“You were a top player once, Doug. You were a star. Father always said you were best.”

There followed, at this, an interval of silence between us, after which Seamus went on, “Anyway, no one cares anymore about that ridiculous blunder in that unimportant championship match. Fumbles are part of the game. It’s a shame when a team captain drops the ball in his own end zone just as the clock is running out, but that’s fate, what’s over is over, what’s done is done, there’s no going back and what’s the point in picking at a sore spot? Everyone agrees if you’d had better blocking, things would’ve turned out differently. You took some quality hits and there’s nothing more challenging than holding on to a wet ball, and the playing field was damp that day if I recall. At any rate it was a long time back and we’ve all put it out of our minds.” Seamus gazed sleepily off toward the drinks table. He rambled on, “Talent like yours never really goes away. It’s like riding a bicycle. Promise me you’ll consider it, Doug. With you calling the plays and throwing the long ball, we could have the upper hand against the Ministers.”

I told Seamus that I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for me to play ball, though I was flattered he’d asked and I’d think about it as long as it was understood I wasn’t making any commitments. “I barely find time in my schedule for the genealogical survey I’ve been working on. You’ll be interested to know, Seamus, that I’ve recently discovered a namesake of yours in a ship’s registry. Not, I might add, the first such ship’s registry I have encountered in my researches concerning our family. At any rate, there’s a Seamus in the registry for a voyage out of Portsmouth bound for the Ivory Coast and from there with its cargo, so called, to the New World. In the year 1811. Perhaps you’d like to stop by my study area later, and I’ll show you your name. It’s right there in the log. It’s clearly legible. How about that?”

Seamus said, “Doug, forget that family history crap and come out Sunday and tug on the old jersey. It’ll make you feel like a boy again, believe me. And, Doug, don’t worry about the rush. With Gregory at the line of scrimmage, no Episcopal Minister will lay a hand on you.”

“Gregory is an Episcopal minister.”

Again Seamus gazed down into his vodka glass and, seeing its emptiness, sighed. In a weary voice he told me, “Whatever else you might believe about Gregory, he’s loyal to family. He blocks for us.”