The Pain Game

Back in his kitchen, Pear looks around, his face a mask of confusion. "What did I come in here for?" He digs his cane hard on the wood floor, pivots, stumbles, grabs a counter to steady himself. His blue eyes survey a pile of papers on the kitchen table. "What was I doing?"

He squints and shakes his head. "Oh, forget it." He decides he wants out of the kitchen, anyway. "Warmer upstairs in the bedroom. I need some water. Would you like some water?" He pours two glasses. "God, I'm tired." He gulps, pushes off on his cane and, halfway up a flight of stairs leading toward his bedroom, he brightens. "Hey, I'll read a letter I got from a fan. He's a big fan. I'll show you my office."

The office is in his closet, actually. Inside, he has set his computer on a tiny table and squeezed in a chair. The setup is near the bed he shares with his wife of 27 years, Heidi. Between the bed and his office-closet rests a red laundry basket, which is holding what looks like the random booty of a scavenger hunter -- a thick belt, scraps of paper, a scuffed-up old football, a purple-and-gold blanket. Most of the items are mementos from his glory days, which began at the University of Washington. He digs under the pile in the basket and gingerly lifts things. A black leather weight belt, meant to protect his back and torso, which he used when he was squatting and bench-pressing close to 500 pounds. The game ball awarded him after a Washington victory over Syracuse in 1973. An MVP trophy for his play at Washington.

"I got my Super Bowl jersey around here somewhere," he says. He fingers the deflated football. "This is old, isn't it? Old like me." He puts it back in the red basket and looks around.

"Would you like some water?" he asks.

I point out he's already poured me some.

"Okay." He looks around. "What are we doing?"

I remind him, and he nods. He finds the letter from the fan, an Army lieutenant colonel from Vienna, Va., named Matt Ferguson, who writes that his nickname is "Mad Dog."

"I like that," Pear says. " Mad Dog."

He slowly reads the words of Matt Ferguson: "I am a recently returned veteran of the Iraq War . . . I grew up admiring the Tampa Bay Buccaneers for their grit and honor. I am especially fond of you being the first Buccaneer ever selected to the Pro Bowl . . . I have attempted to pattern my military career after your example. I have always admired your tenacity and dignity in those early years.

Congratulations on your selection as the 19th Greatest Player in Buccaneers history. It would be a huge honor if you could sign the enclosed photo of yourself in one of your games for my new Man Room. God Bless. -- Mad Dog."

Pear grins. "That's from a fan, a fan named --" He stops and flips the letter over for a reminder. "Mad Dog," he says. He lifts the game ball from the red basket, stares at it, puts it back. "Would you like a glass of water or something?" he asks.