Back in 2004, Ricky Williams, the American football player, left the Miami Dolphins after a third strike for smoking weed and disappeared. He’d had a notable career besides, but this was the capper: He said goodbye to his coach from Hawaii and vanished off the face of the Earth.

I was like, I want to be the guy who finds him. My memory is a little foggy here, but I think I got Ricky’s email address from the godfather of one of Esquire’s editors. It was an AOL account, I remember. I wrote Ricky and asked him if he’d talk to me if I found him.

He replied! And he said if I found him, he would tell me everything. AMAZING. But first—finding him. There were reports that he’d been in Italy, Fiji, Japan, and, most recently, Australia. A guy who’d felt trapped was now making the most of his freedom. Ricky was on THE MOVE.

I asked Peter, my editor, if I could go searching for Ricky. I didn’t really think I would find him. But I figured I’d get some crazy travel out of it, giving chase. That’s what I was calling the story in my head: “Chasing Ricky.” I imagined I’d always be one step behind.

Peter asked me what I thought my chances were. My brain calculated, “Less than one tenth of one percent.” My mouth said, “50-50.” I don’t like to think I was lying so much as my brain and mouth had been in disagreement. Anyway, a coin toss was good enough for Peter: Go.