Game Day

“I need to get that rattle checked out,” he muttered while pulling the rusted Chevy into the parking lot of the football stadium. His svelte 14-year-old progeny sat quietly in the passenger seat staring out the window with his arms wrapped lovingly around a massive bulletproof backpack. They were both dressed from head to toe in black and gold.
“You think it’s the crankshaft?” the son asked innocently while watching his diagnosis fog the glass.
“Fuck if I know,” the father barked as he backed his 4x4 into the last parking spot in a long row of vehicles, ensuring there was enough space between his truck and the shiny SUV parked next to him. “And don’t even think about dinging my shit,” he sneered while staring down the Hyundai; shifting into park; quickly removing the keys from the ignition; then garishly proclaiming, “Let’s do this!” as he forcefully leaned his fleshy shoulder into the driver side door which eventually opened with a Jurassic squeal.
The son slid himself along the bench seat with his paraphernalia in tow and exited on his father’s side of the vehicle. He used both of his gloved hands to close the finicky portal 95 percent of the way, chased by an aggressive booty bump for the remaining five.
A seagull circled the scene from above.
“How’s the hussy?” the father hissed while attaching his keys to a carabiner on his belt loop.
“You mean your ex-wife, aka Mom, the one who divorced you for cheating on her a half dozen times, the same one who now owns a quarter percent minority share in YOUR Pittsburgh Steelers, oh, and the one that pays for my blue-chip education as well as your right to freedom?”
“Fuck you.”
The hovering gull swooped down and unloaded a massive splat of liquid shit on the windshield of the Colorado LT.
The father raised his fist and howled, “Never forget!” as he fumbled for his keys in the hope of grabbing a BB gun from the backseat of the Chevrolet before the seabird was out of range.
“You’re kidding right?” the son said while watching his dad squint as he locked his sights on the circling prey.
The father fired the flimsy rifle three times, scarcely coming close. “Let that be a lesson to you. I could have blown your fucking brains out,” he bragged as he tossed the gun into the back seat before kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. “Now where were we?” he said to no one as his son had disappeared.
“Pops, I’m up here!”
“What the?” his father whispered, arms akimbo and mouth agape as he witnessed his son hovering twenty feet above the ground.
“It’s my new science project! I’ve been working on it all summer; a solar-powered bucket seat drone! Smooth as silk if you’re under ninety kilos. Check me out!” he exclaimed while navigating figure eights.
“But what about the game? We have primos on the 50-yard line. And I’m fucking parched! I need a High Life.”
“Sell my ticket. It’s a division rivalry against the Ravens. It should be worth $500, at least!
He furtively admired his son’s ingenuity and happiness. Nevertheless. “Your loss,” the father said, flipping him the bird before hustling toward the gate, sporting a puckish grin.

⌘

Instead of Vengeance

Mercy! She felt better after a toke. Was it naive to be redeemed by a puff a smoke?

When he drove the beltway between Baltimore and the District of Columbia he invoked an inner mantra: Do not engage the serpent.

Her prose was a retelling of countless yesterdays. But she eventually grew tired of that approach. Nowadays she conjured voices for an infinite self. It didn’t matter if she told the truth anymore.

When he smoked weed he couldn’t read books. He could read, but he kept reading the same sentence over and over, which was tedious. So when he read, he’d sip a slow brewed dark roast instead.

She thought failure was a hoax so she removed the word from her lexicon in 1999.

He drove the distance between Maryland and Virginia countless times and he always succumbed to road rage. He couldn't shake it. He was seduced by anger and increasingly concerned. Driving was a miserable test of ego.

She appreciated an amusing page turner but she slowed down every now and again to ponder a bit of gospel.

He never liked the idea of declaring his lack of ambition. "So what do you do?" asked the barfly at the 2-for-1 happy hour in Midtown. His face wilted in reply. But if queried, "What do you obsess about?" He was fully attentive.

She used to drink red wine.

He enjoyed watching the Pittsburgh Steelers but he muted the announcers and the commercials. He didn’t talk to his family much but when he watched the games he thought about them.

She isolated herself from society yet delighted in the quotidian comforts of a liaison.

Temper is revealing, and the last time he drove to DC—he was cool as a cucumber. He practiced self reflection on a QWERTY keyboard and a yoga mat.

They are ready to write the next chapter.

⌘

Total and Absolute Love

"How long do we have to keep watching this crap?" This is the opening line of The Longest Yard spoken by Anitra Ford.

Anitra was talking about football, yes? 

I saw The Longest Yard when it was first released in 1974. I remember enjoying the film. I was also a budding football fan back then, and since I was born in Pittsburgh, loyal to the Steelers as documented by my golden corduroy suit. I loved sitting in that bean bag, surrounded by family and laughter. Here we go! 

Everyone in my family is a ridiculous Steeler fan. Everyone, except my brother. He was partial to the home team, and still is: the Los Angeles Rams. Although he's been living in Las Vegas for a couple of decades, there is no way he will be drinking that Raiderade. John loves a good four quarters as much as anyone and I've never seen him root against the Steelers, because, how could he, I mean, the entire family is wacko for the black and gold. 

My family lived in the San Fernando Valley in 1974, but my first memory of watching a Steeler game was in Pittsburgh, 1975. The Steelers were playing the Vikings in Super Bowl IX. My Grandma was really sick and she was in the hospital, which is why we traveled back to PA. We watched the game on the TV in her room. Grandma was cool.

Ever since 1975, watching the Steelers is like being home for Thanksgiving. Everyone is at the table. The food is good, the drinks are bottomless, and the TV ... is ... on. You get hoarse watching the game. Veins pop out of your head. And I haven't watched a game with the family since we lost to the Packers in the Super Bowl, 2011. The Mendenhall fumble. Damn. Most of my family lives in California, so I've been watching the games with my gentle partner, Elle, who tames my enthusiasm, in a good way. That's the thing about our family and the Steelers; it's family bonding even if we aren't physically in the same room. We watch together, in our hearts. It may seem like a bunch of hut-hut, but it's just our way of showing total and absolute love towards each other. 

Silver Linings Playbook (SLP) does a wonderful job of depicting family football love. SLP came out in 2012. I hate to be a spoiler, but Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence fall in love at the end. That ain't a fluke. Silver Linings Playbook was produced nearly 40 years after The Longest Yard. Jennifer Lawrence was not only the smartest football person in the room, but she was also the lead character. She was fierce. And she was a woman.

There were only two women in The Longest Yard. Burt Reynolds assaulted the first woman and we never saw her again. He ended up in prison for the offense. While in prison Burt had sex with the other woman—and we never saw her again. When I recently rewatched The Longest Yard, I realized the film is an abusive sausage party full of rage and hate. But I remember enjoying the film on the bean bag. I was eleven years old, it was the ‘70s, and I was truly energized by the revenge aspect of the movie. I was oblivious to the depiction of women in the film and I had no idea that rage wasn't an act of loving kindness. And neither was the hatred inspired Jim Crow racism that was prevalent in the movie. The San Fernando Valley was full of White people in the ‘70s. If it wasn't for busing and my parents having an interracial couple as their best friends, I knew absolutely nothing about the Black experience. And btw, the husband of my parents besties played in the NFL for the Chicago Bears. Football love. 

Anitra knew. 

The script of The Longest Yard was written by Tracy Keenan Wynn, who also wrote the screenplay for The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, a story that depicts the struggles of Blacks as seen through the eyes of Miss Pittman, a slave at the end of the Civil War. Before the Civil War, Blacks were enslaved for 242 years. After the Civil War, Blacks were enslaved by Jim Crow laws until 1965. After Jim Crow, Blacks were enslaved by prisons, which continues today.

When Anitra said, "How long do we have to keep watching this crap?" I like to believe she was referring to hate and rage and how one of its byproducts is killing the soul of America.  

By the end of the film, the Blacks and Whites rallied around each other to defeat the oppressor. As an eleven year old, I could definitely see the good in that. 

Kind of a happy ending I guess.

Love rules.

⌘