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'And tits!' cried Lenny Metz.

'Well, they're okay,' Dove said. 'But it's the ass that's really special.'

'She has a nice smile, too,' Metz said.

Chip Dove rolled his eyes at me, conspiratorially -- as if to show me he knew how dumb Metz was, and he was much, much smarter. 'Don't forget to use a little soap, huh, Lenny?' Dove said, and passed him the slippery bar, which Metz, instinctively -- a non-fumbler -- slapped against his belly in his bearish grip.

I turned off my shower because some bigger person had moved under the stream of water with me. He shoved me out of his way altogether and turned the water back on.

'Move on, man,' he said, softly. It was one of the linemen who kept other football players from hurting Chipper Dove. His name was Samuel Jones, Jr., and he was called Junior Jones. Junior Jones was as black as any night in which my father's imagination was inspired; he would go on to play college football at Penn State, and pro ball in Cleveland, until someone messed up his knee.

I was fourteen, in 1956, and Junior Jones was

the largest organization of human flesh I had ever seen. I moved out of his way, but Chipper Dove said, 'Hey, Junior, don't you know this kid?'

'No, I haven't met him,' said Junior Jones.

'Well, this is Franny Berry's brother,' Chip Dove said.

'How do you do?' said Junior Jones.

'Hello,' I said.

'Old Coach Bob is this kid's grandfather, Junior,' Dove said.

That's nice,' said Junior Jones. He filled his mouth with a froth of lather from the tiny bar of soap in his hand, then tipped his head back and rinsed his mouth out in the downstream of the shower. Perhaps, I thought, this was what he did instead of brushing his teeth.

'We were talking,' Dove said, 'about what it was we liked about Franny.'

'Her smile,' Metz said.

'You said her tits, too,' Chipper Dove said. 'And I said she had the nicest ass at this school. We didn't get to ask the kid, here, what he likes about his sister, but I thought we'd ask you first, Junior.'

Junior Jones had lathered his bar of soap away to nothing; his huge head was awash with white froth; when he rinsed himself under the shower, the suds lapped around his ankles. I looked down at my feet and felt the close presence of the remaining twosome from Iowa Bob's backfield. A burnt-face boy named Chester Pulaski, who spent too much time under the sun lamp -- even so, his neck blazed with boils; his forehead was studded with them. He was primarily a blocking back -- not by choice; he simply didn't run quite as well as Lenny Metz. Chester Pulaski was a natural blocking back because he tended to run at his opponents more than he tended away from them. With him, and flitting near to me, like a horsefly that won't leave you alone, was a boy as black as Junior Jones; any comparison, however, was over with their colour. He sometimes lined up as a wide receiver, and when he ran out of the backfield it was only to catch Chipper Dove's short and safe little passes. His name was Harold Swallow, and he was no bigger than I was, but Harold Swallow could fly. He had moves like the bird he was named for; if anyone ever tackled him, he might have broken in half, but when he wasn't catching passes and flying out of bounds, he was just hiding in the backfield, usually behind Chester Pulaski or Junior Jones.

They were all there, standing around me, and I thought that if a bomb were to be dropped on one spot in the shower room, Coach Bob's winning season would be over. Athletically, at least, I was the only one who wouldn't have been missed. I was simply not in the same category with Iowa Bob's imported backfield, or with the giant lineman Junior Jones; there were other linemen, of course, but Junior Jones was the main reason Chipper Dove never even fell down. He was the main reason there was always a hole for Chester Pulaski to lead Lenny Metz through; Jones made a hole big enough for them to run through side by side.

'Come on, Junior, think,' Chip Dove said, dangerously -- because the tone of mockery in his voice implied his doubt that Junior Jones could think. 'What is it you like about Franny Berry?' Dove asked.

'She's got nice little feet,' said Harold Swallow. Everyone stared at him, but he just pranced around under the falling water, not looking at anybody.

'She's got beautiful skin,' said Chester Pulaski, helplessly drawing even more attention to his boils.

'Junior!' Chip Dove said, and Junior Jones shut off his shower. He stood and dripped for a while. He made me feel as if I were Egg, years ago, still learning to walk.

'She's just another white girl, to me,' Junior Jones said, and his look paused a second on each of us before moving on. 'But she seems like a good girl,' he added, to me. Then he turned my shower back on and shoved me under it -- it was too cold -- and he walked out of the shower room, leaving a draught.

I was impressed that even Chipper Dove would go only so far with him, but I was more impressed that Franny was in trouble -- and still more impressed that I was helpless to do anything about it.

'That scum Chipper Dove talks about your ass, your tits, even your feet' I told her. 'You watch out for him.'

'My feet?' Franny said. 'What's he say about my feet?'

'All right,' I said. That was Harold Swallow.' Everyone knew Harold Swallow was crazy; in those days, when someone was as crazy as Harold Swallow, we said he was as crazy as a waltzing mouse.

'What did Chip Dove say about me?' Franny asked. 'I just care about him.'

'Your ass is all he cares about,' I told her. 'And he talks about it to everyone.'