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One Hundred and Twenty Three

He took off his helmet, and for a second, seemed like one of us. The same damp tread marks striping his peppery hair could be found on the soft skull of our own quarterback. He blew into his hands and I thought, yeah, that's probably what I'd do if I were throwing a football in December. And we clapped when this man fell. God, should I send him a card or something?