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Chapter I
2033, LAKELAND, FLORIDA
I don't have any appointments until 11. In case there are any walk-ins, I keep the office door propped open with an old kicking tee. Yesterday I forgot I'd wedged it in there, and when I tried to shut the door I put a little crack in it. It's not such a big deal, since a lot of folks like a holder when they do the kickoffs. But I don't know where I'd find a new tee these days.
The slow business isn't so bad. I get to write, and I get to paint, even though my paintings look kind of crappy. I'm pretty new at this stuff, and I'm just using the basic paints and paintbrushes I got at the hobby store.
I guess it helps that I'm not trying to make artwork, really. I'm just trying to document. I'm just trying to record all the things I have seen.
I don't know if I'm ever going to show any of this to anybody. It might be just for me. It's not that I'm not proud of what I've done, because I am quite proud. It's not that all these memories don't captivate me. I saw a beautiful game of football, and a beautiful world, that I wish I could share with everyone.
I just don't think anyone would ever believe me.
* * *
NOVEMBER 7th, 2014, TORONTO, ONTARIO
Raghib Ismail. Ambassador for the Toronto Argonauts and retired Argonauts wide receiver. Tim Tebow! Great to see you, sir. Thank you so much for coming up here to meet. I hope this place is all right. They've got some of the best bagged coffee in Toronto.
Tim Tebow. Free agent quarterback, Heisman Trophy winner, and three-year NFL veteran. The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Ismail.
Raghib Ismail. Call me Raghib.
It's called the Seein' Tower. Even in their grandest achievements, the Canadian people are humble. They build this enormous structure in downtown Toronto that stands 3,200 meters off the ground -- that's about two miles -- and they give it a name like, "The Seein' Tower." The server sees me craning my neck to try to see the top of it through the window.
Server. You know why they call it the Seein' Tower?
Tebow. I guess because you can see a long way from the top of it?
Server. Nope! A lot of folks think that, but it's actually because when you get to the top of it, you can--
--oh. Yeah, I guess you ... you knew already.
He leaves some milk and tops off my coffee and shuffles away, defeated. The milk is in this little plastic bag, it just sits there all lumpy on the table like a melting snowman. The coffee is also in a bag. Canada is a strange place.
Raghib grimaces from across the table.
Ismail. There was no reason to be like that, man.
Raghib Ismail is in dress blues, as is standard practice for Toronto Argonaut personnel in civilian settings.
Ismail. Jeez, look at him.
The server is behind the espresso machine, hands on his hips, staring at the floor. It looks like he's crying.
I have no idea what I did.
Ismail. He just wanted to tell you a fact he thought was neat, and you humiliated him. You've never been to Toronto?
Tebow. No. Is this a Canadian thing?
Ismail. No, no, just a Toronto thing. They're a wonderful people. Resourceful, often ingenious, friendly, but quite sensitive.
So. We've got one game left on the regular-season schedule, and we're acquiring you because we think you can give us the win we need to get over the top and make the playoffs. If we do, we make a run at the Grey Cup. One game at a time, though.
Before you sign this thing, we need to go over some stuff. Canadian football is more or less the same idea as American football, but there are some things about it that'll weird you out. They weirded me out.
I look down at my coffee. It's quite hot, and the bag is starting to melt. Canada is a very strange place.
The Canadian football field is a little bit wider, and the ball feels a little bit different. An offense is given only three downs, which worries me. The rouge is the thing I'm most confused about. If you kick the ball through the end zone, it's called a rouge, and you get one point.
Raghib clicks his pen and slides it over to me and says,
Ismail. Yeah, the rouge is one of the strangest things about the Canadian game. I found out about it when I joined up in '91, and I still don't really get it. But the thing that's really gonna trip you out more than anything? Listen to this. If you score a touchdown, you--
Raghib's stopped talking. I look up from the paper and he's just staring at me, bug-eyed.
Ismail. How do you do that?
Tebow. What?
Ismail. Like, write with your left hand like that.
Tebow. I mean, the same way you write with your right hand. Just the opposite.
I get this all the time. All the time. Ask any lefty, they have heard it a thousand times.
He takes my pen and grabs a napkin.
Ismail. Hold on, hold on, I gotta try this.
He carefully places the pen in his left palm, then wraps his fingers around it like a tight fist. Eventually, he settles into a more traditional pencil grip, and tries to write his name on the napkin.
Ismail. Look at that. Ha!
His signature is crude, with big, jagged loops.
Ismail. It's like I'm a baby. Ha ha ha. It's like I'm a ... writing baby.
I would never say so to their faces, but the juvenile delight with which right-handers handle things like these is adorable, and a little infectious.
Ismail. Hooo man. Lordy. All right. Tim, we gotta get going. Can you get the tip?
I look through my wallet, and realize I completely forgot to exchange my American dollars at the airport.
Ismail. Oh, no no no. Tips don't work like that here. You gotta do something nice.
Tebow. What?
I've spoken a lot of one-word sentences since I flew into town.
Ismail. Something nice! Do them a favor. Make them a thank-you card. Maybe sing them a song about how much you enjoyed your coffee.
Tebow. Um.
Lots of no-word sentences, too. I look at my coffee; it has melted the plastic and most of it has dripped to the floor. Canada is a very, very strange place.
I lean on the table as I stand up, and it wobbles a little bit. I look underneath, and it has four legs. Perfect. I grab the sides and slowly rotate it a quarter-turn clockwise, and shake it again. The wobble's gone. I would later learn that with that little trick alone, I'd have been able to eat for free in every restaurant in the city.
* * *
Ismail. Hold on, I gotta make a call.
Raghib walks over to this thing on the sidewalk that looks like a phone booth. Except there's no telephone. There's just this big metal pipe sticking out of the concrete. He shouts into the end of it.
Ismail. YES, I'D LIKE TO CALL THE TORONTO ARGONAUTS OFFICE. THE ADDRESS IS ONE BLUE JAYS WAY.
There's a pause, and a thin, barely-intelligible echo comes out the other end. It sounds like a kid's voice.
Voice. YESSIR! WOULD'S YOU LIKE A DIRECT LINE, SIR?
Ismail. HOW LONG WOULD THAT TAKE?
Voice. SIR, WE'S AT PEAK HOURS. WE'S GOTTA MOVE AROUND SOME PIPES FOR THAT ONE. WAIT'S ABOUT THREE HOURS.
The communications system in Toronto is a joke. The city has recently had to find ways to keep electricity usage to a strict minimum, and this was one of their solutions: to "call" someone in town, you yell into a pipe. The "shouties" -- usually 12 years old or so -- are kind of like operators. You tell them where you want your call to go, and they re-arrange this enormous network of iron pipes throughout the city, such that it connects the two of you.
The sound won't travel all that way, of course, so after about a hundred meters, there's a shoutie who listens to what you're shouting. Then they turn around and repeat it into another pipe, where another shoutie does the same thing, and so on and so forth, until the message is delivered. Trouble is, these kids love to embellish. Maybe you'll tell your spouse you're going to pick up eggs on the way home. By the time the message gets there, you have put three dozen eggs down your pants, you have changed your name to "Fart Idiot," and you want a divorce.
Ismail. THREE HOURS?
I WANT TO MAKE IT CLEAR THAT I AM NOT YELLING BECAUSE I AM ANGRY.
Shoutie. YESSIR. 'PRECIATE THAT, SIR. WE'S COULD SEND IT AS A BROADCAST IF YOU WANT. LOTS QUICKER.
A broadcast transmits a lot faster, because rather than connecting a direct line, the shouties simply yell it through the entire network.
Ismail. ALL RIGHT, DO THAT.
CITY OF TORONTO, THIS IS RAGHIB ISMAIL.
He waits; it looks as though he's waiting for applause. Nothing.
And then I hear cheering. The message bangs from pipe to pipe, neighborhood to neighborhood, and as it does, the roar grows louder. Soon it sounds like the whole city, in each direction, going crazy: "RAG-HIB! RAG-HIB! RAG-HIB!" He looks down and grins while he waits for Toronto to quiet down.
Ismail. THE ARGONAUTS HAVE SIGNED AN AMERICAN QUARTERBACK. PLEASE WELCOME THE NEW FACE OF OUR CITY ...
He puts a hand over the pipe and points to the sky.
Ismail. This is gonna be a riot, Timmy.
A man across the street yells, "TIM RATTAY!" A woman: "KYLE BOLLER!" Soon enough, the city erupts in various chants. From the northwest I hear "KEL-LEN CLE-MENS." From the east, an entire faction of people seems to be chanting, "RY-AN LIND-LEY." An old woman pops out of a fourth-story window, banging a metal pot with a soup ladle. Her shouts are drowned out, but I think I can make out that she's yelling, "DAN ORLOVSKY!"
It takes five more minutes for the city to quiet down again.
Ismail. The streets are gonna be Hell. We gotta haul ass to my car in a second.
And then, back into the pipe:
Ismail. TIM. TEBOW.
It's quiet for the moment.
Tim Tebow, the man who couldn't hack it in the NFL. Tim Tebow, the novelty. Tim Tebow, the man who will, at long last, get a CFL mention printed in a deck of Trivial Pursuit cards. Everyone in America will laugh, and that's fine. Nobody actually pays attention to the CFL down there. If I suck up here, maybe nobody will notice. In a couple years, when I'm running color in an SEC Network booth, I'll chuckle and make a joke about maple syrup, and nobody will ask me about Canada and the CFL again.
I just gotta play. I can only do this for so many years. I gotta play.
The city begins to rumble.
I can't do TV. I sound like Luanne Platter.
Well, now there's some cheering, but ... mostly rustling. They aren't near as loud as they just got for Raghib Ismail. Or even Kyle Boller. I'm fine with this. Maybe they don't really know me. Maybe I can disappear up here for a little while.
Tebow. Well, there you go, man. Maybe I can give 'em something to cheer for once I get on the field.
Ismail. Oh no, man. Tim. There's only one reason they're quiet. They're getting to work.
They're putting up the signs, man.
I will never disappear.
* * *
We jog over to Raghib's car, he pats his pockets.
Ismail. Ahh ... damn, left my keys. You got any?
I've only been in Toronto a few hours, and I'm already sick of asking questions and being surprised at everything, so I don't hesitate. I just reach in my pocket, pick out the key in my keychain that opens my mailbox back in Florida, and stick it in the door. It opens, and I'm just laughing my ass off. Just dying. Through my fit, I'm kind of half-verbalizing, half-gesturing to Raghib.
Tebow. So every key opens ...
Ismail. Yuppp. Every key in Toronto opens every door in Toronto.
My head's buried in my elbow on the roof of the car. I can't keep it together right now.
Tebow. THEN WHY ARE THERE KEYS???
* * *
The chants of my name have collapsed into a near-deafening, unintelligible din. Raghib is zig-zagging around cheerleaders and marching bands; it's taking him a half-hour to drive a mile.
Ismail. See, I think -- hey, come on!
He punches his steering wheel with the base of his fist, and a digital voice says "THANKS." A shoutie tips his cap and drags a shout-pipe out of the road.
Ismail. I think a lot of Americans, we think of Canada as this sort of pale imitation of the United States. We just assume that we invented football, and they came along later and started playing a knockoff. Tell you what, though, they were inventing football right alongside us. We played that first Rutgers-Princeton game in 1869. A year before that, Canadians were playing football against British officers in Montreal.
Then in the 1870s, Harvard played McGill, that's a college over in Montreal. Now at this point, you couldn't just pick up the ball in American football. But when the American guys saw the Canadian guys practicing, it was kind of a trip. They saw the Canadians just tucking and running all over the place. So the Harvard guys tried it, and they loved it.
The Canadians invented the running game. We learned it from them. And nobody ever talks about that, man -- hey, check that out.
Raghib cranes his neck over the wheel and looks up.
Ismail. All for you, Timmy. This is all you.
Folks on the street are pulling cords and spilling flower boxes full of confetti out of the skyscrapers.
Ismail. Those confetti boxes? They were there already. A few years ago, we thought we were getting Brodie Croyle. He never showed. It was really sad. Glad we get to use 'em now.
See, we just can't keep our players up here. Get this, alright? There's this lineman at McGill University, his name's Laurent Duvernay-Tardif. Great player. He's gonna be the top overall pick in the CFL Draft this year. But then the Chiefs take him with the 200th pick in the NFL Draft, and he signs with them. A lot of folks up here saw that as a real f-you, especially to take him with the 200th pick. Nice round number. Like, "Our 200th beats your first."
Even after the Chiefs drafted Duvernay-Tardif, the Stampeders spent a top-twenty pick on him in the CFL Draft. I remember reading about it a couple days before getting on the plane, while I was trying to soak up as much CFL knowledge as I could. In particular, I remembered the comments at the bottom.
He was going to the NFL. They had to know that, right? But here was a Montreal fan congratulating Calgary on a great move, and by all appearances, genuinely meaning it. That's either Christ-like or stupid. I am in flight from those who say they are the same thing.
Ismail. Tim, you're a celebrity up here, but that's not why everyone's excited. You were one of the best college football players of all time. Why do you think you didn't work in the NFL?
Tebow. I just wasn't good enough.
Ismail. I don't think that's true. We don't think so. We think the NFL is built to nitpick and micromanage and legislate guys like you into uselessness. They didn't let Timmy be Timmy.
Tebow. You sound like everybody in Gainesville.
Ismail. I mean it, man. You have autonomy. We do not have a head coach. We don't have any coaches. Up here, we reject the oppressive hierarchies of authority. You will be the quarterback, so you will be the boss, and the only boss. You're calling every play. Are you comfortable with that?
Everyone who grew up a homeschooled kid will probably tell you something different. The most important thing I learned was self-actuation and creation. Mom and Dad, of course, they were there to make sure I was learning and getting stuff done. But I just kinda navigated my way through my own education. I didn't work, I learned, and what I learned was my idea. And right now, I'm thinking on why I sucked out of the NFL, and I'm finally putting the pieces together.
Tebow. Yeah. I am. I think I am. What kind of timeframe do we have here?
Ismail. I don't know. As soon as we get there.
Tebow. What do you mean?
Ismail. C'mon, Timmy, you see all this traffic, right? I'm getting you there as soon as I can.
Tebow. No, I mean, what kind of timeframe until the season starts?
Raghib stares at me. Oh Hell.
Ismail. As soon as we get there. I got your uniform in the back seat. Suit up.
* * *
The Rogers Centre seats 630,000 people. It is taller than many skyscrapers. The Blue Jays and Argonauts sell a fair number of tickets, but they've never packed the house before today.
Dante Hall jogs out to receive the opening kickoff, or at least be present. He drags a folding chair into the end zone, sits down, and opens a book of Sudoku puzzles. Citing Ontario labor laws, the CFL players' union fought for his right to that chair, and he is not shy to exercise that right. He hunches over and works over a puzzle as the kick sails far above his head. Hall has been the Argonauts' kick returner since 2009, and has had the opportunity to field only two kickoffs.
I pass him as I jog on the field.
Tebow. Hey, why do y'all kick off from midfield?
Dante Hall, age 36. Argonauts returner and wide receiver, and nine-year NFL veteran. Pick up that ball and you'll know.
I haven't picked up the ball yet. Of course I haven't picked up the ball yet. I got out of the car, was led straight to the field, and now I'm here. "Another reason we wanted you," Raghib told me, "is that we need a quarterback who can learn on the fly. We don't have any time to ease you into the role." I barely had time to tie my cleats.
I'm in the huddle. I've got a running back, Volquez, who speaks first.
Nereida Volquez, age 29. Argonauts running back and 10-year CFL veteran. Happy to have you, Tim. We all are. I've never seen the place this full. There were so many people who wanted in here that, like, there weren't enough seats for everyone, you know? So seriously, outside, there are people who want to get in, but they can't! It's fuckin' wild. Like, one person is standing out there, and there's another standing behind that person, and then --
Natrone Means, age 42. Argonauts running back and eight-year NFL veteran. A line?
Volquez. Yes! A line. That's exactly what it looks like. Is that an American thing, I guess?
Means. Mhmm.
Means doesn't bat an eye at having to explain this; he has been in Canada for many years, and is well aware of how poorly they understand some things about our country.
Means. Sometimes there'll be a situation where people want to go somewhere, like inside of a building. A restaurant or concert or something. But they can't. Other people don't let them.
Volquez. Why would they build buildings and not let you go into them? I mean, I'm tryin' to understand, and no offense, but that's fuckin' stupid.
Means. Really stupid. It's just a thing in the States. Tim'll tell you.
I'm not listening. I'm staring at the seats, and the lights, and how they go up, and up, and up, and up. There are as many people in this building as there are in Denver.
An Ottawa REDBLACK shouts from across the line.
REDBLACK. Hey folks, just letting you know ... play clock's down to a minute.
There is no playbook. Or if there is, I don't have it. I guess I'll start simple.
Tebow. Mitchell? Is that Freddie Mitchell?
Freddie Mitchell, age 35. Argonauts wide receiver and four-year NFL veteran. You know it, baby.
Tebow. Tell you what, I'll hit you on a hitch if I can. Which of y'all are my other wideouts?
Maryse St-Hilaire, age 20. Argonauts rookie wide receiver. Here.
St-Hilaire can't be taller than 5'5. Hall is 5'8. My word, we're short at wideout. Who built this team?
Tebow. All right ... maybe I'll find y'all in the flats if I need.
I call for the snap from the shotgun. Henderson, he's my center, he calls back to me.
Henderson. Jav out?
Tebow. What?
Means. You gotta call how you want the ball, jav in or jav out.
The crowd breaks into a chant. "JAV! JAV! JAV!" The play clock's down to four.
Tebow. Uh ... jav in?
The crowd is disappointed.
Tebow. Hut!
The ball shoots through my hands and cracks me in the face mask; there's so much juice on it that I'm reeled back. I scoop the ball off the ground. It's heavy. It must weigh four or five pounds. The blitz is just about on me, and I see Freddie has found a little space. My throw is a dead duck; all five pounds of it leave a dent in the ground, three steps away from him.
We huddle up, and Freddie slaps me on the back.
Mitchell. Your first play and you throw it with your wrong hand! Shit cracks me up. I don't know what that was, but you got some balls.
Tebow. I'm left-handed.
Mitchell. Wait, so you just always throw like that?
Tebow. Yep.
Mitchell. No way, man. No fuckin' way.
I just need to hand the ball off, get the Hell out of this series, and try to get some kind of handle on what's going on once I hit the sidelines.
Means. Maaaaan ... I'm 42 years old. You give me more than five carries, I'll pull something. I mean, you're the boss, but second and ten just ain't the spot for that. Better if you give it to Volquez.
In the shotgun again, and this time, it's not gonna knock me on my ass. Here comes the crowd again: "JAV! JAV! JAV!" I forgot to ask what the "jav" is, and I guess I'll find out.
Tebow. JAV OUT!
Henderson. Timmy, I don't think --
Tebow. HUT!
The ball's in the air, halfway to me. This time I'm ready. There's this sound. KA-CHUNK. This time, I catch the ball, but I don't understand what I have caught. I kill a second or two just staring at it.
All right, well, that's why it weighs so much. If I had more than two and a half seconds before the blitz was on me, I might look closer at the telescoping metal tail that has sprung out of the rear end of the ball, and the three fins that neatly pop out at the very end and almost make it look like a cruise missile. I might let it sit in my hand, and feel a surprisingly perfect counterbalance in weight -- it's heavy, yes, but throwing it is like pushing a train across rails. Soon, I will come to love it; it will roll up and down the arc I draw into the sky with my arm.
But right now, I am a stupid man, standing in the middle of a sport he doesn't understand, with a stick in his hand and shit in his pants. Gotta do something, Timmy. The blitz is on me, and I remember that pitching to Volquez was the idea. What happens next is a throw in a strictly technical sense, I guess: one hand at the ball, one hand on the tail, and I just kind of shove it sideways.
Volquez has it in the flat, and then she plants her feet. An Ottawa cornerback has peeled off his assignment to engage her, but the two are just sort of circling each other. Volquez is brandishing the jav-ball (maybe that's what it's called?) like a sword, ball out. Ottawa takes a step he shouldn't. She winds up and smacks him in the side of the helmet, then pulls up and hits him again on the far side of his face mask. She's won some space, and she goes sprinting down the line.
Another REDBLACK has put himself in Volquez's way, and this time, it's scarier. She's still carrying the jav-ball, like Babe Ruth when he hit one over the fence and forgot to drop the bat. Now his feet are flat. He sees an opportunity. Most times, a player running with jav out slows the runner down, makes the runner vulnerable. A defender has a better chance of smacking that ball out.
She's spinning away from him … ohhhhh God, no, she isn't. She's winding this up like a hammer throw. As the spin turns away from the defender, he uses the instant to attack. He isn't fast enough.
She swings back around, and the ball crunches him in the gut. A couple seconds and eight yards later, she's been shoved out of bounds. That poor sucker is the latest of the too-slow men and women of the CFL who thought they might fuck with Nereida Volquez. They usually end up catching their breaths on the ground, not because they've been outrun, but because they just took one to the gut, and were then outrun.
Right now I don't know any of that, and Hall assures me that it's a legal move, both in a "rule book" sort of way and a "nobody's calling the cops" sort of way. In the huddle, Volquez is wincing and looking back at the guy. He's on all fours, and has not bothered to remove his helmet before vomiting through it.
Mitchell. God, you fucked him up, Ne.
Volquez. I mean, I really didn't mean to fuck him up so hard. But it's like he tried me and I had to let him know.
Timmy, see, the folks that been around, we got an understanding. They let me pick up two or three, cut out of bounds, everybody's cool and it's good. He's a rookie, though, and shit, he's gotta know. Plus! It's good for the planet.
Mitchell. What, throw-up? Throw-up ain't good for the planet.
Volquez. Yeah it is. Think about it, it's organic.
Mitchell. That's stupid. You're fuckin' stupid.
Volquez. Fuck you.
Mitchell. We're inside, dumbfuck.
Volquez. Fuck you!
Volquez is setting up to my left; Freddie, who has abandoned an argument about barf that he was probably on his way to winning, lines up way out on the right sideline and pouts. The huddle has broken, no play has been called, and Means puts an arm around my shoulder.
Means. Look at that.
Means. You're the boss here. But you want my advice?
Yes, I do. Right now, if Means tells me to bury the ball at the 20 and plant a touchdown tree, I'll do it.
Means. Third down on our own 28, we'd usually punt. It'd usually be stupid not to. A team usually only gets inside the opponent's 30 a couple times a season. If they get close enough to kick a field goal, we've probably lost.
That's what CFL scores look like. 0-0, 1-1, 2-1, 3-0. 6-0 if a team's really getting its ass kicked. And if we lose, that's maybe our season. You ever looked at CFL standings?
I had, and I just figured their site was messed up.
Means. You ask me, we fake a punt, direct-snap it to you. Fake punts never happen up here, because punting is far and away the most effective way to move the ball upfield. Almost the only way, really.
That ought to mess 'em up long enough for you to tuck and run. You only need two yards. Just find a gap and stretch for it. I'll tell you what. You know how many first downs we had the whole regular season last year? Across 18 games?
We had four. If you get a first down right here, you could walk off the field, fly back to Florida, and never come back here, and it wouldn't matter. You'd be a god. A legend. They'd make statues out of you.
When you know a God, you don't really have any interest in being one, because you've seen what He does every day and it doesn't seem like a lot of fun. But I can run. I'd love to run.
Chris Gardocki lines up to punt, and I line up to his right. The snap. I run in front of him, and this time I make a clean catch. In the following seconds ... hours ... years ... well, I certainly won't change the world. The world will change around me, in spite of me.
I see the sound. I clearly see people in the crowd screaming and drumming and crying. But I can't hear a thing. The CFL end zone is a place that kind of exists outside of time. St-Hilaire will later describe it to me as "steampunk"? Like, there's stuff from the past and the future just kind of mashed together. From the future, I've got this crazy ball, and this stadium that's five times bigger than any building I'd ever heard of.
Lots more from the past, though: behind me is Natrone Means, my running back, who was playing for the Chargers when I was seven. He's waving his arms and running and yelling something at me. I guess he's celebrating, but I don't really know, because I'm just about deaf for the moment.
The end zone itself is just turf. There's no paint. The field goal post is right at the goal line too, like it was in American football 75 years ago. Todd Peterson, he's our kicker, he'll later tell me that since CFL offenses almost never get past the 40 -- they kind of had to keep the goalposts up there to give kickers a fighting chance at a field goal. That explains the rouge, too. It's hard to get much accuracy at that range. You just bomb it, and if you can kick it out of the end zone, anywhere, that's a point.
On the sideline, a shoutie is hopping on one foot, struggling to rip off one of her boots. She does, and uses it to whale away on a shout-pipe sticking out of the wall, occasionally pausing to scream something into the end of it and point at me. The latter is about as worthwhile as the former; I'm positive that nobody tuning into the pipe can hear anything intelligible.
Sound can't turn my head right now, so it's light that brings my attention to the wall behind the end zone. There's this big display of letters spelled out with vanity light bulbs, and it's lighting up: "BOUND FOR STREET."
Pop, pop, pop. About a quarter of the bulbs bust as soon as they're turned on. Mounted next to it is a big red bell, making the only sound I can really make out. It sounds like one of those jet bridges when they're pulling it away from the airplane. The people sitting behind the end zone are all leaving their seats. Well, no, they're leaving where they were sitting. They're snapping their seats out of the concrete, like they're thieving souvenirs or something. And there's this rumbling in the ground that feels mechanical.
Do you ever wonder what it's like to be an insect? Like a beetle or housefly or something? When people invoke bugs, they usually talk about how tiny and insignificant and killable they are, but the most interesting, and inherently "bug" trait of a bug is its complete freedom from intellect. A bug is allowed to walk around the same places we walk, eat the same stuff we do. If it can fly, it experiences the world in a way we never will.
But it never feels a thing. Even when you flip on the kitchen light at two in the morning and find a little house mouse on the counter, that mouse won't perceive you as some arbitrary body in motion. It'll look up at your face, if it looks at you at all. Those bugs don't know your face from your knee. If you're anything to them, you're a big sack of blood. They're alive, but the type of alive in which nothing is thought about, nothing is feared, nothing is planned. It's a life boiled down to existing and doing. If our lives were boiled down in the same way, they'd probably be about as long as a bug's.
If you want to feel like an insect, I think you get blindsided, focus on what you're feeling and thinking in the tenth of a second that follows, and bottle it up. There aren't any thoughts or words at this point. Indignation is a second or two away. It's like thinking, "huh?" only you don't know what the word for "huh?" is.
I start to turn my shoulders back toward my teammates, but I'm still taking in all this business going on in the seats: where are these people going? I'll ask Nate. I turn my head and there's my bug-moment: a REDBLACK drives his shoulder right into my side, I'm in the sky, I'm on the ground.
I'm furious, but then I'm confused, because when we get to our feet, he's putting his palms up. I still can't hear, really, but he's doing a lot of "I'm just doing my job" gesturing. Maybe late hits are allowed in the CFL? Maybe you're supposed to hit late? Maybe I have to do something in the end zone once I've --
I
It
My teammates jog up to the goal line as though it's the line of scrimmage, because it is. The scoreboard reads
ARGOS ARE FIRST TEAM TO GO BOUND-FOR-STREET SINCE THE 1985 SEASON.
and
UNDER CFL RULES, THE PLAY CLOCK WILL BE SET TO FIVE MINUTES TO PREPARE FOR BOUND-FOR-STREET PLAY.
and the fans, who moments ago had abandoned their seats behind the goal line, are spilling out into the streets, sitting in the seats they had taken with them.
Raghib shoves through the crowd on the sideline and runs to me.
Ismail. Timmy. Damn it, Tim, I didn't think you'd do this so soon.
Tebow. I can't hear anything. I can't hear you.
Ismail. I'LL SPEAK UP AND SPEAK SLOW. FIRST THING. FIND SOME NEW SHOES. YOU DON'T WANNA BE RUNNING ON ASPHALT WITH SPIKES. IT'S HELL. SECOND THING, YOU NEED TO DRIVE IN THE SAME DIRECTION YOU WERE. NORTH-NORTHEAST.
Tebow. For how long?
Ismail. I DON'T KNOW. MAYBE I SEE YOU BACK HERE IN TWO MINUTES, MAYBE TWO WEEKS.
Tebow. So this is street football or something?
Ismail. KIND OF. EVERYTHING IS INBOUNDS. EVERYTHING IS IN PLAY. FIRST DOWNS STILL WORK THE SAME, YOU NEED 10 YARDS IN THREE DOWNS. IF YOU TURN THE BALL OVER, OTTAWA'S GONNA TRY TO DRIVE BACK INTO THE STADIUM.
So when does it stop? We're interrupted here, and it's just as well. I'm lost. I'll ignore anything else he might tell me, because I could spend a month chewing on what he just said.
I was raised in America, a land obsessed with measuring things up and scheduling their deaths. Games, term lengths, relationships, TV shows, leases, parking. A decade later, I'll still struggle to understand the alternative: that an end doesn't necessarily have to matter, or be worried about, or even exist.
The man who interrupts us is strikingly little and stout; the buttons on his suit look about a hiccup away from popping out. He has a voice that I can't hear, but is probably soft and squeaky. He's reading sheepishly from a crumpled little sheet of paper. He hiccups, and one of his buttons pops out.
He seems to end his remarks, none of which I heard, with a slight lean forward on his tiptoes and a glance at the ground. His eyes are wet. He offers me the sheet he was reading from with two cupped hands and waddles away. One night soon, trapped in an attic and at the end of my rope, I will remember it's in my pocket, and at last I will read it.
Means tells me that's a mayor.
Means. No, not the mayor. A mayor. Here, we've got what you call a popularchy. Anyone who really wants to be in charge can be in charge. If you don't like a bill, you can just walk into City Hall and repeal it, doesn't matter who you are.
It's usually the spiritually small people, the little thinkers, who bother to flaunt authority like that. We all know that one, though. Two sashes. He's trying too hard.
* * *
The line of scrimmage sits right along the "ARGONAUTS" paint in the end zone. Ahead of us are the REDBLACKS; their faces are obscured by the sunlight pouring over their shoulders. Behind them are sidewalks, streets, hot dog vendors, skyscrapers, suburban backyards with trampolines, rivers, mountains, abandoned barns, and permafrost, all part of the field. The hash marks live only in our hearts.
Football was born in a little rectangular box. First there were markers, then paint, then stadium walls to trap it within its bars. And now the beast has been let out of the zoo. It has never been out in the wild, but it knows this place, because this was always the world it was meant to live in.
I line up behind center and ready myself for the great adventure of my life.
Wait, I have one more question.
Tebow. Where's the end zone?
Means. You're standing on it.
Tebow. No, but, like, where do we score?
Means. We don't.
Tebow. Then what do we do?
Means. We whoop their asses, is what we do.
* * *
Chapter Two →