, not a pet pig. Okay, gentlemen, starting now, let’s cut the shit. I’m knocking on doors at six a.m. and we’re coming back to the Circle for breakfast, but not to load up—nothing that slows us down in the water. Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow is when all the hard work pays off. Am I right, Rangers?”