Keep Calm and Pass to Mertesacker

"Honey, can you run out for some bread?"

Tactic number one: ignore. Mark kept his eyes peeled to the screen as if he hadn't heard his wife's request.

"Honey?"

Tactic number two: plead. "But it's the middle of the Ghana Germany game. Can I go when it's over?"

Sheila frowned. "The rest of the food will be out any minute. Isn't this why we have DVR? Can't you pause it?"

Moments later Mark walked up 22nd Street, cursing under his breath. He looked around him – people's windows were open. He'd have to avoid hearing any loud cheers or shouting as any errant word could give away the action of the match and ruin the rest of it for him. But how could he shut himself off from the sounds all around him? Ghana had only just tied the score at 1 – 1 when he'd left the house.

At the market he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. While he doubted that shoppers were, say, following the game on their smart phones and/or chatting about more recent play than he'd seen, he didn't want to take any chances. He paid for the bread and began his walk home.

Then it happened: a man stepped out from a row home and Mark's gaze fell upon the man's shirt, a shirt that could only belong to a Germany fan:

Without thinking, his eyes moved from the man's shirt to his face, only for an instant, and Mark started to panic. What was that expression? Certainly not elation, but not downright depression either. Mark looked at his watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed since he'd left his house. How much could happen in twelve minutes? A lot. A lot can happen in twelve minutes in a match. That Germany fan in the Mertesacker shirt looked defeated. Ghana must've taken the lead. No, maybe he just looked stoic. No, perhaps he stepped out to catch his breath because he'd recently been screaming with unbridled joy. No. No, no, no!

"Sheila, here's your bread." Mark practically leapt past her and back onto the couch, fumbling the remote as he reached for it.

"Come on Mark, keep calm."

"Keep calm?!" He turned to his wife. "Are you in cahoots with that Germany fan down the street?"

Sheila had no idea what Mark's question meant, so she sighed and decided to use tactic number one herself. She ignored him.

Selfish Kisses

Four blankets draped over her, a stuffed lion and baby doll under arm, she sleeps. I look at her and see the future: tomorrow morning picking out clothes for the day, next summer visiting grandparents, fifteen years from now dropping her off at college.

Today she ate cereal for breakfast. She watched a movie and did puzzles and then we went to the grocery store. Sitting in the back of the shopping cart, facing me, she sang and chattered her way down every aisle.

She played soccer in the afternoon. Well, she sat on the ball, dribbled it, kicked it into the goal more than once. She ate two helpings of spaghetti with butter. When the time came to wash up for bed, she would've preferred to continue playing her little ukulele, which she made clear to me by rolling around on the floor, crying hysterically. She cried so loud and so hard that any childless passersby would've thought me an abusive father, but all I'd done, I promise, was tell her it was time for pajamas and brushing teeth.

Now as she rests in her little bed and I think of all the days ahead, I wonder what the world will be like for her, what decisions she'll make. It's too much for me sometimes, the world all around us. But right now the night air is still and she and I are within the same walls. I know it's selfish of me to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek while she's asleep, but I do it anyway.

Drew's Diet

“Do you drink?”

“Socially.  Few times a week.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“How’s your diet?

“I’m not on a diet.”

“I mean, what do you eat?”

“Oh.  You know.  All kinds of stuff.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”

“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”

“Oh, sorry.  I guess that’s about it.”

“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”

“Oh yeah, those too.  Cheeseburgers.  Always a dog at the Phillies game.”

“You don’t eat fish?”

“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”

“No fruits or vegetables?”

“. . .”

“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese.  You must exercise pretty often?”

“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”

“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits.  If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”

“. . .”

“And come back and see me more than once every ten years.  You should get a physical every three years.”

Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening.  By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him.  “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder.  ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’  “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”

The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process.  Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.  The five pounds returned to his body post haste.

Saturday Drew

Drew knew he should be drinking water, not beer, but this didn’t stop him from smiling after the first big gulps from his Darkside Imperial Belgian Stout.  Even Master Yoda would enjoy this Darkside, he thought, as the beer’s deep flavors lingered in his mouth, the subtle bit of dark chocolate taste.

He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games. 

A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently.  Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.  

It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed.  It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.

Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer.  It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.

A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round.  What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.