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other
around the stadium, but he preferred to watch the games with his dad. Fact is,
he'd rather be with his dad than with his buddies. Watching the games, running
around River Oaks, playing golf at the club, having their man talks—they could
talk about anything, he and his dad. His dad understood him. He knew what was
inside him, in a way his mom and Becky could not. Of course, they were girls.
He and Dad were guys. Dad said girls didn't understand guys, and guys didn't
understand girls; that's why God gave guys cable TV with a hundred sports
channels.
    William
groaned. The varsity quarterback threw another interception.
    "He
missed the read."
    William
didn't just watch the games; he studied the games. Analyzed the plays, the
alignments, the defenses, what worked and what didn't work. What he would do
when he played on the varsity in four years. This year's varsity fumbled and
stumbled their way to a losing 0-40 halftime score.
    "When's
the last time we won a game, Frank?" the dad behind them asked.
"Back in ninety-seven?"
    "Ninety-eight,"
his dad answered.
    "That'll
change when William's our quarterback."

Chapter 3
    "They
ought to put William on varsity now," the dad sitting next to Frank said.
"He's already better than the senior quarterback."
    "He'll
be playing for the Aggies in six years," another dad said.
    "Like
hell," the first dad said. "He'll play for the Longhorns. Right, Frank?"
    "Maybe
Harvard," Frank said.
    They
both regarded him as they might a Chevrolet cruising down River Oaks Boulevard.
    " Harvard? "
they said in unison.
    It
was the next afternoon, and Frank was again sitting in the same stands at the
same football field. William's middle-school team was playing another private
school. The Academy's classes were small, so the sixth, seventh, and eighth
graders played together on one team against larger private school teams
comprised mostly of eighth graders. William's team was equally as bad as the
varsity, but he was good. Very good. Abnormally good. William Tucker was a
prodigy, like Mozart or Bobby Fischer. Except his gifts were physical in
nature. He was a natural athlete. He excelled at all the sports—basketball,
baseball, soccer, tennis, golf—but what he could do with a football—what he
could do on a football field—defied explanation. He was not a normal
twelve-year-old boy. He was bigger, stronger, and faster than the
fourteen-year-old boys. He had thrown three perfect passes for touchdowns, but
his receivers had dropped the balls. He had run for four touchdowns. And he
was now running for a fifth.
    Frank
stood to watch his son.
    William
had dropped back to pass. The defensive team had converged on him, and a sack
was imminent. But at the last second, he spun around and broke wide, leaving
the would-be tacklers grasping air. He hit the sideline and turned on the
speed. His feet were fast, his gait smooth and rhythmic. No one touched him.
    Touchdown.
    The
other dads whooped and hollered. There is something about football. Frank did
not know what it was because he was not afflicted with the football virus, odd
for a man in Texas. He had played in high school, as most boys do, but he had
never dreamed of a football career. He hadn't been big enough, strong enough,
or fast enough. His son was more than enough, but Frank did not live or die
his son's football. Most men, even men who were successful at the law or
medicine or business, want their sons to be like Frank's son. A man's desire
for his son to be a star football player transcends race, religion, and
socioeconomic status. Whether a poor uneducated black man in the Fourth Ward
or a rich educated white man in River Oaks, he wants his son to be the star
quarterback. He wants to bask in his son's glory. To watch him do football
feats he could never do. Success on a football field is different than success
in the courtroom or boardroom or operating room.
    Football
is manly.
    Consequently,
men stand in awe of football ability. You can work