“You know who hates him the most?” he said. “Fucking Varnadoe. He can’t stand it that my dad chairs the board at his precious Yeatman School. All the old guys are delusional about Yeatman, but Varny’s the worse, because of his fancy degrees and all of that Greek and Roman bullshit. He thinks he’s Marcus-fucking-Aurelius and my dad’s like some barbarian invader defiling the empire.”

I told Arch what Jamie had said about his father and Varnadoe.

“Jamie’s so full of shit,” Arch said.

In the library, I dug the old Vanderbilt yearbooks out of the stacks and found Jim Haltom’s pictures there. There were shots of him clutching a football, gazing off into the distance, his brow furrowed with determination. The years had made him a bit heavier and grayer, but he still had the same look in his eyes—the intense gaze, always probing, looking for the next guy to knock on his ass.

Later that fall, I was often the Haltoms’ guest at Vanderbilt games. I watched Jim Haltom huddled with business acquaintances, paying no attention to what was going on in the stadium; half of the time, he never left the tailgate. (Admittedly, the Commodores didn’t offer anyone much to get excited about.)

The more I learned about Jim Haltom, the more I watched him, the more I began to see him as a role model. He had taken his opportunity and made the most of it. This, I thought, was how one rose in the world. I wasn’t from the hills of East Tennessee, but my father was born and raised in Appalachia, just like Mr. Haltom. I began to draw conclusions. Without football, Mr. Haltom would never have left the woods of East Tennessee. Without Mr. Haltom, I’d never have left the streets of East Nashville. Having climbed out of his meager circumstances, he’d deigned to lift another like him, though perhaps less gifted, into the position of advantage he’d needed to achieve his remarkable rise. It was obvious, I thought. Jim Haltom was my fairy godfather. To deserve it, I merely had to follow the lead of his true son—Arch Creigh.

As often as I could, I went home with Jamie after school until my mother or Sunny could get there to pick me up. The Haltom house was big enough to get lost in; you could go a week without having to see anyone you wanted to avoid. I rarely saw Mr. and Mrs. Haltom in the same room together. They were both very busy, Mr. Haltom with his business ventures, Mrs. Haltom with her social calendar and her philanthropy and the various regimens she undertook in her war against the twin tolls of time and booze.