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sucked out of me like a backward explosion and I had to scream, but I couldn’t, and the walls melted away and the floor rolled and I tried to run but cracked my face against the side of the open door—witch whistles ripping in my ears—and I bled in a heap and up above me, Dad died.
    If I’d run right out to Jerri, maybe she could’ve saved him? Really, probably not.
    You know what I remember Jerri saying when she finally came in? “Where did he get that rope?”
    This happened. It’s the truth. It’s part of me like my hair is part of me.
    I’m a great football player. I am blessed. I have problems.

Chapter 3
    Jerri Has Problems
    It’s important for me to remember that Jerri has problems too. I mean, holy balls, she was nineteen when my dad knocked her up. She was a widow at twenty-five! Poor Jerri! Poor, sad, Jerri!
    Except I could’ve used an actual parent in the house last fall. I needed someone to help me deal with all this crazy stuff that came from being recruited. Recruiting was super intense for me—more than for most players because colleges didn’t know who the hell I was until I was already a junior. Most elite players get recruited early and visit schools several times. I only really had time to visit once (which I put off—couldn’t make decisions) and just a few places, so it was like a feeding frenzy.
    All fall, football programs kept calling me. Many college coaches showed up at my games and at the house. I got constant IMs and texts and Facebook messages and tweets from people all over the country trying to get me to go to whatever university to play football, and I had no idea how to respond, what to do, how to make a choice. Thanks for calling! What the hell is an Illini?
    Occasionally, a coach or a coach’s wife called Jerri to talk to her about the educational culture at whatever school. Jerri would be sitting at that kitchen table, her head buried in some book, the phone would ring, and she’d scream, “Get it!”
    I’d pick up and call from the basement, “It’s for you, Jerri.”
    She’d get on the line and say something like, “That’s not my business. Felton is the one making a decision. Thanks for your interest.” Then she’d hang up.
    Downstairs, I’d think: Help! What am I supposed to do? What the hell is an Illini?
    On Thursday of the week I became Tommy Bode’s senior mentor, after it became clear I was shivering in my shorts (I’d forgotten plays in practice on Wednesday), my football coach, Coach Johnson, who is a real adult and a good dad, helped me choose four universities to visit. He tried like a trouper. We sat down in his office after our team’s Thursday walk-through to discuss what I wanted.
    â€œWhat do you want to major in, Felton?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know, Coach,” I said. “Probably not agriculture.”
    â€œNo,” he agreed. “What are you interested in?” he asked.
    I thought for a few seconds. “Football?”
    â€œAre you saying you want to study football?”
    â€œNot exactly. But I do like football.”
    â€œYeah. That’s good,” Coach said.
    Before my growth spurt, I always wanted to be a comedian, but I hadn’t seen “comedy” in any of the college brochures.
    â€œOther things, Felton. Academics.”
    â€œWhy did your son pick Iowa?” I asked. I was stalling for time.
    â€œIt was his only Division I offer. You’ve got a lot more choices than Ken. What are your interests?”
    â€œI mean, I like Frisbee. I like TV. I like…I like smart comedy.” Shit.
    â€œFelton,” he exhaled. “Come on, son. You’re good at school. What’s your favorite subject?”
    â€œEnglish, I guess.”
    â€œOkay. That’s something. How about this? Let’s choose three schools with good academic reputations and one school known primarily