"The only kind of respect that's worth having is the kind you have to earn," I said. "And as for being somebody, Ernie, it's not the name that counts but the guy who wears it. There are a lot of guys on assembly lines who are better men than any pro boxer that ever lived."

Ernie shook his head slowly. "I wish you could understand, Coach. But I'm going to be a pro anyway. If you don't want to help me, I... guess I just have to do it on my own."

"If it means that much to you, I'll keep working with you," I said after a minute of hard thought. "But I want you to keep an open mind about other possibilities, okay?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. And... please don't tell anyone about my 'porting, all right?"

"I promise. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. Good night. Coach. And thanks for listening."

I thought about it all the way home and for most of that evening. Ernie was right: I couldn't come up with a single solitary job where 'porting something an inch at a time would be worth doing. It was slower than walking and no good for going through walls or working in tight places. I didn't know how much other stuff he could move with him when he 'ported—he told me later he could move practically anything as long as he was touching it—but even that didn't help any. It would be faster to jack up a ton of steel or whatever and roll it on wheels instead of 'porting it around. Especially since he couldn't 'port things upwards.

I didn't get to sleep until after two, and when I woke up the next morning I felt almost hung over, I was so tired. Diane told me I had muttered in my sleep all night and had rolled around so much I'd almost pushed her out of bed. She wanted to know what was wrong, but of course I couldn't tell her. She didn't like that much.

Most of the rest of the day was pretty hazy, but I managed to get through my