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“Not really in his shoe. On his shoe.”
    â€œTight end?” I asked.
    The coach refocused on me. His big face nodded. He said, “You have good hands.” He said, “You’re a big target and you’re as fast as they come. Think of the mismatches, Felton. Could a linebacker cover you? No.”
    I thought about catching passes. I like catching passes. I liked being a running back a lot though, and I think they should’ve told me about this tight end thing before I showed up on their campus to be barfed on.
    â€œWe want to get you on the field next year too, which isn’t going to be easy because of the players we have returning.”
    I nodded. This I already knew: Wisconsin is wealthy in talent. They have two returning 1,000-yard running backs (very good running backs—uncommon).
    Here’s the truth: I probably could deal with tight end. I’d had other coaches tell me I’d make a better pro prospect as a tight end. (Not that I’d thought much about pro football—I could barely imagine the next day at that point.) Tight end didn’t matter.
    Here’s what did matter: I didn’t like the culture. Big-head coaches. Barf. Ass. Chew. Body spray car washes. Remote controls that don’t work in hotels. When Jerri picked me up, I felt pretty crappy, sort of terrified because before that, I thought I’d just go be a Badger, you know?
    â€œHave fun?” she asked when I climbed in the car.
    â€œGreat!” I said.
    â€œGreat!” she said.
    Here’s what I was really thinking: Jesus, I don’t think I can do it. Jesus, where am I going to go college? Northwestern, Dad?
    Bart Kunzel IM’d me when I got home and said he was sorry about that stupid-ass barfing girl. No biggie, I replied. Then he said I should let him know if I had questions.
    I didn’t send him a single text or Facebook message after that.
    Wisconsin still checked in with me constantly, which I sort of ignored because I was Mr. Bernard Dickman.
    ***
    The next week in school, everyone—all of them smiling too hard and red in the face—asked me how my visit to Madison went. I told them, “Pretty good.”
    Then they smiled like their faces would break and they nodded like bobbleheads.
    Wisconsinites really like Wisconsin. Cheeseheads. I like Wisconsin too, but I didn’t back then in the fall.
    â€œPretty nice place,” I told everyone.
    Only Tommy Bode, my freshman mentee, saw through me. We met in the morning on Tuesday after my visit. I told him I’d been in Madison for the weekend. (He seemed to have no idea about my football situation.) He asked if I liked Madison.
    I said, “Great town.”
    He said, “My mom’s neck turns red when she lies.”
    I said, “That’s weird.”
    He said, “Your neck is red, you liar.”
    â€œHey!” I shouted.
    â€œI’m not joking,” he said.
    â€œI know,” I said.
    Then I watched him draw pictures of guns.

Chapter 6
    The Blood of My Foes Makes Me Happy
    The next weekend, we beat Cuba City by 40 points. It was a blast. I scored five touchdowns in the second quarter, which tied a state record. After the game, I got so many texts from coaches that I decided to turn my phone off for a couple of days (after texting Aleah that she should call our landline if she needed me). Then me, Abby Sauter, Cody, Karpinski, and a bunch of others did what we always did after games: hit Steve’s Pizza, where I ate a whole large sausage and mushroom pizza by myself. I fell into bed in love with the world.
    Saturday morning, I went over to Gus’s because he had an idea for a series of videos about dudes in pajamas fighting each other with different kinds of small stuff (pipes, pencils, sewing needles, etc.). Tiny shit fighters.
    I rode my bike to his place wearing my pajamas. On the way, Karpinski’s dad sped by me on his scooter. He beeped, slowed down, and said,