This time around the pro-football circuit, Plimpton's foil is offensive center Bill Curry, an intelligent, reflective bruiser, veteran of several Super Bowls, property of the Packers, Colts, Oilers, and Rams but very much his own man for all that. Plimpton goes along for the ride as Curry, whose knees are shot, points his Volvo toward Green Bay for one more July, one more try at the team Lombardi made. Plimpton is the prompter, Curry the man who puts his body on the line. His recollections hover around Lombardi who could be as sadistic as any Marine drill sergeant (""guys were vomiting on the field. . ."") and the laconic magic of Johnny Unitas; for Plimpton's benefit he relives the debacle of Superbowl III where the invincible Colts were humiliated by the upstart Jets. At moments he wonders just what the hell he was doing, risking bodily harm: ""me, thirty-one years of age, high salary, family responsibilities, college degree, keen mind, broken nose, eloquence, ambition, and foolish ego."" Apart from passing comments on the landscape, Plimpton contributes little as Curry chats on about teammates, coaches, feuds with management. And even Curry goes fiat when he begins musing (how many times are we to hear this?) that football is ""a practical religion in this country. . . a cleansing experience."" All told, it's an amiable, undramatic drive through the countryside, with Plimpton on the lookout for some profundity that's just not there.