After the knee injury had abruptly reduced him to the status of being just another student at Tech, Neely was in a bar when a coed from Messina spotted him. "Heard the news from home?" she said. "What news?" Neely asked, not the least bit interested in news from his hometown.
"Got a new record in the Spartan Marathon."
"Oh really."
"Yeah, eighty-three laps."
Neely repeated what she'd said, did the math, then said, "That's almost twenty-one miles."
"Yep."
"Who did it?"
"Some kid named Jaeger."
Only in Messina would the gossip include the latest stats from the August workouts.
Randy Jaeger was now climbing up the bleachers, wearing his green game jersey with the number 5 in white with silver trim, tucked tightly into his jeans. He was small, very thin at the waist, no doubt a wide receiver with quick feet and an impressive time in the forty. He first recognized Paul, and as he drew closer he sawNeely . He stopped three rows down and said, "Neely Crenshaw."
"That's me," Neely said. They shook hands. Paul knew Jaeger well because, as was established quickly in the conversation, Randy's family owned a shopping center north of town, and, like everybody else in Messina, they banked with Paul.
"Any word on Rake?"Jaeger asked, settling onto the row behind and leaning forward between them.
"Not much. He's still hanging on," Paul said gravely.
"When did you finish?"Neely asked.
"Ninety-three."
"And they fired him in—"