Every trip into the closet was a horrible reminder that football was wrapped in that most miserable word—hiatus—for David Culley. Sweat resistant polo shirts and long sleeve heat gear, which turned from purple and black to red and blue, hung like the gallows on an iron rod. They were fresh, just like the eggshell white. Lacking body odor, that adage to summer days, they were pleading to be seasoned. A shirt isn’t a shirt until one drop of perspiration instantly makes it reek. On a shelf below were numerous athletic shorts. They too abhorrent, all stiff and empty, all the same size, large, and he had yet to find his favorite one, a perquisite for any wardrobe.
David Culley Loves Nachos, and I Love David Culley
