Malcolm Jenkins grabs me by the neck and begins to tug me like I'm some kind of tackling dummy. The Pro Bowl safety's hands—strong enough to drag running backs to the turf, quick enough to snatch touchdown passes away from Tom Brady—enforce his will, yanking me hard in each direction.
I feel a slight constriction in my windpipe. Onlookers appear amused. Jenkins is cool and efficient. My head bobbles as his wrists and thumbs jostle and grasp at the hunk of cloth growing ever tighter around my throat.
How could I let it come to this?