He crept in the field house unobtrusively, gliding like a shadow through the back door with only a faint creak to give him away. Bossman Bjork looked up immediately and saw him and remarked him softly but sternly.
Dust yourself off before you come in here. Look at you: gonna track that mud and grit from Memphis all over everywhere.
It was true. His neatly creased slacks were faded and caked with the grime of the Liberty Bowl. He radiated fatigue and defeat and he felt all the failures of the world on the crumpled and tatty shoulders of his woolen pullover.