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:

disAbled VET

AnYthing help

Goodell bless!