Williams chose the school even though he isn't Mormon. He signed its "Honor Code" and became part of its miniscule black population. He endured the endless double takes—classmates making eye contact, looking away, then slowly turning back to hold a stare for one…two…three seconds. He was once suspended for—gasp!—underage drinking, and he was once exiled for a full season for—the horror!—having sex.
~snip~
We slide into a booth, and the waitress insists Williams try one of the 15 cocktails.
He looks confused.
"What's a cocktail?" he asks. "Does it have like shrimp in it?"
Not quite. He contemplates.
"Do you have anything with strawberry? Can you put some Sprite in it?"
He's talked into a vodka and pulp, and I roll with the Ole Kentucky. Moments later, out of the corner of his eye, Williams spots an inebriated middle-aged woman stumbling toward the restroom with arms over friends in Kellen Winslow-like glory. "She's lit!" he howls, pretending to shoot a bow and arrow. "She's lit!"
Then our drinks arrive, and something strange happens.
Over the next three hours, Williams takes one-and-a-half sips of his. He hates it. In fact, outside of the occasional drink with Mom at Red Robin, he says he doesn't drink alcohol much at all. "Doesn't taste good!" Nor does he rage until 3 a.m. "I'll take video games over drinking and girls any day." To him, the whole game is exhausting. He and his friends talk big, but he'd rather dance in his compression shorts, at home, alone, than waste all night on the prowl.
Here at The Henry, there's a row of gorgeous women at the bar. Williams ignores them all.
The only person he cares about in Scottsdale is the man sitting to his left.
Indeed, three days in the desert with Williams and Neal will reveal a more profound discovery than the liberation I expected to witness.
While it's true Williams is a free man now, he already has adopted a new code to put edges around that freedom. He traded in BYU's Honor Code for the Luke Neal Code.
Reply With Quote