Something got into Jamie, and the party-crashing began just before training camp. The first time was a wedding. We tired of walking along the crowded streets of Miami Beach and took off to the other side, where the ocean rolled in. We didn’t say much but glanced at each other when we saw glowing tiki torches and heard music, then saw people dancing, including a woman in a billowing white dress.

“Let’s go,” Jamie said, without hesitation, grabbing my hand. He had been unusually hyperactive that day.

“Wait, to that wedding?”

“It’s a reception. See? They’re dancing. Come on.” He began to step forward, but I held back.

“Are we dressed properly?”

“You’re in a black dress and sandals, and I’m in a polo shirt and kh...

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