The fancy parties? The expensive gifts? Terrific!
The gourmet dinners? The champagne breakfasts? Scrumptious!
You and me together? Not so great…
In high school, I was small for a defensive lineman–even in those pre-steroid times.
To compensate, I tried to explode across the line of scrimmage and stay really low. So low that the opposing offensive lineman couldn’t block me.
(The amazing thing about this is not that it worked so often. It’s that I did anything quickly. I’ve spent my life recovering—in slow motion—from those bursts of speed.)
Eventually, my teammates started calling me “The Mole.”
Now, as high school nicknames go–that’s not bad. I could’ve been The Leach. Or The Slug. Or even The Festering Boil.
But probably not The Stud.
