As the Custom Coach pulls into its parking space alongside Reggie McKenzie Field at 9 a.m., the groggy passengers sag in their seats, chins to chests, large limbs splayed across the aisles. Outside the tinted windows, 250 kids from all over Detroit wait, desperate to get their hands on the ball, to run slants and options, to sweat alongside the sheen of NFL stardom right here in Highland Park, Mich. But the players inside the bus have barely resurfaced from the Alizé side of this gray June Thursday morning.

Charles Woodson is lifeless, a towel draped over his face. Marcellus Wiley winces, muttering something about peeping 6:08 before he crashed. Kordell Stewart groans about a 6:27 a.m. shutdown. "You're all Visine and sunglasses," Wiley says to Donovan McNabb. "It's not working for you."

"Only so much you can hide behind the Guccis," agrees McNabb, doing just that.

The Steeler whose mug is plastered all over the shiny black exterior of this monster climbs aboard. Handing out Egg McMuffins and tumblers of OJ, he shakes his head. "This is a business trip, not a social visit," says Jerome Bettis.

Business trip? Somebody tell JB to stop trippin'. It's summer vacation. Yes, guys like CWood, Gilbert Brown and Eddie George are here from Tuesday to Thursday to coach this football camp -- gratis. But Jerome Bettis Celebrity Week is also their last hurrah before training camp hell. Players come here to kick it with friends, helmets off. Jerome knows this. "I won't keep it dry," The Bus assures his men. "I'll show you the best Detroit has to offer." Like first-class plane tickets, suites at the riverside Omni, lunches at Motown joints and the Friday finale: an 18-hole golf tournament and the Celebrity Jam at the grand State Theater.

But right now on the bus, JB's getting his coach on. See, Jerome came up through here, back in '88, when Reggie McKenzie and Pepper Johnson blew the whistles and Celebrity Week didn't exist. This camp is about Motor City loyalty. "I was one of those kids, and I'd never quit on them," Bettis says. His Bus Stops Here Foundation raised $142,000 at this Celebrity Week. "I've got maybe two more NFL seasons left," Bettis says, "and as the game fades, this camp will be my centerpiece."

So this week, the 24 player/coaches are traveling around Detroit on a $750,000 coach equipped with a full kitchen and bath, a den in the back and plush recliners. JB's uncle, Butch Bougard, a plump man with a contagious smile, a quick wit and a sharp eye for troublemakers, is the chauffeur. On this bus trip, Pro Bowlers, journeymen, rooks, ex-players and top collegians replay last season's games, track off-season moves and lay down preseason smack. But the vibe is low-key, as friendships flow over the sounds of DVDs playing on the Sony Trinitrons. Mouthing the words to Scarface and laughing during BET's Best of Comic View, the players talk cars, clothes and Clinton ("our only black president"). And they gossip: Whitney Houston's BET Awards flameout ("get that girl help"), Shaq's rumored secret marriage ("you heard that too?") and Beyoncé, Beyoncé, Beyoncé ("mmm, mmm, mmm").

Bettis is too busy to hang. "Back at the office, we call this Hell Week," Jerome says. "All work, no play." His duties: 6:30 a.m. door-to-door wake-up calls, then 7:30 a.m. "kickdowns" (what happens to hotel doors if guys are slow). Two daily three-hour camp sessions. Dining reservations (PizzaPapalis' deep dish, East Franklin's soul food). Nightclub trips (Floods, Half Past Three). Face time with the guys until 4 a.m. "It's my watch," he says. "Negative things can't happen."

Maybe that's why Uncle Butch gently warns out-of-towner campers at McKenzie Field not to wander too far off. Some 500 kids ages 8 to 18 from every corner of the Motor City pour onto this grassy Highland Park haven. And the parade of NFL fashion don'ts -- do-rags, bandannas, ripped half-shirts, headbands, rolled-up pant legs -- would send the Commish into shock. As Lions, Chargers and Raiders patrol practice, the boys swallow their awe, puff out their young chests and glare, as if to say, Get out my way. Bettis, not fooled by this bravado, jumps right in: cajoling, taunting and counseling. He grins as players talk up newfound protégés. "They're flying in from the sidelines, urging me to check kids out. I love it," he says.

So he's all smiles when he introduces the kids to Dwight Smith. "Back in March, at a club [the Velvet Room] in Atlanta, honeys shakin' everywhere, this guy wasn't thinking about the ladies," Bettis tells the group. "He was thinking about y'all. Right then, he asked me if he could help out here." Like JB, Dwight is a veteran of this camp, straight outta Detroit Central. Unlike JB, Tampa Bay's third-rounder and Akron's consensus All-America corner is fresh NFL meat. "I'm here to pick up skills from everyone who's been in the league," the rookie tells the campers.

Like how to scrap his way to a big-money contract. Though he led the NCAA with 10 INTs, he played in the MAC, which is not where big-time college football gets played. Scouts say he's a work-in-progress who's immature and slow-footed.

If the rook needs a role model, Marcellus Wiley's his man. The DE from Columbia University, of all places, took over for Bruce Smith in Buffalo last year. His 10.5 sacks and work ethic convinced the Chargers to hand him a $40 million contract plus a $9 million signing bonus, bringing the L.A. native back home. "The weather there makes you want to practice," says Wiley, self-assured behind his Hollywood smile. Wasn't always that way. "I was the boy with the holey shoes who girls wouldn't talk to," he says. Eventually, Wiley hopes to use his sociology degree to help other poor kids. For now, he enjoys community service, Bettis-style. "I'm here for the kids," he says. "But how many times do you get an all-expenses-paid trip to Detroit?"

***

Rewind 12 hours. The players, looking for some fun after camp, get off the bus heading for their rooms. They don't have to look much farther. Turns out "all-expenses paid" includes a team of beautiful ladies imported from Miami, ready to put the sweet in "hospitality suite" (room 115 in this case). Freshly showered, the guys find a seat for the evening's unscheduled "gentlemen's" show, and once the music cranks, the booty-shaking rattles the closed doors. Hours later at Floods nightclub, everyone's much happier. And Jerome circulates as the Cristal and cognac flow.

But don't be fooled by the club-happy veneer. "We're playing this devilish game of being out all night," says Marcellus. "But I've seen guys out until 4 a.m. wash up and head straight for the StairMaster. You can't avoid football here. And everyone is trying to get some kind of edge."

The rook's still honing his edge on the field, but off the field he's dangerous. "Watch this," Dwight says, cruising into the Northland Mall in Southfield for some Detroit-flavored party gear. First stop: City Slicker, a shoe store specializing in gators -- both he and Jerome bought prom shoes here. Quicker than you can say "4.4 40," Smith zeroes in on lilac gators -- $700. Waving to the manager, he bolts next door to Via Roma for a matching suit. Lilac Italian pinstripe? An $800 no-brainer. "They've never seen a man in this color," he says. "Fastest $1,500 you've ever seen, huh?" The spree ends at the Flaming Wok, the tab easily covered by the camp's $250 per diem. "Last year, that would've been some money," say Smith, who's living off advances from a theoretical three-year contract worth about $440,000 annually. "Now? Tsshh. Maybe if it was $2,500, I'd blink."

Two-a-days with the campers are done. It's Friday -- golf day. On the ride to the tournament, the players are deciding what bling they'll bring to the party. Chuck Evans passes around his $12,000 diamond-and-ruby encrusted Super Bowl ring. Marcellus says he'll leave the suit-wearing to "the big boys." Kordell shakes his head. "Cross that line right now," the QB instructs. "You're living the life in Deee-AYY-go. You're not a little guy hustling for yours anymore." And as the pros greet the corporate execs, who've paid upward of $20,000 per foursome to play with an NFLer at the Chandler Park golf course, there's no doubt who the "big boys" are. "It's kind of overwhelming that people pay money just to spend some time with us," says Wiley, who's teamed with some guys from Vision Investments.

The rookie is AWOL. Golf is the one football habit Smith doesn't get. "One hole would take me three hours," he complains. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, Jerome has his game face on. He's hosting the 10th hole all day, and his drives count toward each team's tally. He doesn't plan on failing anyone -- and he gets no complaints (even though he trees at least one). Wiley's team places a respectable fifth. After six hours of golf, Marcellus poses for a few shots with the guys from Vision and heads back to the bus. He's got some primping to do before the party.

"Callin' all dogs," jokes Wiley. "I'm acting up tonight." Despite a strictly enforced dress code for the Celebrity Jam, he's wearing a wifebeater, Versace jeans, black belt and shoes, light ice -- and a white towel. "Iverson rolled into a party with a towel on his head," explains Marcellus. "You roll like that, you're good." Most of the guys are flowing low -- slacks, short sleeves. Only Jerome and Dwight are suited up. The rookie's lilac pinstripes draw hoots and whistles. "Look at you -- pure Detroit," Marcellus marvels. Dwight nods, suppressing a smile. But the stop at a Comerica ATM squashes his grin. "Donovan was about to break that machine withdrawing his money," Smith says, blinking hard. "You're talking about guys worth $50M. I can't deal with that."

Dwight relaxes once he reaches the jam. Jerome has gone all out. The State Theater is adorned with gold -- leafed columns and huge statues of knights -- Renaissance and Rococo via Henry Ford. The VIP balcony boasts a buffet table overflowing with meats, breads and shrimp, and an excellent view of Savion Glover stomping out a Grandmaster Flash beat. Women in sweat-tight dresses and perfect makeup pose along the stairwells. "Welcome to hoochie heaven," someone shouts.

Armed with purple drink tickets, players wade through clouds of perfume and smoke to the dance floor. Marcellus and Donovan get busy with a few ladies, and the rook loses himself in a groove with a lovely. JB isn't dancing -- he's still meeting and greeting. "I'm exhausted," he says. "I'm running on 40% adrenaline and 60% heart. It takes a lot of practice to hit it like this." And a lot of lost vacay. Next week, it's off to Vegas, Chi-Town and L.A. But his road trip ends in St. Louis at an intense tune-up with trainer Bob Kersee just three weeks before the Steelers' camp. Year-round it's like this, except during the two weeks right after the season, when Bettis vanishes like exhaust fumes into the Motor City smog. Even mom Gladys can't reach him then. "God forbid he makes it to the Super Bowl," says his brother, John. "He won't have an hour out of the entire year to himself."

***

It's after 2 a.m. outside the State Theater, and back on the Custom Coach, Uncle Butch mans his driver's seat, evicting pretenders and a few dressed-to-impress females trying to sneak aboard. Stretch limos idle curbside, but everyone knows the bus is the place to be. "This is the butt-naked bus!" McNabb yells as the Bus Girls (former dancers from the Pistons and the Shock) climb on. "Everybody's got to get butt naked, or get off the bus!" No one moves, but there are hopeful grins.

"During the season, your hand is held, the schedule is regimented and you're trapped in a yard," says Marcellus. "The off-season tests your professionalism, because there will always be 10 friends and 10 women who want to hang out at some club. But you can't say yes to everything."

Even the rookie knows this. "Ladies come and go," says Smith. "Football is the constant."

Outside the tinted windows, head coaches are waiting, desperate to get their hands on these players, to run slants and options, to force some sweat from the sheen of NFL success. But tonight, no one's working. And the party's on The Bus.

This article appears in the August 6 issue of ESPN The Magazine.