And it is winning that is crucial. Not merely competing, not good sportsmanship, not the sheer athleticism of our players, imported or not. Winning, in our brains, equates with respect. And this is what we crave. Why wouldn’t we feel as good about ourselves if we were to achieve the lowest infant-mortality rate in the country? Frankly, we’d rather beat Alabama in football or Kentucky in basket ball.

At ten Barton calls back and gives me Coach Carter’s home and office number.

“He still may be in his office,” he says.

“The coaches stay up there late during the sea son. The two men I talked to said to call him immediately. It can’t hurt. Of course they are the type who would want Dade to play even if he had murdered the chancellor

I laugh. Razorback football and basketball. The meaning of life. I thank Barton and tell him I will come by his office in the next couple of days. Then I dial Carter’s home number.

“Coach Carter,” he says, answering on the first ring as if he were expecting my call. His voice, familiar through radio and TV, is raspy and tough like a drill sergeant’s.

Carter has none of the slickness of the younger breed of coaches, who look and sound as if they were in constant rehearsal for later careers as sport announcers.

I explain quickly who I am and why I’m calling.

“From what I’ve heard, I think there’s a real strong likelihood that Dade didn’t rape this girl. Coach Carter. I’d very much like for you to talk to him yourself before you take any disciplinary action. I should have him bonded out of jail tomorrow afternoon and can have him in your office anytime you say.”

“How do you know he didn’t rape her?” he demands, his voice hard as graphite.