It doesn't help to go into the locker room and hear his teammates' blow-by-blow of last night's parties, either. "They'll be going into it," he says with a wince, "all their imports and exports, and they'll see me or I'll see them and they'll kind of stop the details. I think, maybe, they feel a little shame when they hear themselves. Any guy can make a baby. It takes a man to take care of one."
What's funny is that in high school in Portland, Green made himself out to be some sort of Wilt Starter Kit. "I was the biggest liar there was," he admits. "I told everybody whom I did it with, when, how many times. All lies. I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanted to, I just never did. I think, looking back on it, God was protecting me."
It's kind of nice, isn't it? It's like finding someone who still cries at his school song or knits pot holders or writes his grandma letters in longhand. In a city that holds sexual purity in the same esteem as groin pulls, A.C. Green is that rarest of adults—a satisfied virgin.
Somewhere, Madonna weeps.