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Some of these thoughts Collinsworth allows into print under his own byline in the hometown (Today) newspaper. He is called weekly by writer Al Vieira who "puts it together for me." Others he parcels out free of charge to anybody who happens to be near with a note pad or a tape recorder.
Now the crowd at Collinsworth's locker closes in. Pencils scribble erratically as elbows intersect. Microphones bloom under Collinsworth's nose, the dangling wires crossing like licorice whips. Cris is bare to the waist, his thumbs hooked in his jeans. Beads of shower water stand out on his narrow white chest.
In this stance his legs look even longer than they do when he runs. Split high, he seems, in motion, to be two parts instead of one, and 90% legs. They appear to precede him, his upper body teetering on the back of his hips like a piece of freight that has shifted on a dolly. As he talks, he grins and occasionally laughs.
How do you feel, Cris?
"I'm still walking," he says. "For a scrawny guy, that's an achievement."
You sure draw a crowd around here.
"I love a crowd. Hey, did you see that sign in the end zone? WE LOVE CRIS, signed Marsha and Donna. Well, la-di-da. Things are looking better all the time."
Who're Marsha and Donna?
"I have no idea."
Why'd you let (Tackle) Anthony Munoz spike the ball after your touchdown?