Little Wilson's mother always, always yelled at him every time he rolled into the street:
"Son, one of these days, you're going to end up there!"
But Wilson was arrogant. He was a proud oblong spheroid; the finest in post-porcine production, beloved by a nation who accorded his activities with the merits and heroics of the martial spirit. For three days a week, millions of eyes were focused on him - who would dare pass him by, leave him deflated, not toss him around in jeans and t-shirt, laughing in slow motion?
Besides, that Spalding kid that lived down the street was a real goober. Volleyball? What kind of sport has kneepads? Might as well just say you're into fellating everyone.
So but now here Wilson finds himself, alone on the cold hard streets. The wind whispers its icy, poorly-handled-safety-razor mockeries around him; young children, not more than a half-block away, kick a soccer ball, laughing in a language Wilson can't understand and wouldn't care to, even if he could. He hunkers down as best as he can, a markered cardboard sign out in front of him: