"It's like I told you a long time ago: what matters isn't the name but the guy who wears it. When you start feeling good about yourself, it doesn't matter a whole lot what anybody else thinks about you. Well, most anybody, I mean," I added, smiling at Jenny. She smiled back.

"Yeah." Ernie was silent for a moment. "Coach, will you be mad if I drop out of the boxing team? I know you were hoping I'd fight in the Golden Gloves tourney, but—well, I'd like to spend more time on my schoolwork. And besides, Jenny thinks boxing's too dangerous."

"If it's what you really want, Ernie, go ahead. I hope you'll come in and say hello when you can, though."

He grinned. "Sure thing."

"Good. Well, I guess I'll leave you two alone." I headed toward the door, but then turned back. "Oh, by the way, I talked to Chief Dobbs earlier. He told me that car hit the guardrail pretty hard those three times. Says it was a miracle you didn't go through it and over the cliff."

Jenny tightened her grip on Ernie's hand, but he just smiled slightly. "I believe in miracles, Coach. Don't you?"

"Sure do," I said, and in my mind's eye I could see Ernie clinging to that car, "porting it an inch at a time, six inches a second, backing it away from that edge. And I looked into Ernie's face and saw the peace and self-respect that was finally there. Ernie Lambert was a real somebody, and for the first time in his life he knew it. "Sure do," I repeated.

—

I still hear from Ernie a couple of times a year. He and Jenny are married and have two kids, and he's a CPA out in Denver. He doesn't box anymore, but plays some amateur baseball now and then, and Jenny tells me he's pretty good at it. It seems he's got this weird little jerk of some kind that he puts in the middle of each pitch. It drives the batters crazy.

As for me, I'm keeping my eyes open. Somewhere in this world there has to be