In early November of that year, nine months after he entered free agency, Wes was transferred to a practice facility in St. Louis, which is located inland in eastern Missouri. It is barbecue country, where many fine briskets and rib slabs are cooked.

Les Snead, the general manager of the Rams-Team Front Office, signed the transfer order. On the suggestion of Frank Cignetti, a member of the staff who had become especially interested in seeing what could be done with Wes. Particularly since time off from the Game had failed to help him. It had, in fact, made him more deteriorated.

“Your name is Wes,” the offensive coordinator said, as Wes stepped clumsily from the car, lugging his suitcase.

“My name is Wes,” he said.

“We’re going to try you as a receiver for a period, Wes.”

“Okay.”

“I think you’ll like it better here, Wes.”

“I think I’ll like it,” he said. “Better here.”

The coach scrutinized him. “They say you suffered a concussion recently.”

“Yes, they said I got my bell rung.” Wes reached up to touch his head.

“That the first you’ve had?”

“That is the tenth one I’ve had.” After a pause Wes said, “I think.”

“Okay, Wes,” the coach said, leading him indoors. “Come with me and I’ll show you around. Each position group has their own section of the locker room. They put their pads on and listen to music and talk to their teammates and coaches, but not to reporters. There are no media sessions, here, just practice for the Games.”

Wes seemed pleased; a smile appeared on his face.

“You like lifting weights?” The offensive coordinator indicated to their right. “Look inside. The weight room. No Nautilus machines, but plenty of free weights.”

“I like weights,” Wes said.

“Look at them.” The coach again pointed. Wes did not look. “We’ll round up a helmet for you,” the coach said. “You can’t go out on the field without a helmet. Don’t go out to practice until we get you a helmet. Right?”

“I won’t go to practice until I have a helmet,” Wes said.

“The air is good here,” the coach said.

“I like air,” Wes said.

“Yeah,” the coach said, indicating for Wes to pick up his suitcase and follow him. He felt awkward, glancing at Wes: he didn’t know what to say. A common experience for him, when people like this arrived. “We all like air, Wes. We really all do. Except for Tom Brady, of course. But otherwise, we do all have that in common.” He thought, we do still have that.

“Will I be seeing my friends?” Wes asked.

“You mean from back where you were? At the Denver facility?”

“Peyton and Montee and Demaryius and Julius and Emmanuel and–”

“People from other team facilities don’t come out here,” the coach explained, leading him into the locker room. “These are closed operations. But you’ll probably be going back once or twice a year. So you’ll see them again. If they haven’t been transferred to other facilities. But you’re not supposed to make any personal relationships here at Rams-Team – didn’t they tell you that? In case they end up on another team and your assignment is to cheap-shot them at the knees.”

“I understand that,” Wes said. “They had us memorize that as part of the Rams-Team Creed.” He peered around and said, “Can I have a drink of water?”

“We’re only allowed to drink Gatorade here – it’s part of our licensing agreement – there’s a cooler for the whole team here.” He led Wes toward through the rows of metal lockers. He selected an empty locker at random. “Yours is 4-G,” he decided. “Can you remember it?”

“They look alike,” Wes said.

“You can nail up some object by which to recognize it, this locker. That you can easily remember. Something with color in it.” He pulled open the locker door; fetid air blew out at them. “I think we’ll have you returning punts first,” he ruminated. “You’ll have to wear gloves – we’ll get you a pair.”

“Gloves,” Wes said.

He flipped on the locker’s interior light, and then began to show Wes how to operate it. Wes did not appear to care; he had caught a glimpse of the showers now, and stood gazing at them fixedly, aware of them for the first time.

“Showers, Wes, showers,” the coach said.

“Showers, Wes, showers,” Wes said, and gazed.

“Echolalia, Wes, echolalia,” the coach said.

“Echolalia, Wes–”

“Okay, Wes,” the coach said, thinking, I believe I’ll have him run slant routes. Or curls. Something simple. Something that won’t puzzle him.

“Time to get to work, Wes,” Frank, the offensive coordinator, said. “Rise and grind.”

Wes saw only the flat tile floor of the showers, and he stared at it a thousand years. It locked; it had locked; it will lock for him, lock forever for dead eyes outside time, eyes that could not look away and hands that knew how to do nothing but catch a football. Time ceased as the eyes gazed and the universe jelled along with him, at least for him, froze over with him and his understanding, as its inertness became complete. There was nothing he did not know; there was nothing left to happen.

“Rise and grind,” said Wes.