On days when I have to bite on a towel to keep myself from crying, I hide out in the garage and watch the game from beginning to end. Never fast-forward through the commercials. Savor the one with the nude baby spinning around in the tire. Hate the one with the local car salesman in his second-hand suit, hocking lemons, the scribbled banners fluttering behind him, the bad camera work.
Sit at my old gunmetal desk and suck down flutes of rye, the garage dark and cool, the hint of lawn trimmings in the air, and wait patiently for the third quarter. Memorize half-time scores; the dance steps in the cheerleader’s choreography. Mimic the analyst’s half-time strategies. Pretend they know what’s about to happen to me. Pretend they care.
I wince with excitement when I see my old self take the field for the second-half kickoff, the spry step in my legs. Proud seeing my command. Throwing yellow flags. Blowing my whistle decisively. Holding. Pass interference. Illegal hands to the face. Fucking encroachment.
I took it all for granted.
With 6:32 left in the third quarter, I get up on the edge of my seat, down another blast of rye, my eyes bleary, and watch the quarterback step up into his cozy pocket and release a hard spiral into the middle of the field. It’s the same perfect pass over and over and over again. Pigskin whizzes right over my head. Zip! Almost peels my cap back.
Tremors start to ripple through my knee.
Memory jogs. Circuits are blown.
I only remember the smell of sod, the ensuing black pain. The anesthetic mask covering my mouth. The whirl of ambulance lights. The loss of feeling below my knee. Couldn’t feel the hardness of the stretcher. Couldn’t hear the crowd hush when they saw my left leg twisted at an impossible angle.
What I never saw on the field but always see on the screen is the receiver, a lanky bastard with legs like fence posts, snatch the ball out of the cold Wisconsin air. A specimen, that one, a thoroughbred. Watch him tuck the ball tightly into his chest as if it were his most prized possession, an urn of his grandmother or keys to his Porsche. Watch the middle linebacker step up and knock that fellow out of midair and down onto the back of my legs. Watch my body go down. Watch my face planted into the 30-yard line.
Terrible moment. I can’t get enough of it.
Of course, there’s no need to rewind. The network shows the replay ad infinitum. Zooming in on my bowed leg. My hands clutching. Face breaking from the pain. I’m unshaven. Scars are visible on my left profile. The one when I landed on the barbed wire. Sandlot fights. I was a hellion as a kid, even at nine.
The replays sober me up. Stabs me awake.
“You can almost hear the snap of cartilage from up here!” says one of the analysts, the fat one, the one with a mustache like a walrus. Sometimes that bastard mocks me. Sometimes I feel his pity. It’s a mixed bag.
After I’m hauled off, the cameraman pans over to the back-up ref. A meek fellow named Elmer. He stretches. Touches his toes. Jogs in place. A real show-off. Fucker knows he’s on national television. Knows he’s saving the day.
We always travel with a backup. Injuries to referees are common. Mine was career-ending. Not so common. I was in the hospital for months. Got hooked on painkillers. Murdered my erections.
After they resume play, after they worship the backup, I get disinterested. Start poking around the garage. Clean the garden trowels. Stock the fridge with sodas, beers. Out there maybe four hours before my wife notices that I’m missing. Bitch. I love her. She was there for me. Broke my heart to see her face during recovery.
She’ll usually open the door, peek her little head out and say, “Sam? You out here again? Get in here. Dinner’s ready.”
She has the sweetest voice. Grates my ears. Did I mention I love her?
Depending on my mood, I scream at her and then puke on the side of the house, washing chunks down the drain with the garden hose. Or simply put down my tools with a dead clink. Head back into the house like a normal Joe.
Maybe inside I’ll watch the live games. Watch new scores. Listen to new halftime strategies. Gear up for the playoffs. Wildcard. Divisionals. Watch Elmer officiate his way up to head linesman, ingratiating himself on the Super Bowl crew.
Bastard wears number 121. Watch out for him. He’s got a keen eye.
Sit at my old gunmetal desk and suck down flutes of rye, the garage dark and cool, the hint of lawn trimmings in the air, and wait patiently for the third quarter. Memorize half-time scores; the dance steps in the cheerleader’s choreography. Mimic the analyst’s half-time strategies. Pretend they know what’s about to happen to me. Pretend they care.
I wince with excitement when I see my old self take the field for the second-half kickoff, the spry step in my legs. Proud seeing my command. Throwing yellow flags. Blowing my whistle decisively. Holding. Pass interference. Illegal hands to the face. Fucking encroachment.
I took it all for granted.
With 6:32 left in the third quarter, I get up on the edge of my seat, down another blast of rye, my eyes bleary, and watch the quarterback step up into his cozy pocket and release a hard spiral into the middle of the field. It’s the same perfect pass over and over and over again. Pigskin whizzes right over my head. Zip! Almost peels my cap back.
Tremors start to ripple through my knee.
Memory jogs. Circuits are blown.
I only remember the smell of sod, the ensuing black pain. The anesthetic mask covering my mouth. The whirl of ambulance lights. The loss of feeling below my knee. Couldn’t feel the hardness of the stretcher. Couldn’t hear the crowd hush when they saw my left leg twisted at an impossible angle.
What I never saw on the field but always see on the screen is the receiver, a lanky bastard with legs like fence posts, snatch the ball out of the cold Wisconsin air. A specimen, that one, a thoroughbred. Watch him tuck the ball tightly into his chest as if it were his most prized possession, an urn of his grandmother or keys to his Porsche. Watch the middle linebacker step up and knock that fellow out of midair and down onto the back of my legs. Watch my body go down. Watch my face planted into the 30-yard line.
Terrible moment. I can’t get enough of it.
Of course, there’s no need to rewind. The network shows the replay ad infinitum. Zooming in on my bowed leg. My hands clutching. Face breaking from the pain. I’m unshaven. Scars are visible on my left profile. The one when I landed on the barbed wire. Sandlot fights. I was a hellion as a kid, even at nine.
The replays sober me up. Stabs me awake.
“You can almost hear the snap of cartilage from up here!” says one of the analysts, the fat one, the one with a mustache like a walrus. Sometimes that bastard mocks me. Sometimes I feel his pity. It’s a mixed bag.
After I’m hauled off, the cameraman pans over to the back-up ref. A meek fellow named Elmer. He stretches. Touches his toes. Jogs in place. A real show-off. Fucker knows he’s on national television. Knows he’s saving the day.
We always travel with a backup. Injuries to referees are common. Mine was career-ending. Not so common. I was in the hospital for months. Got hooked on painkillers. Murdered my erections.
After they resume play, after they worship the backup, I get disinterested. Start poking around the garage. Clean the garden trowels. Stock the fridge with sodas, beers. Out there maybe four hours before my wife notices that I’m missing. Bitch. I love her. She was there for me. Broke my heart to see her face during recovery.
She’ll usually open the door, peek her little head out and say, “Sam? You out here again? Get in here. Dinner’s ready.”
She has the sweetest voice. Grates my ears. Did I mention I love her?
Depending on my mood, I scream at her and then puke on the side of the house, washing chunks down the drain with the garden hose. Or simply put down my tools with a dead clink. Head back into the house like a normal Joe.
Maybe inside I’ll watch the live games. Watch new scores. Listen to new halftime strategies. Gear up for the playoffs. Wildcard. Divisionals. Watch Elmer officiate his way up to head linesman, ingratiating himself on the Super Bowl crew.
Bastard wears number 121. Watch out for him. He’s got a keen eye.
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