Carolina Panthers players hold the first practice of their mini-camp Tuesday morning. They close it to the public and the media.

Pull up to Charlotte Christian High Gate A and there are four orange Flex-O-Lite barrels with white stripes blocking the entrance. Pull up to Gate B and there's a uniformed Charlotte police officer.

After practice, I stand next to Gate B. I want to give players an opportunity to talk. Because there is nothing a professional football player likes more after practice than to stop his air-conditioned car, open the window and talk to a sweaty guy with a notebook.

The players drive every kind of vehicle imaginable. Some drive a shiny large black SUV. Others drive a shiny large white SUV. They all have tinted windows. I look at the drivers when they stop. This one is either Jeff Otah or John Kasay.

One guy pulls out in a regular old truck without tinted windows. He looks like linebacker Dan Connor. Maybe it's a teacher who resembles Connor.

A big black truck, a Ford F-150, pulls over. Driving is Travelle Wharton and in the passenger seat is Jordan Gross. The offensive linemen organized the camp, and I was surprised they closed it. They are among the team's most gracious players.

Gross looks over, sees my wet shirt and empty water bottle, and looks as sympathetic as a man in an air-conditioned truck can.

A team that won only two games last season shouldn't put on a display, he says. The players want to avoid stories about how the quarterback completed only 40 percent of his passes or the star looked out of shape.

"The veil of secrecy, too, was to kind of make it so it doesn't become weird with who was here and who wasn't," Gross says. "We want to protect our teammates that were here and that weren't here."

I understand the intent. But I disagree with it. Interest in the Panthers is intense. They have one of the NFL's most talked about players in Cam Newton, the Auburn quarterback they took with the No.1 pick in the draft.

Newton is national. Tape of him doing anything - stretching, jogging, smiling at a teammate - would make ESPN. If he had to carry a veteran's pads, the picture would make Cosmopolitan and Glamour. But there was no rookie hazing, Gross says. There also were no pads to carry.

The attention the players generate would enhance their image. Look how hard they work in midsummer-like heat. Nobody made them. They do, too, want to play.

Gross and Wharton should open it. If a player is out of shape, that's his fault. If a player is in, say, Los Angeles, he can claim he's working with a trainer there. If a quarterback completes only 40 percent of his passes, he can blame the offensive coordinator.

A nation craves the NFL. Bored fans are tired of seeing NFL owners and stars in boardrooms. The absence of football creates a void, and rumors fill it. Among them is a fan boycott. If owners and players don't reach a deal, fans will boycott the NFL.

Right. If fans miss football so badly that they're talking about a boycott in May or June, they'll be back in September. It's the quiet ones the NFL should worry about.

I crave the NFL, too. Since I once knew the turf around Charlotte Christian, I walk along a path, climb a hill and, without trespassing, stand on a plateau two first downs from the edge of the field.

I don't recommend the climb. The temperature is 110 degrees in the shade, and it's all shade. The view is obstructed not by tinted windows but trees and foliage and kudzu.

Then there's a moment. Somebody appears to throw a spiral, long and tight. I find an opening between the leaves and follow the trajectory.

I can't identify the receiver.

But the quarterback is Newton, Jimmy Clausen, Matt Moore orTony Pike.