And so it begins….
Into the blistering wilderness of the practice field, the man who walked with high school kings now walks alone. Torn from the pinnacle of small town power, stripped of all rank and earthly wealth, a forsaken man without a letter jacket, without a crew—his soul in turmoil like the hot winds and raging sands that lash him with the fury of an assistant coach's whip. He is driven forward, always forward, by a dream of a trophy unknown, toward a land unseen... Into the molten wilderness of 2-a-days, where camera towers stand as sentinels of living proof of every missed tackle. Each night brings the black embrace of the lonely film room. In the mocking whisper of the wind, he hears the echoing voices of the dark past... …4-star recruit! 5-star recruit!! Future NFL prospect!!! His tortured mind, wondering if they call the memory of past triumphs or wail foreboding of disasters yet to come or whether the summers’ hot breath has brought back the ghost of Bumpas on a Vespa & melted his reason into madness. He cannot cool the burning kiss of thirst upon his lips nor shade the scorching fury of the sun. All about is desolation. He can neither bless nor curse the power that moves him, for he does not know from where it comes. Learning that it can be more terrible to quit than to die, he is driven onward through the burning crucible of desolation, where the purple & white are cleansed and purged for this great purpose, until at last, at the end of human strength, beaten into the dust from which he came, the metal is ready for the maker's hand.