Chapter I
2033, LAKELAND, FLORIDA

I don't have any appointments until 11. In case there are any walk-ins, I keep t
he office door propped open with an old kicking tee. Yesterday I forgot I'd wedg
ed 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 kick
offs. 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 usi
ng 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 r
eceiver. 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 cof
fee in Toronto.

Tim Tebow. Free agent quarterback, Heisman Trophy winner, and three-year NFL vet
eran. 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 s
tands 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 se
e 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 pe
rsonnel in civilian settings.

Ismail. Jeez, look at him.

The server is behind the espresso machine, hands on his hips, staring at the flo
or. 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 humiliate
d 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, o
ften 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 mak
e the playoffs. If we do, we make a run at the Grey Cup. One game at a time, tho
ugh.

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. Canad
a is a very strange place.

The Canadian football field is a little bit wider, and the ball feels a little b
it 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. B
ut 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 thous
and 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 l
ike a tight fist. Eventually, he settles into a more traditional pencil grip, an
d 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-h
anders 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 America
n dollars at the airport.

Ismail. Oh, no no no. Tips don't work like that here. You gotta do something nic
e.

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 a
nd 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 underneat
h, and it has four legs. Perfect. I grab the sides and slowly rotate it a quarte
r-turn clockwise, and shake it again. The wobble's gone. I would later learn tha
t with that little trick alone, I'd have been able to eat for free in every rest
aurant 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. E
xcept 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 B
LUE JAYS WAY.

There's a pause, and a thin, barely-intelligible echo comes out the other end. I
t 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 fin
d 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" -- us
ually 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 th
roughout 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 an
d 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 wa
y home. By the time the message gets there, you have put three dozen eggs down y
our 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 W
ANT. 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 n
eighborhood, and as it does, the roar grows louder. Soon it sounds like the whol
e city, in each direction, going crazy: "RAG-HIB! RAG-HIB! RAG-HIB!" He looks do
wn and grins while he waits for Toronto to quiet down.

Ismail. THE ARGONAUTS HAVE SIGNED AN AMERICAN QUARTERBACK. PLEASE WELCOME THE NE
W 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 y
elling, "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 Tr
ivial Pursuit cards. Everyone in America will laugh, and that's fine. Nobody act
ually 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 lo
ud 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 whil
e.

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 pocke
t, pick out the key in my keychain that opens my mailbox back in Florida, and st
ick it in the door. It opens, and I'm just laughing my ass off. Just dying. Thro
ugh 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 ri
ght 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 say
s "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 imit
ation of the United States. We just assume that we invented football, and they c
ame along later and started playing a knockoff. Tell you what, though, they were
 inventing football right alongside us. We played that first Rutgers-Princeton g
ame 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 whe
n the American guys saw the Canadian guys practicing, it was kind of a trip. The
y 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 eve
r 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 thoug
ht we were getting Brodie Croyle. He never showed. It was really sad. Glad we ge
t to use 'em now.

See, we just can't keep our players up here. Get this, alright? There's this lin
eman 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 pi
ck. 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 c
ould. 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 f
an congratulating Calgary on a great move, and by all appearances, genuinely mea
ning 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 di
dn'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. Y
ou will be the quarterback, so you will be the boss, and the only boss. You're c
alling every play. Are you comfortable with that?

Everyone who grew up a homeschooled kid will probably tell you something differe
nt. 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 do
ne. 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 s
ucked 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 d
rags a folding chair into the end zone, sits down, and opens a book of Sudoku pu
zzles. 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 kickof
fs.

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 vete
ran. 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 re
ason we wanted you," Raghib told me, "is that we need a quarterback who can lear
n on the fly. We don't have any time to ease you into the role." I barely had ti
me 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 t
o 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 everyo
ne, you know? So seriously, outside, there are people who want to get in, but th
ey 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 thi
ng, I guess?

Means. Mhmm.

Means doesn't bat an eye at having to explain this; he has been in Canada for ma
ny 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. Oth
er 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 ot
her 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 wideou
t. 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 t
o 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 Fred
die has found a little space. My throw is a dead duck; all five pounds of it lea
ve 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 ge
t 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 pu
ll something. I mean, you're the boss, but second and ten just ain't the spot fo
r 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 com
es the crowd again: "JAV! JAV! JAV!" I forgot to ask what the "jav" is, and I gu
ess 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. K
A-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 meta
l 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 w
eight -- 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 s
ky with my arm.

But right now, I am a stupid man, standing in the middle of a sport he doesn't u
nderstand, with a stick in his hand and shit in his pants. Gotta do something, T
immy. 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 h
as peeled off his assignment to engage her, but the two are just sort of circlin
g 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 sm
acks 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 lin
e.

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 vu
lnerable. 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 insta
nt to attack. He isn't fast enough.

She swings back around, and the ball crunches him in the gut. A couple seconds a
nd eight yards later, she's been shoved out of bounds. That poor sucker is the l
atest 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 b
ecause 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 four
s, 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 t
ried me and I had to let him know.

Timmy, see, the folks that been around, we got an understanding. They let me pic
k up two or three, cut out of bounds, everybody's cool and it's good. He's a roo
kie, 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 b
arf that he was probably on his way to winning, lines up way out on the right si
deline 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 t
ouchdown tree, I'll do it.

Means. Third down on our own 28, we'd usually punt. It'd usually be stupid not t
o. 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 get
ting 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 happe
n up here, because punting is far and away the most effective way to move the ba
ll 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 man
y 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, f
ly 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 yo
u've seen what He does every day and it doesn't seem like a lot of fun. But I ca
n 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 ... h
ours ... years ... well, I certainly won't change the world. The world will chan
ge around me, in spite of me.

I see the sound. I clearly see people in the crowd screaming and drumming and cr
ying. 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, t
here'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 tha
n any building I'd ever heard of.

Lots more from the past, though: behind me is Natrone Means, my running back, wh
o was playing for the Chargers when I was seven. He's waving his arms and runnin
g 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 Peter
son, he's our kicker, he'll later tell me that since CFL offenses almost never g
et past the 40 -- they kind of had to keep the goalposts up there to give kicker
s 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 t
he wall, occasionally pausing to scream something into the end of it and point a
t 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 th
e 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. M
ounted 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. We
ll, no, they're leaving where they were sitting. They're snapping their seats ou
t of the concrete, like they're thieving souvenirs or something. And there's thi
s 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 insigni
ficant and killable they are, but the most interesting, and inherently "bug" tra
it of a bug is its complete freedom from intellect. A bug is allowed to walk aro
und the same places we walk, eat the same stuff we do. If it can fly, it experie
nces 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 th
e morning and find a little house mouse on the counter, that mouse won't perceiv
e 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 anythin
g to them, you're a big sack of blood. They're alive, but the type of alive in w
hich nothing is thought about, nothing is feared, nothing is planned. It's a lif
e boiled down to existing and doing. If our lives were boiled down in the same w
ay, 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 yo
u're feeling and thinking in the tenth of a second that follows, and bottle it u
p. 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 a
ll this business going on in the seats: where are these people going? I'll ask N
ate. I turn my head and there's my bug-moment: a REDBLACK drives his shoulder ri
ght 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 puttin
g his palms up. I still can't hear, really, but he's doing a lot of "I'm just do
ing my job" gesturing. Maybe late hits are allowed in the CFL? Maybe you're supp
osed 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, becau
se 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, ar
e 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 STIL
L WORK THE SAME, YOU NEED 10 YARDS IN THREE DOWNS. IF YOU TURN THE BALL OVER, OT
TAWA'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 doe
sn'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 sui
t look about a hiccup away from popping out. He has a voice that I can't hear, b
ut 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 o
n his tiptoes and a glance at the ground. His eyes are wet. He offers me the she
et he was reading from with two cupped hands and waddles away. One night soon, t
rapped 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. A
nyone who really wants to be in charge can be in charge. If you don't like a bil
l, 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 fl
aunt 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. Ah
ead of us are the REDBLACKS; their faces are obscured by the sunlight pouring ov
er their shoulders. Behind them are sidewalks, streets, hot dog vendors, skyscra
pers, suburban backyards with trampolines, rivers, mountains, abandoned barns, a
nd 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 pa
int, then stadium walls to trap it within its bars. And now the beast has been l
et out of the zoo. It has never been out in the wild, but it knows this place, b
ecause 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 II

10:03 a.m. First and 10. Ball on BFS (Bound for street) 1.

Payless sales representative. No, no, sit down. This isn't a library. As a Payle
ss sales representative, I'm committed to finding the footwear solution that is 
right for you. You're an eleven and a half?

Tebow. Yes, ma'am.

I'm not running on asphalt in my spikes anymore. It hurts like Hell. I had to fi
nd a shoe store.

I take a seat behind a shelf, ball on my lap. The chair across from me has a lit
tle mirror below the seat, and I'm using it to look out the window. I haven't se
en any Toronto blockers or Ottawa defenders yet, which makes plenty of sense, be
cause I'm a few hundred yards off course. Once I got a couple football fields aw
ay from the Rogers Centre, a shoutie flagged me down.

Shoutie. Mr. Tebow! I's got a message from one Mr. Means, he's sayin' you ought'
s find a shoey at the cross o' Wellington an' Windsor!

Tebow. Was that a broadcast?

Shoutie. No, Mr. Tebow, only jus' to me. Take a lefty on Front, then a righty on
 Windsor, find y'to a shoey!

A lot of those folks who had snapped their seats out of the Rogers Centre were p
arked on Simcoe Street. They'd promised not to give me away, so I slipped throug
h the crowd and made my way here. The Payless sales representative walks out of 
the back room with a few boxes.

Payless sales representative. OK! I've got some Blair Witch Project sandals in y
our size, but those are no good for football. I've also got some Threat Matrix l
oafers, Boston Public running shoes, and Hitch hi-tops.

I take a look at the running shoes, and she puts a hand on my wrist.

Payless sales representative. I have a question. Have. You. Seen. Boston. Public
.

Tebow. Yeah, I think so. Once or twice.

Payless sales representative. I think it's amazing. Chi McBride is wonderful as 
the principal. My husband and I got married in 2012, we had a Boston Public-them
ed wedding because we're huge fans. Everybody dressed up as their favorite chara
cter. And when we arrived at the reception? Instead of announcing us as the brid
e and groom, they announced us as the Chi McBride and groom. Just for fun.

She giggles at first, but I think I'm wearing something on my face, because her 
chuckles trail off. I suddenly remember the incident at the coffee shop.

Tebow. Oh! Oh, uh, Chi McBride instead of bride! That's hilarious!

The color returns to her face.

Payless sales representative. You know, running through Toronto, you'll run into
 lots of different terrain. Concrete, asphalt, grass, parks, staircases ... mayb
e some hi-tops would be best.

Hitch hi-tops it is. I reach for my wallet, and remember that I still don't have
 any Canadian money.

Payless sales representative. No, no, don't worry. These shoes are sponsored. Th
ey're free, so long as you make a point to let people know that Hitch is now ava
ilable on DVD.

Hitch has been available on DVD for nearly 10 years. I pull wads of paper out of
 the shoes and feed in the laces. They feel fine. Movement in the mirror catches
 my eye.

Payless sales representative. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It's Ottawa ... there's ..
. I think four of them ... I locked the door, but that's not gonna keep 'em out.
 You sneak out the back, OK? The alley will take you to Blue Jays Way. Take your
 first right, that'll let you right back out onto Wellington. Find your teammate
s after that, they're probably somewhere east of here. I'll buy you as much time
 as I can.

Through the mirror I take one last look; the REDBLACKS are backpedaling toward t
he street. Now they're sprinting into the windows. All four smash through the gl
ass, helmet-first, as I sneak to the rear exit. Not a second after I hear the gl
ass shatter, I hear her:

Payless sales representative. Hello! You know, we just got in some Knowing flip-
flops, just this morning. Would you like to take a look?

REDBLACK. The hit Nicolas Cage film?

Payless sales representative. Yes, sir!

I halt my breathing.

REDBLACK. Guys, I might need to check this out.

OTHER REDBLACK. I understand. The rest of us gotta go make a tackle.

I bolt out the back door. One down, at least. Only three of them to shake, I can
 do that. God bless you, ma'am. I'm sprinting up Blue Jays Way. A woman pushing 
a stroller waves.

Woman. Go Argos!

Tebow. Go Argos! Oh! And hey, Hitch is available now on DVD!

Woman. Starring Will Smith?

Tebow. Yes!

All of this is so weird and exciting. I love it. I am enjoying my life right now
. As I round a corner on the sidewalk, I backpedal so I can continue to face her
.

Tebow. Yes, ma'am! Hitch, the hit film starring Will Smith and Kevin James, is n
ow avai --

I was clobbered like I had never been clobbered. My shoes, inspired by the hit W
ill Smith film, could not save me.

Play result: DANTE HALL pass complete to TIM TEBOW for 244 yards.

* * *

11:13 a.m. First and 10. Ball on BFS 245.

The Ottawa strong safety's helmet is under his arm; mine is still halfway across
 the street. I've got my hands on my knees, trying to get my wind back as we wai
t for the others to get upfield.

REDBLACK. Mr. Tebow, my bad on that. I didn't mean to clobber you like that. I'v
e just never played bound-for-street ball before, and I was thinking about that 
commercial for that PlayStation game. Like, the football game ends, and the play
er goes home, and it shows him living his life throughout the rest of the week. 
Getting groceries and getting the newspaper out of the driveway in his bathrobe 
and stuff. And then he's cleaning his pool on like Thursday, and out of nowhere,
 BAM, a guy on the other team just wrecks him. Because it's like a really late h
it.

Tebow. Yeah! I think I saw that ad on TV when I was a kid.

REDBLACK. Nah, man. I'm talking about the ad for the new one. I think it's for t
he new GameDay. Yeah, GameDay 2013.

They stopped making those games a decade ago.

The rest of the Argos and REDBLACKS round the corner.

Means. Timmy, man, I am so sorry. You joined up with the Argos so fast, we didn'
t even get a bound-for-street pack ready for you. You don't have the right shoes
 for this shit ... I didn't even think about it.

He unrolls a map.

Means. OK, so have a look. That flea-flicker of yours was a Hell of a play. My G
od, T, you can run. You took a big detour there, going shoe shopping and all, bu
t even with that in mind, you gained at least 200 yards. That was easy going, th
ough, right? Streets are pretty empty. But as soon as we correct course and get 
back on the right trajectory, it's gonna be a shitshow. People are everywhere.

Now in a way that's good, right? Because these are our fans, it's our people out
 there. And they're trying to make way for us as best they can, but those six hu
ndred thousand people in the stadium have all set up shop downtown. On the sidew
alks, out the windows, on the street in some places. Remember the end zone at th
e end of that Cal-Stanford game from the '70s? That's gonna be the whole field f
or a little while.

I'm still hurting a little, but I've got to test my arm with this ball. I take t
he snap, jav-in, and hit Freddie on a post route. It's not a great throw, but Fr
eddie pulls it in. A hot dog cart throws a block for him and he bolts up Welling
ton Street untouched. He takes a knee near the John Street intersection.

Play result: TIM TEBOW pass complete to FREDDIE MITCHELL for 35 yards.

* * *

11:33 a.m. First and 10. Ball on BFS 280.

Mitchell. Sorry, y'all. There was nowhere to go except through some people, and 
I ain't tryin' to hurt anybody. I really don't know how we're gonna move past al
l this shit.

Freddie points at me.

Mitchell. That throw was alright, though. The way you throw is funny. I don't ju
st mean throwing with your left hand, I'm talking about, you don't put the ball 
up here when you throw, over your head. Instead you're down here, you kinda thro
w from your shoulder. You know? And it makes sense 'cause the ball's heavier. Yo
u been training for this shit?

When I have a chance, I am going to sit down and think about that. Really think 
about it. For now, I climb to the roof of a nearby van and take in the view.

I shouldn't have done that. Everyone sees me, and everyone swarms the van. A sea
 of people feeds in from the east. The REDBLACKS are somewhere past the line of 
scrimmage, but I can only see a couple of them. The ground is gone. The Earth ha
s vanished. I see nothing but people and things made by people.

I fall to a knee.

I put my helmet back on, because I am beginning to cry. Sometimes it's just you 
talking to yourself. I bet it's that a lot of the time, actually. But sometimes 
it's Him. This time it's Him. It was a sea of love, and I will tell you this: lo
ve is not necessarily secular. Sometimes love is awash in tribes, color schemes,
 brand names, trademarks. Sometimes they do not pollute it; they are it, or part
 of it.

Volquez pulls herself to the roof and stands beside me.

Volquez. You know what? A couple hours ago, I made the biggest play the Argos ha
d seen in six years. You just had to fly your Yank ass up here and big-time me, 
huh? You know what, fuck you.

I think we can use this crowd.

She walks to the front of the van, yells for attention, and puts a finger to her
 lips. Within a few seconds, the thunder fades into a chorus of, "shhhhh." Soon,
 the mob -- the city -- is silent.

Volquez. You take the snap up here. I get down there and drive. Real slow, two o
r three kilometres per hour, like you're barely moving. Slow enough to move thro
ugh all these people. Just snap it jav-out, be ready to swing at any REDBLACKS w
ho try and come on board.

Volquez relays the plan to the others. Means decides that he'll acquire a second
 car in case I need to dump it off; he'll drive and St-Hilaire will stand on top
. Keeping climbs on my van to give the snap.

Jeff Keeping, Argonauts center and 10-year CFL veteran. Listen, everyone. Do not
 let any Ottawa player near this van, please?

Nods and nods, a sea of them.

Tebow. Hello, everyone. I'd just like to tell you that Hitch, the romantic comed
y with a twist starring Will Smith, is now available on DVD. Get your copy today
. Hut!

Having forgotten her key, Volquez rifles through her pack for a mess kit. She pu
lls out a spoon and starts the ignition with it. We're rolling. The hum of this 
old GMC pierces the silence. This is the slowest I've ever run, but we're gettin
g somewhere.

Tebow. See any?

St-Hilaire. No. I'm looking for helmets and shoulders. Nothing.

Fan in the crowd. Hey! Hey, I found a helmet! It's an Ottawa helmet!

Second fan. Wait, there are shoulder pads here. Just sitting on the ground!

I'm making circles. No movement anywhere.

Tebow. Volquez? Volquez, you see anything?

And then two hands grip my ankle. I'm yanked backwards. I lateral it to St-Hilai
re just before my knees hit the roof. From behind my shoulder I spot a large man
 trying his best to push his way out of the crowd. He's wearing an Arcade Fire t
our shirt that's too large, even for him. Volquez sees him, too.

Volquez. Shit! That's a reversible jersey!

All their clothing is reversible. Ottawans are a hyper-practical people. The def
ensive end is swallowed up in a sea of admonishment.

REDBLACK. Just reppin' Canada, bro!

Old woman. That's a Montreal band. You're Rest-Of-Canada, you can't claim them.

Man. Broken Social Scene is better! Speaking of bands.

Woman. The Beatles is a band.

Man. My uncle was in a band.

Woman. That's impossible. My uncle was in a band.

The REDBLACK hunches in shame; as I drift further away, he disappears behind a m
ob of scolding that somehow devolves into meaningless argument. Poor bastard.

St-Hilaire points the ball at my feet.

St-Hilaire. T. You lost a shoe, man.

Hey, everybody! If you see a shoe looking lonely out there, would you mind tossi
ng it up to your quarterback?

There are murmurs of agreement.

We've gained about 50 yards on this play so far. It's taking half a minute to go
 10 yards. It's like being on a johnboat. And it's quiet, too, like it is on the
 lake. Nereida slaps the side of the roof.

Volquez. Timmy, you're real quiet up there. Everything good?

Tebow. Yep. Just enjoying the view.

Tebow. You ever been out on a lake, when it's real quiet?

Volquez. Ha. Yeah. When I was 16 or so, me and some friends went out to Lake Nip
issing, their folks had a boat. So we went out there, had some --

Tebow. Ha, wait. There's a lake called Lake Nipissing?

Volquez. Shit you not. Nipple, pissing. There, that joke was half our trip, you 
can feel like you've been there now. Anyways. We'd taken a bunch of stuff out th
ere that we'd raided from their liquor cabinets and decided we'd make cocktails 
on the boat. Thing is, we didn't know what any of the shit was, really. So that'
s how you end up with plastic cups full of simple syrup and bitters.

Crowd. [chuckling]

Tebow. That's bad?

Crowd. [more laughing]

Man. Love you, Timmy!

Volquez. Do you drink?

Tebow. Nah, not really.

Dang, where's Ottawa? Did they quit? Is this just a parade or something?

Volquez. Well, it was stupid. Then a cop boat shows up and some cops come on boa
rd. They're checking IDs and shit, so I just bail, man. I dive off the rail and 
haul ass to the shore. I was nervous as Hell, just swimming as hard as I could. 
I probably sounded like you dumped a horse in the water. But shit, I made it. Di
dn't get caught.

I look down and see that a man is squeezing his way toward the van. He's got a l
ittle boy on his shoulders, maybe 8 years old. He's holding an Argonauts program
 and a marker. This is the first time I call her Ne.

Tebow. Hey, Ne? I think you've got a fan.

I can't see Ne, but you can always hear in someone's voice when they're smiling.

Volquez. Hello, young man! Come on up here. Folks, let these people through, OK?
 I know you got a little space, c'mon.

Kid. I'm -- I'm a big fan of you. You're my favorite. I want to be a running bac
k, too.

Volquez. Well, right now I'm driving a GMC. It's not always that fun. What do yo
u want to be a running back for? You wanna put me out of a job?

Kid. No. I want to take Natrone Means' place when he retires. I'm going to be hu
ge when I grow up.

Means. Sorry, kid, no work for you here. I'm gonna play 'til I'm an old man.

Volquez. The fuck you are.

So, young man, here you go, and don't say the fuck word. Unless it's someone giv
in' you shit. And don't say the shit-word either. And also, about the drinking s
tory you heard? Don't drink until it's legal, OK?

Now Ne sticks hear head out the window.

Volquez. And what's the legal drinking age in Canada?

Crowd. Twenty-one!

Volquez. Except in Quebec, where it's?

Crowd. Twenty-one!

Volquez. Mhmm. So happy to meet you, fella.

The kid asks me to sign it, too. I'm happy to. I turn over on my belly and grab 
the marker, and he frowns.

Kid. You're ... what are you doing?

Tebow. What?

Kid. You're writing with your ... other hand. How do you do that?

Tebow. It's a magic trick, sir.

I sign his program, and then I look up, and something is dropping from the build
ing. Something big and red and black. "Red and black." The team's called the RED
BLACKS, and yet I'm completely unable to process the idea of a football player j
umping out a sixth-story window.

I don't move. He's falling right into St-Hilaire's car, and I'm certain I'm abou
t to watch at least one person die.

I want to take some time here to explain to you why no one was seriously hurt, a
nd how this could be.

It's typical for an American visitor to Canada to take in its January climates a
nd wonder why humans would voluntarily live there. In many parts of the country,
 the average low temperature hangs around negative-15 degrees Fahrenheit. It's n
ot at all rare for the temperatures -- not the wind chill, the temperature -- to
 reach 25 below zero. During its day, the planet Mars gets warmer than that. A t
own in Yukon once recorded a temperature of negative-81 degrees.

Canadians can trace their ancestries all across the world, particularly in Toron
to and Montreal, home to populations as diverse as any you would see in America.
 But once human beings survive a few Canadian winters, they toughen up in a very
 real way. They're hardened, both physically and spiritually. If you have ever d
riven a snowmobile through Nunavut, or stepped out of a Montreal metro station a
nd been greeted by a thousand invisible daggers of ice, you might agree that it'
s not unlike, say, landing on the roof of a Rav4 from 65 feet.

This does tend to make a Canadian far less easily hurt, but they can still be kn
ocked over. Maryse St-Hilaire is the best jav-fencer on the team, which is how s
he compensates for her small frame. She's 5'2 and 145 pounds, and with her sword
smanship, that doesn't matter at all. The Ottawa player -- I'll learn their name
s sometime, I'm sure -- goes ass-up and falls into the sea of people.

There are more. Yards ahead of us, the entire rest of the REDBLACKS defense is h
anging out of windows and perched on ledges. Means says we should stop the cars,
 so we do, and he climbs on his roof.

Means. Timmy, we're in deep shit.

Tebow. Can we just back out of here, take another route?

Means. They'd have plenty of time to set up before we got there and try this shi
t all over again. See, look up there. Look at how they're positioned, and think 
about how slow we're going. They just need to tackle us one time, that'll put us
 on first down, then make three more tackles.

We're going so damn slow, they can bring us down four times before we go 10 yard
s. Easy. We might be faster than them, but with this crowd, it won't matter, we'
re all the same speed.

I ask my team for ideas. Nothing.

Hall. We ... I mean, we could see the drake. He lives right over there, in the o
pera house.

He's making kind of a stink-face as he says it, and so is the rest of the team.

Years ago, the drake ascended to the title of Toronto's Master of the Queen's Mu
sic, a title comparable to the poet laureate, which he also holds. As such, he h
as been granted lordship over the city's opera house. His talent for music and p
oetry is largely unrivaled, and it takes a very special sort of creature to be s
o vastly unlikable in spite of it.

Means. Maaaan ... There is a little open field between here and there, nowhere O
ttawa can set up and jump all over us. We could get there ... I really just don'
t wanna do that at all.

Hall. We could hang out with him for a while, wait until the crowd thins out a l
ittle so we can actually get upfield. I don't like him either, but ... I mean, h
e's nice. He's a nice guy.

Volquez. I don't care about nice. Anyone can be nice. Guy's the worst. He's just
 the fuckin' worst.

Tebow. Who's the drake? What's so bad about the drake?

Volquez. It's like, you go over there, and then it becomes this whole thing. Eve
ry time.

Tebow. So the hang-up here is that he's a drag to hang out with?

Volquez. Such a fuckin' drag. God.

A half-hour later, at my insistence, we're at the door. The drake slowly opens i
t, and just as slowly, he beckons us to come inside. As I stagger past him with 
my missing shoe, he points.

The drake. It looks as though you have a Hitch in your step. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

He isn't laughing, he's saying "ha," and he looks as though he might cry at any 
moment.

Play result: TIM TEBOW runs up middle, laterals to MARYSE ST-HILAIRE for 232 yar
ds.

* * *

2033

I found a photo of the vase. Looks about right to me. He really was the worst to
 hang out with. Throughout, I felt devoured in poor conversation and insufficien
t companionship.

***

2014

The drake is a strange, slow creature. He skulks through an opera house littered
 with laundry. It's team apparel -- a Houston Astros ballcap, a Calgary Flames j
acket, a Tennessee Titans jersey, a Milwaukee Bucks sweatshirt -- and it's lying
 on the floors, draped over chairs, hanging from the necks of violins.

At the moment, he's wearing a Kansas City Royals T-shirt, and he half-heartedly 
gropes at a Nebraska sweater that's wadded up on the seat next to mine. He doesn
't make eye contact when he speaks.

The drake. Have you ever played Mission: Impossible for the Nintendo 64.

He always mutters. His entire life is a big, long, choreographed mutter, I think
. No, I haven't played that game. I say nothing.

The drake. Well in the third level you have to get a keycard from the guard to g
et into the base. You have to wait until he walks behind the truck and then knoc
k him out. Then you have to hide from the other guard. Then you have to open the
 gate. There's a thing on the side where you put your keycard in, so you put it 
in. Then ...

Why is he telling me this?

He's trying to pull the Nebraska sweater on, and it's kind of infuriating to wat
ch. It's like he's trying to shrug his arms into the sweater without actually mo
ving his arms.

The drake. Then when you go through the hallway, there's another guard so you ha
ve to shoot him. Then there's another guard and you shoot him. Then you go into 
the one room with the weird door and you turn off the security system. Anyways.

His head's through the hole of the sweatshirt, but the rest of his little advent
ure has ended in failure; the sleeves just hang down his chest like the world's 
saddest scarf.

He staggers in some other arbitrary direction.

The drake. Hey maybe I'm a Sacramento Kings fan.

he says as he slowly bends to pick up a Chris Webber jersey off the floor. He gr
oans.

The drake. No ... no. I am a Nebraska fan right now.

Suddenly he stands upright, and for the first time, he appears to notice our uni
forms. Maybe he's just now registering that we're even here.

The drake. You guys are the Toronto Argonauts. That is the city where this is.

He extends his arm, and slowly he turns to point in every direction.

The drake. Would you like to celebrate being the Toronto Argonauts. I am a fan o
f sports?

Finally, he says something that sounds as though there is a question mark at the
 end.

Nobody's answering him. Earlier, as we neared the opera house, Freddie pulled me
 aside: "Listen, man. Do not speak to the drake. No one must speak to the drake,
 no matter what he says. If you do, it'll turn into this whole big thing, and it
's just impossible."

But I can't let us embarrass him like that. I feel terrible for him. Whoever thi
s creature is, he's clearly harmless, and he seems quite lonely. So I answer him
.

Behind his back, Freddie bugs his eyes and mouths at me, "Why?" Twenty or so of 
my teammates' groans echo through the hall, but the drake seems to hear none of 
them. He sits next to me, as slowly as he does everything, and softly says,

The drake. Let's be friends. Let's say things which friends might say. Do you ha
ve things to say?

Tebow. Umm ... oh! Hitch is now available on DVD.

The drake. I already knew that. Thank you for incredibly nothing.

We only need to stay in here 'til morning. By then, the crowd will have disperse
d enough for our offense to move at a reasonable pace. It won't be so bad, Tim. 
Just kill some time.

The drake. Since you said a thing that was bad, I will talk for a little while n
ow. Ah-huh. Ah-huh.

He's making the sound of clearing his throat, but not doing it.

The drake. What do you think is cool?

Tebow. What?

The drake. I don't know.

The drake reaches forward, pulls a Tim Salmon Angels jersey off the seat in fron
t of him, and tries to spread it out across his chest. He lets it go and watches
 as it rolls down into his lap. He sighs.

The drake. Sometimes, things do not work out.

***

Everyone probably has at least one bad sleepover as a kid. Maybe your friend's p
arents make you go to bed too early, or maybe there's nothing to do, or maybe yo
ur friend just sucks. Waking up too early is the worst, though. You're in some o
ther family's house, your friend's asleep, and you don't know whether you're all
owed to turn on the TV and watch cartoons. You just lie there in your Dick Tracy
 sleeping bag and wait for the sun to rise all the way. Then you realize that it
 doesn't change anything, it just illuminates this place you're not used to.

I'm still aching from the hit that guy put on me at Wellington Street. I'm exhau
sted, but I'm not getting the blackout sleep I wish I would get. I'm getting tho
se "new job" nightmares. I bet lots of folks who have started a new job recently
 will know what I'm talking about. It's a fitful sort of half-sleep in which you
 obsess over a problem. And the dream isn't even clear enough to know what the p
roblem actually is. But you're obsessing over it anyway, buried in meaningless m
inutiae, stressing yourself out. It's awful.

They say one of the purposes of sleep is to let you process what happened over t
he course of the day. I find that I do a far better job of that when I'm awake, 
so eventually I resign myself to lying there and thinking.

Throughout my life, football has always been in the business of telling me where
 and when to stop. Football's really more about what you can't do than what you 
can. If its players were grounded to railroad tracks, it wouldn't be so dramatic
ally different: line up on this line. Put your fingers on the ground. No, don't 
move yet. Now move. No, don't put your hand there. Follow the play drawn up for 
you. It's a map. Follow the line. Stay inside of this box we have painted around
 you. Now there is a shoulder in your gut, planted there by someone very good at
 following nine hundred specific instructions.

Football isn't basketball, a sport so unnatural that they lay down pieces of woo
d to play on, thereby divorcing themselves from the earth. It isn't hockey, a sp
ort so bizarrely fast and metallic and hard that humans might not have any busin
ess playing it. It's not baseball, a sport which, despite its natural aesthetic,
 follows wildly intuitive and unnatural rules that bring you back to where you s
tarted; it is the only team sport that a caveman could watch and not even begin 
to understand.

So in spite of its suffocating bureaucracies, football -- including the one I ca
ll football, the one with the helmets and the ball shaped like a baby -- is the 
sport most at home in nature. This brand of football, this bound-for-street? It 
brings football outdoors, where it has always belonged. We have opened the cages
 and shuttered the zoo.

I think about these things, and I think about why the Lord might have put me her
e. Maybe they do not play football in Heaven, and He wants me to know this beaut
iful life while I can.

So yes, I will play on, and I will play for ... another day? Half a mile? A mont
h? Years? Where am I going?

What is waiting?

A dim light is beginning to creep through the windows, and it reveals the silhou
ettes of a couple REDBLACKS who have climbed up there. They're watching, waiting
 for us to cross the line of scrimmage.

I thought I was going to be apartment-shopping today.

* * *

I guess I fell asleep again. The drake's standing over me.

The drake. Hey!

Hey!

Hey.

Hey.

Hey!

Tebow. What?

The drake. 3D stands for three-dimensional. You knew that, right?

He turns and shuffles away before I can answer. Somehow, he's managed to get a V
ikings jersey caught around one of his ankles.

The drake seemed sad to see us leave. I still think about him sometimes. I think
 he was on to something with all those jerseys and hats and everything. His alle
giance drifted from one team to the next on a moment-to-moment basis; he was onl
y after what made him happy at that instant, whether it was identifying as a Lea
fs fan or Hornets fan or Cubs fan.

I think back to those Florida fans I came to know in Gainesville. They were fans
 their whole lives, and so were their parents and grandparents. If that road lea
ds you to a white-hot plastic chair, in 105-degree heat, down 22-7 to Arkansas w
hile Will Muschamp calls a run up the gut on second and nine ... why are you on 
that road? I've never really been a fan, because all my time has always been con
sumed with being a player, so far be it from me to issue judgment. But I would p
refer to reserve my loyalty for those in my life who might recognize me.

He really was the worst, though.

* * *

10:44 a.m. First and 10. Ball on BFS 1,059.

We've spent all morning picking up 30, 40-yard chunks. Nate points upfield.

Means. Timmy, we gotta put some food in you. There's a diner right up the street
 there. I'm thinking we call a breakfast play.

So that's what we do. Home-field advantage is quite a thing in bound-for-street 
football. It's what allows me to run 50 yards upfield, stop at a restaurant, and
 have breakfast in the middle of the play. The manager lets us in, and when the 
Ottawa players catch up to us, he exercises his right to deny service. They pace
 outside the window, waiting.

I take a seat.

Play result: TIM TEBOW runs up middle for 47 yards.

10:55 a.m. First and 10. Ball on BFS 1,106.

Means. Ah, damn. Timmy, you just sat down with the ball. That's a kneel. Loss of
 down.

Tebow. C'mon, man. Nobody saw it, it doesn't matter.

Maaaan, the look he's giving me. If certain people -- people of character, who y
ou come to really respect -- shoot you a look like that, you feel shame. Nate is
 already one of those people, and in all the times to come, I'll know him as one
 of the greatest men I've ever met.

Means. Timmy! My God. Look, I know you're tired, all this is new to you, you're 
going through some shit, you're hungry. All of us are. And I'm not trying to cra
wl up your ass right now, and you're the leader of this team. But the Toronto Ar
gonauts do not pull that shit.

I am shamed. The funny thing about being a religious man surrounded by those who
 might not be so religious: when you do something wrong, everybody notices. You'
re held to a higher standard by people who don't even buy into that standard, ne
cessarily. This is not a complaint.

Means. Listen, forget it, OK? It's a whole different system up here, and you're 
adjusting. I know it's a Hell of a lot different. It took me a while to adjust, 
too.

The food arrives, and I dig into it like a starved dog. Poutine is a popular dis
h up here. Variations abound, but the basic definition of poutine includes a pil
e of fries, gravy, cheese curds, a half-pound of bacon fat, parmesan cheese, but
ter, steak, chocolate, Crown Royal, malt vinegar, mayonnaise, ketchup, a few fri
ed eggs, crushed oatmeal cookies, Ranch dressing, foie gras, heavy cream, maple 
syrup, raspberry jam, ground beef, three tablespoons of salt, cocktail sauce, gu
acamole, Doritos, hoisin sauce, fried chicken, Starburst, blood sausage, calamar
i, butterscotch pudding, barbecue sauce, duck carpaccio, corn syrup, potato chip
s, fried oysters, boiled peaches, beef jerky, coffee creamer, a pickled hard-boi
led egg, rocky road ice cream, three packets of Ramen noodle seasoning, $5, frie
d candy canes, onion rings, triple sec, pizza rolls, a braised pork butt, cake f
rosting, Olestra, and pancake batter. One popular variant calls for a slice of b
lueberry pie set gently on top, but purists frown upon it.

There are 17,000 calories here, and I am in love with them all. It is the finest
 meal I've eaten in my entire life. I look up only briefly to take in the sight 
of a man wearing both football pads and reading glasses. Nate is flipping throug
h maps and taking notes. He has a plan.

Means. Tim, I want us to advance the ball past the city, and I want to do it tod
ay. I'm thinking a go route. Do you mind if I call this play?

Tebow. I'm good with that.

Means. All right. I'm gonna need to work on this ball a bit, make some adjustmen
ts. I've got to down it in order to do that, so we lose a down, but I think it's
 worth it.

Play result: NATRONE MEANS kneels for -2 yards.

11:04 a.m. Second and 12. Ball on BFS 1,104.

Nate fishes an eyeglass screwdriver out of his and pack sets to work on removing
 a series of screws from the seam of the ball. The whole ball opens up like a cl
am shell, revealing a grid of a dozen or so slots, some of which are filled with
 these metal discs.

Nate looks up at me.

Means. Damn. They didn't tell you about this either, huh?

* * *

I love the CFL regulation ball. I love it. Look at it. It's amazing. You see tho
se 17 little slots?

Each one of those slots holds a weight that's about 0.3 kilograms. If you fill e
very slot with a weight, the ball weighs about 12 pounds, including the ball's c
hassis. The team in possession of the ball is at liberty, at any time, to add, r
emove, and re-arrange these weights to their liking.

If you wanted to throw it like a standard American football, you'd pop out all t
he weights and push the javelin inside the ball, and it wouldn't weigh too much 
more than an NFL ball. If you want the ball to take subtle little curves and dip
s when you throw it, you might pop weights into one side -- b6, b7, and b8 -- to
 make it lopsided. If you want to throw it like a dart, perhaps for a short-yard
age situations, you'll front-load it -- b1, b2, b3, b6, b9. And if you want to e
ngage in some open-field swordplay and smack some defenders to the ground, you m
ight just load the whole damn front -- b1 through b11. Catching one of those is 
like being hit with a big sack of nickels.

This feature is a holdover from the earlier days of Canadian football. Though it
's still legal, and every CFL ball has this functionality, it's almost as rare a
s the drop-kick field goal is in American football. It seems almost criminal not
 to take advantage of it.

Nate's re-arranging the weights like backgammon pieces, testing the ball's weigh
t, setting it down, re-arranging some more.

Means. Alright, Timmy. I think this is the ball I'm building you. I don't know i
f anyone's used this configuration before.

b3 is the only weight in the ball itself. All six javelin slots, however, are fi
lled up. Nate wants this thing to fly like a Learjet, keeping a horizontal orien
tation, with the nose pointed forward, for as long as possible. He figures that 
a straight column of weights, situated to the rear, might accomplish that.

Hall. How about just a little more weight up front? Might make it a little bit m
ore accurate.

Means. Two reasons. For one, this ball is about five pounds as is. For another, 
D, I want to keep the front soft, give it some give. Because you're gonna be cat
ching this ball, D. And I like you, and I would rather not kill you.

* * *

We've unrolled a big laminated map across the table; some bags of salt and peppe
r are holding down the corners. Nate has called for the entire team to huddle ar
ound.

Means. OK, y'all. Tim has granted me one-time authority to draw up this play, an
d that's what I've spent the last hour doing. You might have noticed the crowd g
etting thicker out there again. It's not quite as bad as it was yesterday, but N
e's done a little forecasting, and she figures it's only gonna get worse. This, 
if the play works out how it's supposed to, is good news for us.

So, take a look here. Right behind us right now, we've got First Canadian Place.
 Ahead of us, we've got the Simpson Tower.

Means. Timmy, you're gonna take the snap and drop back in the pocket. Way back. 
You'll drop about 100 yards behind the line of scrimmage. Then you go inside Fir
st Canadian, take the elevator, and make your way to the rooftop. This is the se
cond-tallest building in the city, so this might take you a few minutes.

Dante, you make your way to the Simpson Tower. That's so far off, your man will 
probably think you're supposed to be a diversion and peel off you. Good. So then
 you get to the roof, and Timmy throws it to you.

Hall. How far is that, a hundred yards?

Means. Triple that.

Means. I know this sounds crazy to y'all. Three things, though, three things. Fi
rst thing is, this isn't a 300-yard throw the way we're used to thinking about t
hrows. Once you get to a rooftop, you ought to have a lot of wind to work with. 
Just wait for the wind to blow in from the lake, and throw it. This ball's fairl
y good at riding the wind, especially with the jav out.

Second thing. Timmy, you gotta ditch your NFL throwing motion. It's garbage.

It's the reason I couldn't keep myself in the NFL: my throwing motion was a litt
le low, a little slow. My delivery was just a couple tenths of a second slower t
han the average quarterbacks, but it's a league of razor-thin margins. It's been
 tough to unlearn that, to adapt a quicker throwing motion.

Means. Go back to your old throw. That's what me and Ismail were wondering about
 before we brought you up here, man. We think your old throwing motion, the one 
you had at Florida, it's perfect for one of these CFL balls. Less emphasis on re
lease time, and more on velocity. My hope here is that with all these things wor
king in our favor, Tim, you can make that throw.

There's no way. There's no way I'm supposed to throw like that.

Means. And the last thing. See all this open space to the northeast? The suburbs
, the country? The payoff here could be monumental.

Listen, y'all, I'm already tired. Do you want to keep on pecking away at yardage
, trying to fit through this crowd? Which, by the way, is back today? If Timmy c
an chuck that ball to Dante, and he catches it, that puts our ball carrier past 
the crowds, and way past the Ottawa secondary.

D, you'll be able to run your ass off. Out to the suburbs.

Volquez. That could be a 20-kilometre gain.

She turns to me and her eyes widen.

Volquez. Tim? You know how many miles that is?

Tebow. It's, uh ...

Volquez. It's a really fuckin' long way.

* * *

We're about three minutes into the 72-story ride up First Canadian Place when th
e driver turns and smiles.

Driver. You're Timmy Tebow, aren't you? What are you doing so far behind the lin
e of scrimmage?

Tebow. I'm dropping back in the pocket, My wideout's running a go route. I'm gon
na try to hit him at the Simpson Tower.

Driver. That's a couple blocks away! Are you sure?

Tebow. I'm sure that's the building, yeah. I'm not sure whether I can hit him.

Driver. Hell of a game you guys are playing. I've been following it on the shout
-pipes. I remember watching it on the TV, when the BC Lions went bound-for-stree
t. That was back in the '80s. That was the last bound-for-street game up until y
ou fellas did it.

The Lions only got five or six yards into the streets, though. You fellas are wa
y far out here.

He returns his gaze upward to watch the ceiling. It's a windshield, basically, w
ith little windshield wipers and everything.

Tebow. How come you've got a wheel?

Driver. How come I've got a wheel?

Tebow. Yeah.

Driver. So ... I can drive the elevator.

Tebow. Do you need to steer it, though?

Driver. Nah. I always just drive the elevator straight up or straight down. Thos
e are pretty much the only directions that folks need to go on an elevator. Do y
ou need to go left or right? I could see what would happen. Never done it.

Tebow. No, thanks. Just up.

The Canadians, unfortunately, are in the process of innovating themselves into a
 corner. They're developing new technologies, and adapting new modes of living, 
that save and generate as much wealth, resources, and energy as they'll ever nee
d. It's all being produced in such abundance that employment is becoming unneces
sary to acquire wealth. This is an unexpected problem for Canadians, who are a c
onsiderably industrious people. They want to work. And so initiatives have recen
tly been implemented to create "make-work."

This elevator is an example of that: contractors were assigned to equip it with 
a steering column that may or may not attach to anything. It's equipped with lif
e vests. It has a flare kit. These were all installed by people who worked for t
he sake of work. So does this man, who has gripped this steering wheel every day
 for years, and has never turned it.

Driver. Hey, where's your shoe?

Tebow. Somewhere on Wellington Street, I guess. I lost it yesterday. Oh, reminds
 me, though. Hitch is now available on DVD.

Driver. You kiddin' me? You serious? The romantic comedy from the director of Fo
ols Rush In?

Tebow. That's the one!

Driver. Does the DVD feature director's commentary?

Tebow. I would imagine so.

Driver. Does it also feature extras such as outtakes, interviews, and mini-games
 based on the hit film?

Tebow. I ... I honestly don't know.

Driver. What?

Tebow. I'm sorry, I'm just not sure.

Driver. Well, what the fuck? I'm just asking questions and you're making me look
 like some kind of dick? How the fuck can you tell me something like that, and -
-

His sea of profanities are drowned out by the horn, he's just laying on it with 
the base of his fist. He might be honking at me, I'm not sure. It is a long, awk
ward rest of the way up to the roof. I have felt hurried in the pocket before. I
 have felt fear, and I have felt panicked. This is the first time I have ever fe
lt awkward.

* * *

Some of the REDBLACKS tried to give chase, but the elevator drivers won't give t
hem a ride up, so they have to take the stairs. Home-field advantage comes throu
gh again. They won't be up here for another few minutes at the least, which is f
ine, because Hall still hasn't shown up on the Simpson Tower rooftop.

I don't ask God for help. He's already built everything, right? He's already dec
ided how all the parts will move. Asking him for help feels like suggesting that
 He's forgotten something, or hasn't thought of something. No, instead I simply 
thank him, or let Him know when I'm sad or pissed off. There's been a little bit
 of the latter lately, like when I finally reached the NFL, I found that the thr
owing motion that got me there made me as valuable as a hill of shit.

But mostly I thank Him. I'm doing that now. I am about to attempt a 300-yard pas
s, and I have a gorgeous view. I'm a little scared of heights, as any reasonable
 person would be, so I get on my belly and crawl to the rooftop's edge. The crow
d is gathering near the floor of this building, but it's thinning out near the S
impson Tower. Dante's gonna have a straight shot.

There he is! He waves. I take a few deep breaths and a dozen paces back. I mimic
 a few throws with the ball, and it's heavy, but ... it feels correct. I can tel
l you it feels perfectly balanced, without being able to explain how.

A man with one shoe, on top of a roof, hurls a ball with his entire body. His sh
oulder will ache for days. The ball flies so far away, he can barely see it.

It reaches an apex. It doesn't stall; the javelin sticks out sideways, stabilizi
ng the ball, almost pushing it forward more quickly than it's falling. Dante is 
dancing on his rooftop; he looks like he did when I watched him on TV in high sc
hool, fielding a punt, waiting for it to fall to him.

It's falling.

God loves football.

***

Chapter III

Dante Hall catches that ball, staggers to his feet, and waves goodbye. And then 
he's gone. Gone.

If you watched him return kicks in Kansas City, you know how fast he can move. Y
ou also know that he's a master navigator. No other ball carrier has ever used t
he width of the field like he did. He leveraged it like a weapon, a means of sor
ting out his opponents, arranging them as he saw fit, creating holes and then da
rting through them. He'd move left and right like a typewriter carriage. Sometim
es he'd even run backwards, and he was the only man on the planet who knew it wa
s going to work.

Ahead of him is open field. Nothing but daylight until, of course, the sun goes 
down. Lord only knows how far he's gonna run.




Dante Hall:

Hey Timmy.

Tim Tebow:

Hey! Thanks so much. So first, I gotta ask you about that catch.

Hall:

It hurts like Hell.

Tebow:

Still?

Hall:

Oh, no, no. I'm just keeping it in the present tense. I was definitely sore for 
a couple weeks. Had a big bruise on my stomach, but that was about it.

So while I'm taking the elevator to the roof, I'm taking off my shoulder pads an
d sort of trying to stuff them up under my jersey, so it gives me a little prote
ction in the stomach area. There's no rule that says you can't. I'm also going o
ver how I'm gonna catch this thing. I'm used to catching punts and kickoffs, so 
getting my feet in the right place for a ball like that wasn't a problem.

I figure I'll just kind of let my body catch it. As soon as it hits me, I sort o
f double over and fall down. I only use my hands to keep it from rolling off me.

Thankfully, Nate back-loaded that ball, so it doesn't hurt near as bad as it cou
ld have. There are no weights in the front of the ball, so the nose sort of cave
s in and acts as a cushion. I have to smack it against the concrete a couple tim
es to pop it back into shape.

Tebow:

I remember you just sort of lie there for a minute. With the jav out, it looks l
iked you've been shot by a harpoon or something.

Hall:

Ha. Yeah, it knocks the wind right out of me. That's five pounds of football. Sp
eaking of which, I can't even imagine what your arm feels like after that.

Tebow:

It's not just that I throw my arm out. It's like I throw my whole side out. I us
e my natural throwing motion, with the ball a little lower than it's supposed to
 be, but I try to come up with a way to get as many muscles in on it as I can. I
 basically do a somersault. I throw with my entire body.

So eventually you get to your feet and ride back down to the ground floor.

Hall:

Yep. And it's just like Means was hoping: no REDBLACKS anywhere. They're all a c
ouple hundred yards back, lost in the crowd. Meanwhile, I've got plenty of room 
to run. So that's what I do.

Nate and I went over the plan earlier: I just identify northeast, and haul ass i
n that direction. I didn't know the land all that well, but I had maps.




Tebow:

This map shows all of Southern Ontario.

Hall:

That's how big we were thinking! I mean, listen. I'm the best distance runner on
 either team. Plus, I basically have a hundred-yard head start on the REDBLACKS.
 Plus, I'm in home field. Plus, it takes them, what? Twenty minutes to figure ou
t what's going on?

Tebow:

About that, yeah. They call an Engage Eight. A Madden play, basically. You never
 see it in a real game, or at least, not in the NFL. But they call it, and when 
they see me running deep in the pocket, they must think I'm running for my life.
 But then they get up to the First Canadian rooftop, you know, where I am. They 
find out that I don't have the ball, and they're just furious.

Hall:

So if you look at that map, you see that all the locations of bound-for-street s
upply stations are marked. These BFS stations are basically little shelters that
 were built by the Argonauts in the 1950s, in case they ever went bound-for-stre
et. They've got fresh clothing, food, water, beds, all that, the idea being that
 if the Argos ever got that far out, they could advance the ball to one of the s
helters and rest up for a bit.

Now obviously, these have never been used. Ever. None of them. They're there bec
ause, well, it's Canada. People work hard, and people prepare for everything. Bu
t I like to picture the people who built these shelters. They must have been lau
ghing the whole damn time. I mean, in the entire history of the CFL, teams have 
only gone bound-for-street like a half-dozen times. And they never got further t
han like 50 yards. They built BFS shelters fifty, a hundred, two hundred miles o
ut. How the Hell would the Argos ever get all the way out there?

But we do. Me and you, Timmy. We do that. It's the longest completion in the his
tory of football.

Tebow:

You sure do change directions a bunch.

Hall:

Always have. I try to stay on the roads as much as I can, and most of them are a
ligned to magnetic north. So I have to juke through the grid a lot. Even though 
I run 212 miles, I only actually advance the line of scrimmage by 150 miles. To 
be exact, it's a 264,669-yard gain.

You know what racking up a quarter-million yards after catch feels like? Well, i
t's Hell on your knees, but you know what it feels like on an emotional level? I
t's like the end of a friendly card game. All your buddies came over to play car
ds. For a while, everybody was really into it.

But when it ends, it's not like someone stands up and declares that the game's o
ver. It just sorta gradually crumbles. A couple folks are talking politics. The 
big blind drifted over to the living room to watch the game on TV. The small bli
nd is in the garage getting a beer. The dealer is on the phone with her boyfrien
d. And you look up, and you realize that you're the only one who still cares abo
ut the game. So you stand up, of course, because doing anything else would make 
you feel like a jackass.

Running all that way feels like that little moment, only it lasts a couple weeks
. I mean, I'm just following the play, keeping it alive. But aside from the occa
sional friendly Ontarian, I'm the only one for miles around who gives a damn, wh
o even cares. I figure y'all are running to catch up with me, but I don't know f
or sure. What if y'all decided to call the game, and you're just counting on me 
to figure it out and head back home? What if I'm that old-ass Japanese soldier, 
still hiding out in the jungle?

This is one Hell of a game, Timmy. In the NFL, I lived and breathed to chisel ou
t just a little bit of open field. Now I had so much open field that ... I got l
onely, man. Lots of cold, lonely nights.

I always keep the ball alive by tying it to a ceiling fan before I go to sleep. 
I'm thankful to have a roof over my head at all, of course, but a lot of the she
lters I stay in haven't been decorated in 10, 20 years. There's just nothing to 
do. Not a damn thing. I'd eat a bag of sandwich, crash, wake up, and hit the roa
d again.

A couple times I really did wonder why I was still playing. It wasn't even a foo
tball game, it was just running. And running to where? It's not like there was a
n end zone ahead of me.

This was why: I'm 54 now, so I would have been ... 36 then, I guess. I was out o
f the NFL by 30, and then I go return kicks in the CFL. That's barely plural. I 
returned two kicks in five years; the rest went way out of the back of the end z
one. I couldn't quit, though. I just loved football so damn much, I wanted to be
 a part of it for as long as I could.

When you threw me that ball, as far as I'm concerned, it was the game making up 
for all the times I never got to touch the ball. That whole game, man. I never w
on a Super Bowl, but I got to play in that game. Stacked against that, the Super
 Bowl is ... well, it's a laugh. It ain't shit.

Tebow:

Yeah. I don't feel like I missed a thing.

Hall:

You're how old?

Tebow:

Forty-six.

Hall:

I'm too old. But you know the Broncos would take you back.

Tebow:

I'm not really interested ... hey, did you ever play that video game? The one th
at was in the BFS station in Maple Leaf?

Hall:

Yeah! You were there?

Tebow:

Yeah, we stayed there for a night while we were running after you. What was that
 game called?

Hall:

Anthony Calvillo's Field Position Football. It's like the CFL version of Madden.
 They had that in a few of the BFS stations, actually. It was so bad that even t
hough there was nothing to do, I wouldn't play it.

Tebow:

I didn't get a chance to play it. Was it that bad?

Hall:

It was so fuckin' horrible. Worst game I've ever played. I couldn't even underst
and it.

Tebow:

I'm sorry I missed it.

So, just to make sure I'm remembering the math right: you cover that distance in
 19 days?

Hall:

Yeah. So it's a little more than 10 miles a day. Mostly on the roads, although I
 cut through fields once in a while.

Tebow:

But then you stop.

Hall:

There are a couple reasons that'll convince me to stop sooner or later. First, m
y feet are a wreck. I'm a pretty good distance runner, but I don't quite have th
at Canadian pith yet. I'm paying the price for living in the States in the offse
ason. If I'd stayed in Canada for two or three years straight, I'd have that res
istance to the elements built up, and my legs wouldn't feel like they're about t
o fall off.

And it's getting cold. It's not devastating yet, but it's November in Ontario. I
t's about five degrees, and it's only gonna get colder.

Tebow:

Five degrees? I don't remember it being that bad.

Hall:

Celsius, Timmy! Good God, it's been almost 20 years and you still don't have the
 Celsius-Fahrenheit thing down. Multiply it by nine, divide by five, add 32.

I remember you asking me one time, "Why does Canada use Celsius? Why do they hav
e to be so different?" I just laughed, because it was the most Yankee thing you 
could have said. We're the different ones. We're like the only ones who use Fahr
enheit. America's basically that kid in first grade, that one left-handed kid in
 the class who's holding her fat little pencil all funny.

Tebow:

Yeah. And it would be unhealthy to try to make her write right-handed.

Hall:

Fair enough, I guess.

Another thing is, the snow is starting to dump all over Ontario. The roads are s
lick. If I'd thought about that, I would have asked the team to pack me some ska
tes, but I didn't. So over the last couple days, I just stomp through the six in
ches of unpacked snow on the shoulders of the roads. This slows me down, but at 
least I don't slip.

But November 26th is the day I decide to stop, right then and there.

It's about 4:30 in the afternoon, it's starting to get dark. I'm in a field abou
t a hundred yards east of Highway 62. I'm seeing all kinds of tracks, I figure t
hey're deer or something. A couple football fields away, I see movement. Two wol
ves. They're running right toward me.

And I'm like, shit, I'm dead. I'm gonna die in the snow, a thousand miles from m
y home, and people are gonna talk about me like they talk about that Into the Wi
ld dude. They're not gonna talk about my quarter-million-yard completion. I'll j
ust be a jackass who died in the middle of nowhere.

I buckle down, ready to fight. I don't think anyone's fought wolves in a footbal
l uniform, so what the Hell, let's see what happens. Now they're right up on me.
 I juke backwards. It's the only weapon I've ever had, really.

They hit each other head-on, and both of them hit the snow like a bag of hammers
. I haul ass to the next BFS station in Siberia, Ontario, a few kilometres up th
e highway. And then I stay the Hell put, until y'all finally catch up with me on
 the 30th.

Tebow:

And that was when we made the rule.

Hall:

Yep. If you get past the defense and have open field ahead of you, you go two hu
ndred, three hundred yards at the most. And then you stop. You've got the first 
down, so just take a knee. Find some safety if you can. Climb a tree or somethin
g, and wait for everyone else to make their way up to you. The bears and wolves 
and whatnot, they won't mess with a pack of a couple dozen people. But they're h
appy to pick off a single person.

So that's it. I spend a few days in the BFS station, and I mostly just nap and t
ry to stay off my feet. I spend American Thanksgiving all by myself, which is lo
nely enough. But I'm in this big endless land that doesn't even celebrate it. Ca
nadian Thanksgiving was in October.

When you finally get up to the line of scrimmage ... man. I sure am happy to see
 y'all.

Tebow:

Thanks, D. Good talking.

Hall:

Any time, man.

* * *

DECEMBER 21, 2014.

Setting out from the Siberia BFS station, we gain about a thousand yards of offe
nse per day -- more if we stick to the road, fewer if we make beelines through w
oods and fields. Our self-imposed "300 yards per play" rule seems like the only 
thing keeping us from springing loose for another 150-mile gain. The REDBLACKS c
an hit hard, but they just don't possess enough speed to put themselves in the r
ight places.

Which isn't to say it isn't exhausting. It's like chucking logs into a wood chip
per. The logs don't fight you, of course, but they're still heavy. We signed a s
ort of treaty with the REDBLACKS: we play sunup to sundown exclusively, because 
night bound-for-street play is dangerous, and because if we played any longer, w
e'd collapse.

Me, especially. That throw in Toronto shredded up my shoulder pretty good, and I
 was thankful to not have to touch the ball for three weeks, but my arm still is
n't all the way back yet. I've been calling a lot of misdirections, throwing a l
ot of check-downs, running a lot of bootlegs. Anything to keep me from throwing 
further than 10 yards or so. It takes years for an American to build up the Cana
dian pith I'd need to bounce back to full strength.

For now, I'm just gassed, and the BFS stations are getting fewer and farther apa
rt.

We've made it to Old Killaloe, about 25 miles from the Ontario-Quebec border. Ol
d Killaloe is a ghost town.

The town was settled in the 1850s, and a sawmill attracted a bit of industry unt
il the 1890s, when a rail authority started laying down track through the area. 
They couldn't manage a path through the terrain, so they simply built it a coupl
e miles north. The whole town packed up and left all at once. Old Killaloe is a 
town of forgotten buildings that virtually nobody has bothered with for well ove
r a century.

It's also very nearly where the drive ends, and it would be all my fault.

It's first and 10 on an Old Killaloe road. We round a corner and spot a house ab
out two hundred yards north. It's big, and old, and has an Argonauts flag flying
 from the front yard.

Means. Bet that's a fan-made BFS station.

Tebow. You can do that?

Means. Nothing stopping anybody. I'm surprised to see one way out here, though. 
We're closer to Ottawa than we are to Toronto.

Tebow. We're still in Ontario.

Means. Yeah, but it's pretty much REDBLACKS territory up here ... I think we hol
e up in there, call it a day.

Tebow. I'm fine. It's only about 2:30.

Means. No, Timmy, you're not. You're beat up. You don't take care of yourself, t
he team falls apart, and this 280,000-yard drive is all for shit. And it's almos
t Christmas. I think we gotta have ourselves a Christmas, right?

I call for the snap jav-in and flip it to Volquez, who draws the defense and lat
erals it back to me. It's almost too easy. They have to sell out for a tackle to
 have any shot at bringing us down, but that just rips open a huge hole on the o
ther side of their defense. I tuck the ball, run, bolt 150 upfield, and now I'm 
on the ground.

My leg just landed funny. I don't think I tore anything, but something awful's u
p with my knee. Ottawa's slow, but catching up. I've got to get to the house, so
 I push myself to my feet and get to hobbling.

The front door's locked. I turn around; the REDBLACKS are about 50 yards behind 
me. I rip off my helmet and smack it against the doorknob; it falls apart on the
 first try and the door creaks open. I try to take a knee, and I can't. My knee 
just won't bend.

My first choice is to stand here on my bum knee and wait to be tackled. And by o
ne or more REDBLACKS, which feels like being run over by a school bus. My knee i
s at least intact, and I like it that way. The other choice is to ...

There's a staircase in the foyer. I hop my way up that one, round the corner, ho
bble down the hallway, and hop up another staircase to the third floor. They're 
inside now, I can hear them.

REDBLACK. Hold on. Quiet. Listen for him, he's in here somewhere.

Second REDBLACK. So anyways, Argyle is in the parking garage the whole time, he 
doesn't even know what's going on. And he's talking to this huge teddy bear --

REDBLACK. Shut the fuck up!

I'll crawl up these steps slow, hide out somewhere on the third floor. Maybe the
y'll think I went out the back door. I cringe every time the staircase creaks, b
ut I don't think they hear me. I put my hand on the top step.

The entire staircase wobbles, crunches, and collapses. I'm hanging from a banist
er. There are running footsteps below me. I pull myself up and claw my way to th
e top.

REDBLACK. Hey, you OK?

Tebow. I think so, yeah.

REDBLACK. Well, we'd be happy to help you down.

Tebow. Yeah, I bet you would.

Second REDBLACK. Just checked the floor. That was the only staircase up there.

Nate was right. My knee is just the newest thing that's killing me. I've gotta r
est up. I tuck the ball in my elbow, and very slowly, I try to coax my knee to b
end.

REDBLACK. You tryin' to down it?

Tebow. Yeah ... I bent up my knee out there, it's making it tough. Hold on.

REDBLACK. You can't do that.

Tebow. What?

REDBLACK. You can't down it. You're not on the ground.

Tebow. What are you talking about?

REDBLACK. You're on the third floor, fella.

Tebow. Aw, shit.

You know I'm not much of a cusser, but shit's just another word for crap, and yo
u can say crap.

* * *

DECEMBER 23, 2014.

America boasts no greater dispensary of miserable shlock than a Christian bookst
ore. You walk in, and the first things you see are Bibles. Special Bibles, thoug
h, marketed to teens, with the chapters and verses occasionally broken up by som
e editors who think enough of themselves to interrupt the Lord with segments abo
ut how shock rock is Satan's tool, or how gay people should feel ashamed.

By the cash register, you'll see little mints for sale. They're Christian mints!
 They're called TestaMints, and they come in little wrappers with Bible verses o
n them, the idea being that offering someone a breath mint is a Trojan horse for
 the purpose of witnessing Christ. I imagine the sort of person who reforms thei
r beliefs because candy told them to, and I feel genuine, aching pity.

Walk a little further in, and you'll see Christian re-imaginings of board games,
 like Bibleopoly, that augment Old Testament trivia with ruthless capitalist dea
lings. Take a look at the music section. If this Christian bookstore is worth it
s salt, there will be a laminated set of papers stapled and tied to the wall. Fl
ip through them, and you'll see a list of popular secular artists and their Chri
stian equivalents: if you like Green Day, listen to MxPx. If you like R.E.M, lis
ten to Jars of Clay (nope). If you like Ol' Dirty Bastard, check out God's Origi
nal Gangstaz. All of these CDs will cost eight bucks more than you're used to pa
ying.

None of these things are stranger to me than the "Armor of God" toys. Ephesians 
talks about the full armor of God: the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteo
usness, the shield of faith, the sword of the Spirit. Paul pretty clearly wrote 
this as metaphor, but here you have an actual plastic set of wearable armor. A k
id will run around in it, hit his little brother with the sword until it's taken
 away, and grow up to be the sort of Christian who reads Left Behind more than t
he Bible because there are guns in it. Please notice that the toy set includes t
he "Shin Guards of Peace," which I guess Paul never got around to mentioning.

I'm thinking of that Armor of God set right now, because I, too, happen to be re
purposing the Word of God for violent aims. An Ottawan is below me, next to the 
collapsed staircase, and he's pulled a chair into the hallway.

Tebow. I wouldn't do that.

REDBLACK. You can't stay up there forever, buddy.

Tebow. I can stay up here a while. And hey, you gotta have your helmet on.

REDBLACK. What do you care?

Tebow. "A player shall be required to wear a helmet on the Field of Play and sha
ll not voluntarily remove it while the play is in progress." That's the CFL rule
 book. Rule 1, Section 10, Article 2.

REDBLACK. Fine.

He straps on his helmet. I think that 150 some-odd years ago, this house used to
 belong to a missionary or somebody. The folks who set up this BFS station stock
ed the first floor with food, sleeping bags, fresh uniforms, new shoes. Up here 
on the third floor, though, there's nothing but Bibles. Piles and piles of them.
 There must be a couple thousand.

Yep, this guy's gonna try. He balances himself on top of a chair, and readies hi
mself to make a jump for the banister. I take a Bible from the stack, a hardcove
r.

REDBLACK. Ow! Guh! Quit it!

Tebow. I'll do this all day. I've got plenty up here.

REDBLACK. I'm so sick of you hitting me over the head with the Bible.

Tebow. Well, I'm closer to God.

REDBLACK. Yeah, by like 12 feet.

If I let them get to me, we lose possession. This is the problem: since I'm not 
on the ground floor, I can be tackled, dogpiled, drug all up and down the hall l
ike a vacuum cleaner, but I cannot be downed. So if they could get their hands o
n me, nothing would stop them from bum-rushing me until one of them strips the b
all away.

My teammates can't help, either. The REDBLACKS are just plain stronger than we a
re, and they've claimed the entire second floor for themselves. None of the Argo
s can even get up here.

At first I thought, well, maybe I can just drop it out the window. Since gravity
 would pull it straight down, that's a perfect lateral, so it's a legal play. Bu
t the windows are all these thin slats near the ceiling. Even if I could get up 
there, I couldn't poke my head out and see where I was dropping it.

I can't fend them off forever. I do not know what I'm gonna do.




DECEMBER 24, 2014.

It's a game of attrition. The REDBLACKS are trying to rebuild the staircase, but
 it's slow going for them, because I keep raining Bibles on them and knocking th
eir hammers out of their hands. They don't really have a choice but to keep at i
t, because that's the only way I'll run out of Bibles. Once I do, I'm done.

REDBLACK. All right! All right. We're gonna call it a day down here.

Tebow. All right. Did I get you bad with that last one?

REDBLACK. Yeah, it went through my face mask. Got me right below the eye.

Tebow. Sorry.

Another one walks up the second-floor staircase and tosses me some dinner.

REDBLACK. Here you go, bud ... got you a bag of macaroni and a bag of beer. You 
like macaroni?

Tebow. I love it. Thanks.

REDBLACK. No problem. Oh yeah, and your teammates wanted me to ask you if you ha
ve any dirty laundry.

Tebow. No ... you asked that yesterday, remember?

REDBLACK. Yeah, I know. They asked me to ask you again. Weird.

DECEMBER 25, 2014.

It's cold, and it gets dark so dang early. And if you've ever spent a Christmas 
by yourself, you know the sort of weird loneliness that blows in. I've been carr
ying this ball for days -- well, figuratively, because I've fumbled it and left 
it in the bedroom.

REDBLACK. Hey, Timmy? You're lookin' kinda down.

Tebow. Well, yeah.

REDBLACK. No, I mean, you're looking sad. In the dumps.

Tebow. Heh. Yeah ... it's like I wanted to be a better football player. More elu
sive. And God was like, "All right. Now you're so elusive, you're missing Christ
mas."

REDBLACK. No you didn't, Tim. Merry Christmas.

Tebow. Merry Christmas.

And that night, I get the Christmas of my life.

The REDBLACKS have offered to let my teammates upstairs, with the agreement that
 we'd cease play, and that the Argos wouldn't try to block for me and sprint me 
loose. We also agree that we won't discuss strategy. A cease-play agreement isn'
t binding under CFL rules. I'm still the ball carrier in open field (well, if yo
u ask the CFL rule book, I'm technically floating in the sky somewhere). But it'
s Christmas. Both teams squeeze into the hall, shoulder to shoulder, under dim c
andlelight.

Means. Tim, you doing OK up there?

Tebow. Yeah. Really happy to see all y'all, you have no idea. But I'm OK.

Mitchell. Hey, how do you take care of your shit up there? Plumbing's fucked.

Tebow. I tie it up in a bag and throw it out the window.

Mitchell. Yeah ... hey, how come you don't just throw the ball out the window?

REDBLACK. Hey! Hey now, no table talk.

Volquez. Hey Timmy. You wanna read us a Bible story?

Tebow. Huh? Oh, uh ... I mean, I know a lot of y'all aren't Christians, I don't 
know if --

REDBLACK. No, go ahead! It's Christmas.

Tebow. Ha. All right.

St-Hilaire. Tell a good one, though. We all know the one with Jesus in a manger.

Means. It's Christmas, you gotta tell that one.

St-Hilaire. A king wants to kill baby God and he doesn't. He doesn't even try al
l that hard. God's born in a barn. There isn't even a sex scene to explain it. I
 mean, tabarnak!

Mitchell. What's the best Bible story you got, Timmy? Like, the most fun one.

Ohhhh yes. This one's easy. First off, if you're going the action-movie stuff, y
ou almost definitely have to go Old Testament. The New Testament is three things
, mostly: God being viciously tortured and murdered, Paul telling churches he's 
disappointed in them, and mathematical puzzles about the end of the world. Those
 books are meaningful to me, but they aren't really crowd-pleasers.

Mitchell. Tell it in your own voice, though. Don't just read it.

Tebow. Yep.

I find a hundred other Bible stories to be more instructive, but this one, from 
a pure storytelling standpoint, is my favorite. I lick my thumb and flip to Judg
es, chapter 3.

Tebow. So God decides that Israel has messed up, that they've become evil. So He
 sends this king from Moab to conquer the Israelites. His name is Eglon. They li
ve under his rule for 18 years.

REDBLACK. Oh, cool. Stephen Harper's in the Bible.

Lots of laughs.

Tebow. The Israelites are like, "Lord, please send us someone who will save us."
 So he gives them this guy named Ehud.

Ehud goes to King Eglon's palace to pay tribute. Probably a bunch of money or so
mething, I don't know. He has some people carry it all in for him. They leave, b
ut he sticks around, and he's like, "King Eglon, I have a secret message for you
."

Eglon's like, "Ooh, a secret message!" So he tells all his servants to leave, an
d it's just Ehud and Eglon by themselves.

Now, obviously, the King's servants patted Ehud down to make sure he's not packi
ng anything. And you know, when you draw a sword with your hand, you're drawing 
it from your left side. So they search all up and down his left side, and find n
othing.

Y'all know where I'm going with this?

Volquez. Oh shit.

Tebow. They don't even think to check his other side. See, Ehud is left-handed.

Mitchell. SONNNNNN!!!!

I love this story so much.

Tebow. So Ehud walks up to the king, and he's like, "I have a message from God f
or you." He pulls out a sword that's strapped to his right thigh under his cloth
es and stabs him in the belly.

Now, the thing is, Eglon's fat. Like, really, really fat. He's so fat that when 
Ehud stabs him, he pushes the sword all the way in and the whole thing just disa
ppears under his fat. Even the handle.

Ehud locks the doors in the room and escapes, I think he just jumps out the wind
ow or something. A little later, the king's servants try to come back in and fin
d that the door's locked. They're like, "He's probably in the bathroom."

Mitchell. So people took shits in the Bible?

Tebow. Sure. Everybody poops.

Someone told me that a while back, and rarely do you hear so much helpful perspe
ctive stuffed into two words. No matter how legendary or important, "everybody p
oops."

Tebow. Eventually, they finally unlock the door and find their king lying dead. 
Meanwhile, Ehud has plenty of time to get away. He goes back to his people, and 
he's like, "The king is dead, now we're going to kill the Moabites and take back
 Israel." So they do. There are ten thousand Moabites, and they kill every singl
e one ...

Oh, man.

Hall. What?

Tebow. I've never seen this part. This is a King James Bible, I've never read th
is story in the King James version. Listen to this part, I'll just read it.

"Ehud reached with his left hand, drew the sword from his right thigh and plunge
d it into the king's belly. Even the handle sank in after the blade, and his bow
els discharged. Ehud did not pull the sword out, and the fat closed in over it."

Volquez. So he did shit himself!

Means. That was a real whodunit.

Later, as they all shuffle back downstairs, Maryse turns around.

St-Hilaire. Hey, Tim. Got any dirty laundry?

Tebow. Uh, no.

St-Hilaire. Well, look around and make sure.

* * *

DECEMBER 26, 2014.

I've settled back into my routine of throwing Bibles and napping. I bet it's thr
ee or four days before I lose possession. I'm kind of a mess, and I don't rememb
er the last time I showered. Hey, something's crinkling in my pocket.

Hey, it's that Mayor's letter, the one he gave me all the way back at the Rogers
 Centre. I completely forgot I had that.




That squat little man believes in me. I wish he would have added a fire escape.

What am I gonna do once I fumble? I just go home? I just go find a job? I'm feel
ing like a kid on a Sunday evening in January. All the football I would have pla
yed will live only in my imagination. God gave me a chance. I have wasted it. My
 future is one of lapel mics and catered media lunches with plastic forks that b
reak in spaghetti and tie dimples and fluorescent lights and lying down rectangl
es of Bermuda grass and lying down pinestraw and programming my TV remote to tur
n on the stereo and interviews with the local free alternative weekly and chuckl
ing and, yes, ha, yes, the CFL is pretty weird, yes, let me tell you about the r
ouge, ha, no, I did not see any Mounties.

My knee's feeling a lot better, but it's still a little sore. I roll off the flo
or, stand up, and stumble into the bedroom to bring out some more throwin' Bible
s. I'm starting to run a little low, I'm all the way to the back of the closet n
ow. Dang, I might only have a day or two left, come to think of it. I pull out a
 crate of Bibles stacked against the back wall. There's a laundry chute.

I drop the crate. They were trying to tell me.

I slowly creak open the little metal door, stick my head in, and take a look.

Tebow. SHIT!

I hit the back of my head on the door. St-Hilaire just scared the absolute crap 
out of me.

I drop the ball to her. Thanks to gravity's stubborn insistence on the right ang
le, this is, by definition, a perfect lateral. It also has to be the first later
al ever thrown on the Z-axis.

Maryse, you wanna tell it from here?

Maryse St-Hilaire:

Sure! I'd be happy to talk about it. What I remember, anyway.

The REDBLACKS were always patrolling outside the house, so any hope of catching 
a pass out the window was just about dead, even if you were able to throw it out
 to begin with. We just could not get any open field, and we obviously couldn't 
get up to you, either.

On that first night, I was down in the cellar to get some bags of wine for dinne
r when I noticed the laundry chute. Nate and I tried to figure out what to do. W
e would have tried to shout the play up to you, but we were worried Ottawa would
 hear it. We couldn't afford to tip them off. Because other than that, you were 
on the same page we were: there was just no way you'd be able to keep possession
.

So you drop it to me and I bust out the tornado door in the basement. Nobody see
s me. I get all the way downtown before it dawns on me: "Shit, nobody saw me." I
'm about 500 yards upfield, so I figure I'd better stop and wait for my teammate
s to notice I'm gone.

It reminded me of second-grade recess. The boys were always playing football, bu
t the more kids in the game, the more they'd argue. After a while, it was like t
hey'd waste the entire recess period arguing about the rules, or who's on who's 
team, or something. So one day my friend's like, "Just pick their football up of
f the ground and walk away, and see if they notice." So I do. About five minutes
 go by before they even realize it's gone.

Everybody took so long to figure out what was going on. And I knew you were keep
ing quiet to buy me time, but I had plenty of that. I kicked open the front door
 of this bar that was probably boarded up a century ago. I'm only 20, and since 
the legal drinking age in Canada is 21, I'm not really supposed to be drinking. 
But I have time to kill. And the whiskey in there is amazing. I'll later learn t
hat this is because they've been sitting around for a century, and a little bit 
of the water in the whiskey evaporated. They call that "the angels drinking thei
r share."

Point is, I got hammered as fuck. I pride myself on being the first player in th
e history of football to get drunk in the middle of the play. When you guys fina
lly found me, I was passed on the floor, using the ball as a pillow. Nereida was
 like, "I think that counts as a kneel," and the REDBLACKS were like, "Yeah, I g
uess it does."

By the way? Of course I was the one to take the laundry. Tabarnak. Viva gender r
oles.

Tim Tebow:

Thank you, ma'am. That was great.

St-Hilaire:

Any time, Timmy. Oh, one more thing. The Broncos keep calling me. They say you'r
e not picking up the phone.

Tim Tebow:

I told them no ... I'm sorry they're bugging you.

St-Hilaire:

Just think about it, T. OK?

* * *

FEBRUARY 12, 2015.

I've led the team just a bit to the east of our intended path, toward a bridge j
ust east of Pembroke. Bridges are relatively few and far between along the Ottaw
a River. The Highway 148 bridge looks like the best way into Quebec.

It's cold as all get out, and it's worse on this bridge with the wind blowing al
l over. If I could ever manage to develop that Northern pith, it wouldn't be nea
r as bad, but I'm a man from Florida, and each passing minute in this weather is
 an attack on my spirit.

It might be the wind, but it's probably my grip; I'm struggling to even feel my 
fingers. Freddie's about 30 yards up the bridge, but my throw slices to his left
. It's off his fingertips, over the side of the bridge, into the river.

Mitchell. I should've pulled that one in.

Tebow. No, no, that was on me. I pulled you too far right. So ... can we get ano
ther ball, I guess?

REDBLACK. This play isn't over.

I know it before he says it.

REDBLACK. The ball hasn't hit the ground.

Tebow. Well, it will, right? It's probably at the bottom of the river already.

Volquez. Nope. It's sporting equipment. Sporting equipment has to be able to ser
ve as a flotation device. Federal safety laws.

Tebow. Anyone want to dive in?

Means. We'd freeze to death in five seconds.

Alright. Next question.

Tebow. Maybe we go downriver and wait for it to flow to us. Where does this rive
r flow into?

The REDBLACK doesn't say a thing. He's just grinning.

***

Chapter IV

I keep having this dream. There is a football stadium, rested at the foot of a m
ountain, and filled with an army of players. They form rows and columns of red a
nd blue. Just outside the stadium, in the streets and among the trees, there are
 even more. There must be ten-thousand of them.

At the top of the mountain, there is a giant cross, and standing on the cross is
 a man. He orders them to march.

He's pointing at me. They are coming for me. They are marching for my destructio
n.



okay the full thing is way too long for ETT, the original is at:
https://www.sbnation.com/2014/8/18/5998715/the-tim-tebow-cfl-chronicles
i just like pasting in large swathes of text for no reason