A day or so later, Marino sits in a north Miami bar eating lunch and watching a football game on TV. A man several stools down who has recognized him points at Marino's red T shirt and says, "Were you in the Marine Corps?"
"No," answers Marino. "It says, 'Marino Corps.' "
"I was in Hawaii during the world war," says the man. "The Marines are a good unit."
"I'm only 23," offers Marino. This is bar talk, like being in a joint in Pittsburgh, only this place is chromed and new. This is Miami.
"Listen," says the man, "you oughtta have a second career—something to fall back on in case something happens to you. Get a real estate license. Land prices are going sky high."
"Tell me about it," says Marino. He's grinning now.
"I'm tellin' you. Things happen in football. You could be gone tomorrow."
Marino pulls his shades over his eyes and stops watching the game. He looks down the bar.
"I think I'm gonna be around awhile," the quarterback says. That is the image that lingers.