Third and fourth rounds of drinks were served, with Ferguson passing each time, and the conversation got around to football, how Parnelli had been an all-state halfback in high school but that USC had turned him into a linebacker, which he realized now had actually been a real compliment to his abilities, because it was back about then that defense began to come into its own and to be recognized as every bit as important as offense, but he sure as hell had pissed and moaned at the time. Hook, in turn, explained that though he had never played the game himself in college it was still his favorite sport, and he and his sons—son, he corrected—were especially high on pro ball, in fact were great fans of the Chicago Bears despite the fact that they lived only forty miles from St. Louis. Parnelli was no Bear fan by a long shot, he said, but he had to admit the best ball, the roughest ball, was played in the Central Division—the “Icebox Division,” he called it.

“Anyway,” he said, “they sure make those fucking Rams look lousy year after year.”

Hook noted the adjective. “The Rams do lose the big ones,” he agreed.

“The Rams are shit!” Parnelli snorted, scowling down at his drink, shaking his head. “They drafted me—I suppose you’ve heard that.”

No, Hook had not. He neglected to add that until two days ago neither had he heard of “Bo” Parnelli.

“Yeah, they drafted me. Let me work my balls off at summer camp, and then what do they do? They cut me—too late for any other team to pick me up. And then after a year’s layoff nobody’s interested in you anymore. You’ve had it.”

Hook nodded sympathetically. “It’s like show business. Making it or not making it is just a matter of luck. Look at the pro record of the Heisman Trophy winners. Nothing.”

Parnelli looked at him in loving gratitude, even raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to you, man. By Christ, you know football. You know what it’s all about. The breaks—that’s what it’s all about.”

He was already slurring his words, and when he signaled for another round now, Ferguson delicately suggested that maybe they ought to stop drinking and have dinner instead. “Remember, Jack’s going to want to go out at seven tomorrow,” he added.

Parnelli ignored the suggestion about having dinner, but the other excited him, and he turned to Hook. “Hey, that’s right. Hey, you ever go spearfishin’, Dave?”

“Never. The water’s kind of cold this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Not skin divin’,” Parnelli laughed. “With a wet suit.”

“No. Never have.”

“Well, come on out with us tomorrow. Jack’s got this boat, the Skipjack, a forty-foot sportfisher. We usually go out once or twice a week. Out to the islands. It’s great. You’d have a great time.”

Hefting his fourth drink, Hook gave the matter thought. “I don’t know about going into the water, but I could watch, I guess. Just the two of you?”