By Seth Wickersham

Monday, October 13, 2008

Can somebody tell him why he's alone? That's all he wants as he sits in front of his locker, still wearing his uniform, the navy-blue polyester caked in dirt, the bottom of his right cleat stained with another man's blood. His heart is racing, his head is spinning, his breathing shallow. He looks around at all the empty lockers. Where are his teammates? Where are the coaches? And where, he thinks as he looks down near his feet, is his phone? He digs through the piles of clothes and tape and ...

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