Stroking is all part of a day's work for Junkin. He flaunts the scars from five knee, three elbow and two shoulder operations as if they were epaulets. "My approach to pain is shoot it up, tape it up, let's play," says Junkin. "I've awakened from concussions on Monday and not remembered Sunday."
Junkin takes his work seriously. His daily training regimen of hitting the heavy bag, leg presses, curls and medicine-ball sit-ups (200 in 180 seconds) may be the toughest west of Parris Island. "Trey thinks he's the most important player on the field," says Cardinals backup quarterback Dave Brown. "If we all took our jobs that seriously, we'd either be in an asylum or the Hall of Fame."
Arizona coach Dave McGinnis recalls a minicamp in which Junkin made two bad snaps. Two hours after practice McGinnis found Junkin in the locker room, hiking balls into a garbage can. "Close enough is not good enough for Trey," McGinnis says.
Junkin remembers every snap he has ever muffed in a game, which is easy because he's muffed only one. Five years ago in a swirling wind at Giants Stadium, Junkin put a ball at the feet of punter Jeff Feagles, who nonetheless got off the kick. The snap so upset Junkin that if he hadn't seen a replay that showed that the wind had pushed the ball down, Junkin swears he would have retired on the spot. "A ball snapped to the punter's right hip is perfect," he says. "Anything below the knees or outside the body drives me insane. That snap will haunt me until the day I die."
So far Junkin has preserved both his sanity and his anonymity. "On TV, all anybody should ever see of me is my ass," he says. "Ideally, my name should never come up. If it does, I've made a mistake."