The summer looked to get even better when I started Pee-Wee Football.

Unfortunately, Uncle Si was only an assistant coach of the Bulldogs—the team I wound up on. Mr, Johnson was the head coach, and he had a philosophy that called for letting all the players rotate through every position—even if they sucked at it.

Jay and Rogellio were on the team with me. The three of us, and about half the boys on the team, all wanted to be quarterback. As training camp went on, we all speculated on who would be chosen for what position. But by the time of our first game, Coach Johnson was still sticking to his rotation plan.

We lost 21-0.

The mothers who attended seemed to approve of the rotational approach. Most of the fathers didn’t.

When our second game resulted in a 35-0 loss, the fathers of the players got together and somehow convinced Coach Johnson to take a hike. The first thing Coach Simon Bedauern (“Coach B” as my fellow players called him) did upon taking over, was re-do the try-outs. He already knew who he wanted for linemen. But he lined up all his potential receivers and had them run routes while he himself threw the passes. He ran all of them through routes several times, then sorted out who he wanted for receivers, tight ends, and defensive backs. For running backs he timed their 40 yard dash, then had them sprint and cut right and left by whistle command. Then he asked who still thought they wanted to be a quarterback.

Me and a dozen other boys all raised our hands.

Uncle Si set up a net target at the goal line and had each of us throw from the Ten Yard Line. Most of us hit it from that distance. He moved us back to the Fifteen. We were still mostly good. At the Twenty, about half of us remaining were weeded out. At the Thirty, all but three of us failed to hit the target. Only two boys could throw an accurate pass from the Thirty-Five, and I was one of them.

The other boy was Stan Porter. At the next day’s practice, we were issued the red practice jerseys for quarterbacks.

Despite my history of undervaluing my abilities, I really thought I had the better arm. That’s why I was so disappointed when Stan started at QB for our next game. We won that game 14-10, and I got to play in the Fourth Quarter, but it was still disappointing.

“What do you want—sympathy?” I could still hear those words echoing from training at the Warrior’s Lair, and knew I would hear them again if I bellyached. So I didn’t complain. But it must have been obvious, on the ride home, that I was feeling sour.

I had really come to admire Uncle Si, and loved being around him. For a grownup, it seemed he enjoyed my company and took an interest in my thoughts. I talked more with him than I had ever talked with anybody, and usually felt great after spending time with him. But that day there was oppressive silence while he drove. He asked a few questions, but I only gave one or two-word answers.

“There’s a reason I made you second string,” he finally said. I’d been wanting an explanation, so this got my attention.

“Your arm is a bit stronger,” he said. “You’re a little better at adjusting, and hitting receivers on their routes.”

“Then why didn’t I start today?” I exploded.

“Part of being a quarterback is leadership, Sprout. And Stan is the better leader.”

I wasn’t even sure what this meant, but I felt insulted anyway.

“You’re a loner,” he said. “Nothing wrong with that. But a quarterback can’t be as introspective as you are. He has to be a people-person. More importantly, he has to have a can-do attitude. You don’t have that.”

This pronouncement really stung, coming from him.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What is ‘can-do’ attitude?”

“You’ve got to encourage your teammates. Hold them accountable, yes. Push them, yes. But it’s a fine line. You can’t just tell them they suck—even if they do.”

“I don’t do that!” I protested.

“Actually, Sprout, you do. I guess you don’t notice it, but you don’t cut anybody slack. That’s actually a good thing for combat sports, because you don’t cut yourself slack, either. But it’s not good for team sports.”

His words smarted. I was reeling.

“Team sports are tough,” he said. “A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and it’s hard to put together a group without any weak links. Leading a unit…a team, a group, is a lot like babysitting sometimes. Not everybody is cut out for it.”

I sat fuming silently for a while.

“There’s an expression that was popular back in…” he started, but twisted his lips for a moment before finishing his statement, “…where I spent a good part of my life. It went: ‘Either lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.’ You’re the kind who gets the hell out of the way, Sprout. You’re a loner—not a leader. And that’s perfectly alright. You can be a lot more productive in life if you’re not distracted by trying to get a bunch of boneheads to do what they’re supposed to.”

“You’re saying I can’t be a leader?” I asked, devastated.

He frowned sadly as he said, “You don’t have the personality for it. You’re too honest, and straightforward, and focused. The kind of guy who others want to follow knows how to bullshit. He’s always concerned about the image he presents to other people. He studies other people constantly, evaluating whether they can be any use to him; and if so, how. Or, if they are competition, he’ll have to sabotage or destroy them, somehow. Your only interest on that field is getting the ball into the end zone, and you don’t see anything beyond that. Stan is always working the team. He builds up his teammates’ egos, as needed…but never quite up to the level his ego is. Everything he says and does is designed to make himself appear to be higher on the ziggurat than everyone else.”

“The ziggurat?” I asked, unfamiliar with the word.

“The hierarchy,” Uncle Si said. “Okay, look, I’m gonna tell you how men, and boys, look at the world. Well…not that many in this pussified culture around us now; but jocks, and soldiers, pilots, martial artists…certain guys still look at the world this way: life is a big climb up a ziggurat—a stepped-pyramid like the Aztecs, Mayans and Incas built in Latin America. But this ziggurat is invisible—it only exists in the minds of those guys climbing it—but that doesn’t make it less real to them. The goal is to get as high as you can. You have to get there step-by-step, though. How other men perceive you determines which level you’re at. But so do certain accomplishments: an important job; your success with women; and probably how your career is panning out.”

“Success with women?” I asked.

He nodded. “It’s not important to you yet, but pretty soon it’s gonna be very important to you. You’ll just have to take my word for that.”

I thought about this invisible ziggurat for a moment, then asked, “So Stan making starting quarterback—that moved him higher than me?”

He nodded again, with a pained expression. “Yeah. But what I’m trying to get across to you is that the ziggurat is irrelevant to you. You’re a loner, and frankly, too intelligent to get obsessed with all that ego-pacifying stuff. Don’t worry about how other guys perceive you. You’ll find out, in time, that none of them are worth impressing anyway.”

After another silent spell, I said, “I have a better arm than Stan. That’s what’s important for a quarterback.”

He sighed and shook his head, looking irritated.

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