“That’s it.”

“You’ve got a lot of courage, Herb. It takes courage to be you, I think.”

“Maybe,” Herb says, considering that idea. “Sometimes I’m afraid, though, Frank. I’ll tell ya. Scared to death.” We’re just two guys jawing now. Just the way I’d hoped. Maybe a straightforward old-fashioned interview could still be worked out. I feel for my tape recorder.

“Sometimes I’m afraid, Herb. It’s natural to the breed, I’d say.”

“All right,” Herb says and chuckles, nodding in forced agreement.

I see Mr. Small wood’s yellow Checker waiting out front of Herb’s house as we round the curve, his visit to Wixom apparently gone awry. It has grown colder since we’ve been outside, and the sky has lowered. By nighttime it will be snowing to beat the band, and Vicki and I will be glad to be far from here. It is a strange turn of events, not what I would’ve expected, but I, on the other hand, am still not surprised.

As we pass by, a man wearing a brown car coat comes out of his house, holding a can of motor oil. His is a house in the same architectural order as Herb’s, though with a room added on where the driveway once went into the back. The man stands beside his car—a new Olds with its hood up—and gives Herb a wave and a “howzitgoin.”

“Primo. Numero uno,” Herb calls back with a grin and waves his arm as if he’s waving to a crowd. “This guy’s interviewing me. I’m giving him a helluva time.”

“Don’t take nobody’s crap,” the man shouts, and bends his short trunk under the murky hood of the Olds.

“The neighbors still think I play on the team,” Herb says in a hushed voice, pushing himself up Glacier Way toward his wife and home.

“How’s that?”

“Well, I keep my injury pretty well a secret. Another guy plays in my place. With my number. I hope you won’t write about that and ruin it.”

“No way, Herb. You’ve got my word on that.”

Herb looks up at me as we approach Mr. Smallwood’s cab, and gives me a look full of wonder. “How come you do it, Frank. Tell the truth.”

“How come I do what, Herb?” Though I know what’s coming.

For some reason Herb seems to be having a hard time making his head be still. It’s wandering all around. “You couldn’t really like sports, Frank,” he says. “You don’t look like a guy who likes sports.”

“I like some better than others.” It is not that uncommon a question, really.

“But wouldn’t you rather talk about something else?” Herb shakes his big head, still wondrous.