Chapter 8

They were the kind of days that offered no comfort. The wind would blow off the marshes—land that some clever reporter discovered had, ironically enough, once belonged to Quinn’s French ancestors—bringing with it a dampness that seeped into the bones and made it impossible to sit, stand, pace or play too long before every joint and muscle throbbed. Still, Quinn was convinced that it would matter not a whit if he were doing what he was born to do—play. Instead, it was all Lance all the time, even though the Temps rarely won. And on those plays when Lance came out of the game, Smalley called on third-string quarterback Dave Donaldson.

So Quinn compensated for the humiliation by over-preparing—memorizing the playbook (he had an eidetic memory); watching game film until he was bleary-eyed; absorbing everything the coaches said; throwing until his arm felt like it would fall off; and working out until his feet were calloused and his hands, raw and bleeding.