With each laugh, the confines of a horrid past slowly trickle out.
With each smile, the memories of an empty stomach and an emptier heart are hidden.
With each prank, the love for his family and friends are tucked beneath.
Chris Rainey has never had many choices. For most of his life, he has been shackled by the mistakes of those around him.
He did, however, make one decision. That was the choice to play football. For this driven soul, that decision gave him a chance for a life those around him will never have.
See, without football, Rainey could have ended up far from where he is now, making 75-yard touchdown sprints on any given Saturday.
There are still struggles to stay straight, sure, especially in the "hood of Lakeland," where he grew up in the difficult streets, but the thought of losing his opportunities on the field force him to stay on a path that keeps his passion never more than a scooter ride away.
"If it weren't for football," UF safety and former Lakeland High teammate Ahmad Black says, "I don't know where he'd be."
He might still be needing the T-shirts handed to him off the street or the hot dogs he received from Lakeland vendors who knew of his situation.
Born under difficult circumstances that he had nothing to do with. Raised in a house with problems that were not his own. Living in a place where many take the easy way out, one that leads away from hearing your name associated with touchdown after touchdown.
When most players say they love their sport, they probably mean it. The difference with Rainey is, he has to mean it.
For Rainey, it's either throw himself into a pigskin-centered life or let the tragedies he's endured swallow him from within.
It took moving in with UF offensive linemen Mike and Maurkice Pouncey during Rainey's freshman year at Lakeland High to keep him on the right path. He stayed there all four years of high school.
"He would've just died slowly without football," says Rob Webster, the Pounceys' father. "Football kept him running away from problems, from seeing some of the bad things that came across in his life."
Some of those bad things have caused their share of tears.
Except you would never know it. Perhaps his smile and laugh - which offensive tackle Jason Watkins compared to that of a hyena - are simply a shield to hide past afflictions.
Perhaps they are a way tof giving hope to somebody who, like Rainey himself, needed it so terribly.
Perhaps it's there to escape how painful reality can be at times.
Or perhaps it's all of the above. And with the way the people who have been involved in Chris Rainey's life describe him, that's probably an accurate statement.
Let The Party Begin
Crash. There goes a couch.
Smash. There's a hole in the wall.
Whack. A foot just went through another wall.
Comparing what went on in Lisa and Rob Webster's house to a Coyote-Road Runner cartoon would be an understatement.
Adding Rainey, who Maurkice described with the words "that boy crazy," to the already easily excitable Pounceys was a surefire recipe for a comic strip-like household.
If you want proof, the twins' 16th birthday party was a prime example. The duo wanted a "house party," and that's a bad sign for a dwelling that already has broken walls and couches.
At its beginning, the barbecue party was comprised only of the Lakeland High football team - a feeding fest without anyone else - but eventually students from Kathleen, Lake Gibson and other area schools showed up.
Oh boy.
"Whoa, we should've never done that," Lisa said. "Whoa."
The police showed up around midnight and shut it down.
That's what can happen when you're talking about someone like Rainey, who took Human Sexuality at UF because he thought it was going to be "like stuff on TV," and who according to Maurkice, used to throw firecrackers at cars before running off.
When asked what comes to mind when he thinks of Rainey, Black, a lifetime friend, smiled and said: "Retarded."
"I laugh at him - a lot," he said.
So does everyone else. And sometimes he's so, well, "retarded," that he makes people scratch their heads.
"He's a little different than most," quarterback Tim Tebow said.
There must be something in those multiple helpings of spaghetti with sugar tossed on top that's done something to Rainey's brain.
And in case you were still searching for something weirder, look at what he sometimes does after those spaghetti-and-sugar portions.
"He eats a full-course meal, and then he would want to go get two double cheeseburgers and a fry from McDonalds," Lisa said.
There's your proof. Welcome to the mind of Chris Rainey.
The Beginning
The 2003 Lakeland High season wasn't going well.
Then, on a Sunday night that spring, hope arrived. That's when Dreadnaughts running backs coach Frank Webster saw an eighth-grade Chris Rainey break out for a nearly 70-yard touchdown scamper.
"He didn't move like a typical middle-school kid would," Webster said.
Then the good news: That puny kid with an afro would be attending Lakeland the next year.
Twelve months later, there was another state championship in Lakeland's history books.
Rob remembers staying after one of the twins' junior varsity games their freshman year and witnessing, for the first time, a young man with more twists and and turns in him than a race track.
"You knew right then and there that he had talent," Rob said. "To see him on the field, you could tell he was going to be special. The way he comes out of a cut, you knew he has to be almost the son of a goddess because he has some truly amazing abilities."
The community embraced him. He could've simply ambled out of his house and found his downfall, but whenever there was temptation for that, there was a community member with a hug and support waiting.
"As soon as you lay eyes on Chris, he has a smile that totally captivates you," Frank said.
"It's intoxicating. (His smile will) grab you and just makes you smile."
Rainey's skills became so well-known that current West Virginia and former North Fort Myers High running back Noel Devine called him with a challenge. He wanted to meet in the local Wal-Mart parking lot for a race.
Rainey won. Several times.
That's a lot of speed from a former offensive lineman.
When he first started playing football at the prodding of his grandmother, yes, that's what position the current 5-foot-9, 185-pounder found himself playing. Maybe he just stopped growing after that. Regardless, it became obvious the line was not his calling.
The moment he takes the ball out of the backfield, it becomes akin to trying to wrap your hands around smoke.
"He scored on us on the first play," said Black, recalling the first time he went against Rainey in little-league football. "He ran right up the middle."
Years later, he could still run up the middle with ease. He could also sprint to the outside, or squirt over and under humbled high school defenders. It didn't matter. He finished his senior year with 2,478 yards and 32 touchdowns.
Except, when it comes to the Southeastern Conference, these defenders aren't used to getting humbled.
When they see running backs who barely tip the scales like Rainey, they anticipate watching those tiny backs limp to the sideline needing smelling salts.
The Rebuilding Process
Urban Meyer looks down at his cell phone and sees a somewhat cryptic message.
"Wat up coach? 178"
The 160-pound pipsqueak was gone. Eighteen pounds and counting were added, and they were almost all muscle.
After missing most of his freshman season with a shoulder injury, Rainey was back.
Protein and calories - or what Rainey called "green stuff" - were being shoved down his throat, and Rainey was able to lift weights now that his shoulder was stronger.
"A year ago, when I got hit, my left shoulder, it would be painful," Rainey said. "Now I've gotten hit a couple times, and it feels normal. Now when I get hit I can get back up and go do another play."
In 2007, Rainey was "non-functional," according to Meyer. When Meyer said that, he was referencing Rainey's on-field performance. Rainey off the field, as you can probably tell, was also rather "non-functional" when he was around his coach.
"Ever sit with a 3-year-old and had a good, solid discussion about Santa Claus?" said Meyer, remembering his first meeting with Rainey. "That's what it was like. Now we talk about life, football and academics. It's kind of neat now. We're beyond the Santa Claus thing."
That's one way of putting how Rainey has matured. The truth is, there has been a transformation - whether you use it to describe fictional figures or not.
"When I first met Rainey, Rainey always wanted things his way," Maurkice said. "Rainey was just the kind of guy that wants it his way and if he don't get it his way, then he's going to get upset. He's more humble now."
Finally Arrived
Rainey stood in his stance, and he waited. Others sprinted ahead of him, but Rainey didn't deem it time for him to take off.
It's what Maurkice calls "just Rainey being Rainey."
This was the scene at the spring Orange and Blue scrimmage where UF students faced off against several football players. Rainey had his time in the spotlight, and went on to be the stud of the scrimmage with 141 yards of offense and two touchdowns.
Rainey's known for watching his highlight films over and over again, and that doesn't just include clips from Lakeland anymore.
Earlier this summer, freshman Jeff Demps was walking back from a tutoring session and, right when he was about to walk into his Springs dorm, he heard a voice with a question.
"Want to race?"
Rainey and Demps would run three races behind their dorm - one was won by Rainey, one by Demps and the other was stalled by Rainey - and that was just the preamble of what was to come.
"Chris is probably the best natural back I've been around," running backs coach Kenny Carter said. "His balance, his ability to change direction. When he's running in between the tackles, he has no fear. It's hard for young guys to be that way very early. But he can do all that. That's what makes him exceptional."
It's starting to feel like it was in Lakeland again, with Rainey making defenders wish they could run the game in slow motion.
"You don't have to hold your block longer than two seconds with Rainey in the backfield," Maurkice said.
Defensive tackle Troy Epps said he's "never seen so much speed in one person his whole life."
It's speed Rainey hopes will take him "to places beyond his wildest dreams," as Rob put it.
It's speed that has taken him away from trouble that was a doorstep away.
It's speed that has allowed him a fighting chance in a world which hasn't given him much else.
It's speed that's kept him from making the same mistakes of those around him.
When he takes the field Saturday, maybe he's running for that game-changing touchdown.
Or maybe he's just running from the pains of his past.
Or maybe he's running for his hopeful NFL future.
Or maybe he's just running to keep his mind focused on the game he loves and away from his history.
Or, maybe, it's all of the above.
