2nd paragraph of End Zone almost reads as self parody.... not entirely in a bad way... just funny in a way, especially that last bit....
By the end of that first season he was easily one of the best running backs in the history of the southwest. In time he might have turned up on television screens across the land, endorsing eight-thousand-dollar automobiles or avocado-flavored instant shave. his name on a chain of fast-food outlets. his life story on the back of cereal boxes. a drowsy monograph might be written on just that subject, the modern male athlete as a commercial myth, with footnotes. but this doesn't happen to be it. There were other intonations to that year, for me at least, the phenomenon of anti-applause, words broken into brute sound, a consequent silence of metallic texture. and so taft robinson, rightly or wrongly, no more than haunts this book. i think its fitting in a way. the mansion has long been haunted (double metaphor coming up) by the invisible man.