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me.
    On Saturday evening, after their game against Illinois (an Illini is some kind of Native American, I found out), Bart picked me up at my hotel. He limped because his knees hurt. Then he took me to this giant beer party crushed wall to wall with people who smelled like they’d had whole bottles of body spray blasted all over them (like there’s some body spray car wash near campus and everybody walked through it on the way). Still, riding just underneath the sweet chemical fragrance, you could smell a horse-butt, monkey-donkey animal smell in that packed house.
    I stood smashed in a corner for an hour trying not to smell anything and then this girl stumbled out of nowhere and puked on my foot. “Ha, ha, ha!” everyone laughed.
    â€œHa, ha,” I said.
    After I spent ten minutes trying to wipe the barf off my shoe onto the little bit of grass that wasn’t trampled dead in the front yard, we went back to a dorm and played video games with a bunch of other giant football players.
    The dorm room smelled of ass, Doritos, and chew. (The farm boys in Bluffton dip tobacco constantly—I recognized that odor.)
    Have I mentioned that I’m kind of a super smeller? Smells kill me. Very intense. It’s a damn curse. I can smell squirrels that have bad breath way up in the trees. You might think I’m joking. (I’m sort of joking but not really.)
    While in that dorm, my ability to not be freaky exited my body. These football guys all barked like my friend Karpinski. “AAAHHHH. BAAHHH. DUUUDDE. BAHHH.” Back home, there’s only one Karpinski, not seven screaming, “AAAAAAHHH. BAAAAAH.” I began to get twitchy and I blinked a lot and I stared at dudes’ foreheads, which is a bad habit, and my adrenaline began flowing.
    I asked Bart to take me back to the hotel at midnight because my muscles were getting so wound I thought I might punch a wall.
    Bart said, “You sure? You want to hook up with some girls or something?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” I said.
    At the hotel, I showered for an hour and did jumping jacks and push-ups and stretched my hamstrings, which are naturally tight. Then I stared at the damn wall for like three hours before I fell asleep. (The remote control didn’t work and I didn’t feel like getting out of bed at that point.)
    What is wrong with you? I wondered.
    You’re a damn dipshit! I answered.
    Okay, maybe. But you’re disappointed too. Isn’t college about reading big books in an ancient library?
    I found out later that there are good libraries at Wisconsin, but I didn’t ask questions while I was there because I was unable to justify my existence to myself.
    The next day was a little better. Me and Bart stood on the actual field at Camp Randall (the football stadium), at the 50-yard line on the W in the middle, and he said, “Pretty awesome, huh?” And I said yeah because it did look really cool. (I’d seen it on TV—but this was such a different view.) I imagined cutting on that turf, running like a gorilla, bursting through a seam. I imagined fans doing “Jump Around” in the stands. (YouTube it!) I liked that.
    Then we met with the strength and conditioning coach who showed me these different workouts they do, including carrying bags of cement up the stairs, all the way up to the top of the stadium. Yes. I love working out. Carrying bags of cement sounded fantastic, I must say.
    Then Bart took me upstairs to the football offices, which are fancy (they were all fancy everywhere I went), and the offensive coordinator, a big-knuckled, slick-haired mofo, told me I might play some tight end at Wisconsin.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    Then he asked if I had a good time at the party the night before while he slapped me on the back too hard, which made my neck tense.
    I said, “This girl barfed in my shoe.”
    â€œBarfed?” the coach asked.
    â€œWell, a little barf,” Bart said.