I caught it and turned around. All I could see were cameras going off. Morey dissolves in giggles. He is dirty, has two dislocated fingers, and won't know for another eight days if he has made the team. But tonight he's a star.
Progress is slow.
Marshfield, Massachusetts, is small enough for most of its long-time inhabitants to know one another, but as soon as he made the evening news, Morey's sphere of acquaintances seemed to mushroom. Neighbors and friends stop by for autographs and see how he's feeling about his chances of making the Patriots. Morey smiles broadly, shakes hands, addresses everyone older than himself as Mrs. or Mr., and gladly fills each autograph request. The afternoon air smells of the sea, which is only a few blocks away from the Moreys' small house. He is almost two inches shy of six feet and weighs 190 pounds.