C'mon, you know I'm kidding. He's only in my head. And not Portrait or Ulysses, just a over-worn narration of a high school football game, sitting here wondering if it can be wrested into this space with any grace, an evening served up like a clumsy altar boy, or tackled like a lumbering linebacker. Here we are gathered once again for the introit anthem, the school kyrie, the penitential 10-yard penalty. A choir of heavenly cheerleaders. Bleachers full of Friday service worshippers. THE VOICE OF GOD from the speakers. The delivery, pregame, of an injured player now back from (almost) dead, a hospital helicopter depositing him mid-field to the cheers of the congregation. The performance at half-time of a choir of pink-shirted little cheer-girls; so the children shall lead them, indeed. We share popcorn and sodas, and find ourselves sitting and standing a dozen times as we let people in and out of our row. Funny, it’s hot and sultry tonight, this first football game of the year, after a cool and calm summer; later, long after the lights have been turned off and everyone unvested, it will storm. But that’s hours away, and right now I’m thinking about the words I might write about this night, and just why I want to. Christ, have mercy.
Geez, what did you think you were going to get?