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Michigan whenever I wanted to come home.
    This was just the first step, I knew, going through those letters. Maybe none of these schools even wanted me anymore, or wouldn't once they got to know me, or maybe they wouldn't have anything left money-wise, and there were probably a million other things I didn't even know to worry about that had already gotten me crossed off their lists. But at least I was doing
something
instead of just sitting around feeling awful, doing something I could report to Win. Plus Curtis started doing this routine, once we got my little pile in order, of going through them and saying "Big Ten! Big Ten!" whenever he got to one of those, with this really goofy grin.
    Big Ten—see, Big Ten is a really big deal. Way back when I was a kid, Win explained that it really should be called Big Eleven because there are eleven schools in the conference, but he's right that "Big Eleven" sounds dumb. Big Ten is
really
big when it comes to football—which is why it was such an enormous deal when Bill got that scholarship to the University of Minnesota. It shows what an amazing player he is even if Minnesota doesn't have the world's best team—and it's pretty big in basketball too. Even women's basketball. Not big like Tennessee or Connecticut, but not too far off. So the fact they were sending me letters was pretty darn freaky. Kind of like getting a letter from Santa, or a lottery ticket or something.
    That's what they were, really, a pile of lottery tickets. That's what I was looking at.
    Then I took an extra-deep breath and started opening them. I didn't want to, that's for sure, but I knew Win would chew my ear off when he found out I hadn't. And I read them.
    Every letter said pretty much the same thing, the first sentence talking about that
People
article and then describing their program, how good it is and their record or their improvement if their record wasn't so good, and how much I would contribute to the team and how I should keep them posted on my season and call them at such and such a number whenever I wanted. The only letter that was a little bit different was from the University of Minnesota, because the U of M coach had a bit more personal stuff to say about how nice my unofficial visit had been and even though I couldn't visit "officially" until next year, I could come by anytime and all I needed to do was call her.
    Their sameness was even more obvious the second time I read through them, all of them saying call me, call me, call me right this minute! All those coaches working flat out, even when they're reading
People
magazine if you can believe it, tracking down hoops players, reaching out and reaching out over and over, like fishermen trying to catch fish. And here I was at the other end, a little fish, a tiny little one in little Red Bend, Wisconsin, watching all these hooks go by. And all I could think about was the damage those hooks can do to you, especially if you happen to be a fish.

    So when Amber called, I was pretty darn relieved. Because the combination of being told a dozen times
Call me now!
and bloody-fish-hook thoughts and a ton of homework had me ready to run screaming out into the snow.
    I snatched up my cell phone. "Hey!"
    "Whoa, what's wrong with you?" Amber asked. Because I usually don't sound like a drowning person and she's the rescue boat.
    "Nothing. Just school garbage."
    "Tell me about it. You know what? They're making me write
all
my English papers. Every single one! Do you know how long
Huckleberry Finn
is? And it's all about guys!"
    I couldn't help grinning. "Well, they do make up half the population, you know."
    "Yeah, the dumb half ... So anyway, what are you so bummed about?"
    "Nothing." Because I didn't think Amber wanted to hear about my college worries considering her issues just finishing high school. Which I worried about too, don't forget, but all this college business kind of overwhelmed the math quiz stuff. "A math quiz."
    "They're making me do all my