Sunday Memories

The bar was dark inside compared to the bright sunlight shining on the parking lot. Peanut shells covered the floor underneath the round wooden tables and chairs. It was anything but quiet. Various televisions played on every wall while men drank pitchers of beer and yelled at the players on the screen. A shaft of light burst across the wide, open room as a man, about in his late-forties wearing a green baseball cap and matching green zip-up sweatshirt, opened the door. Then, a small shadow appeared from under his arm. As it walked through the door the shadow quickly turned into another matching green baseball cap and sweatshirt with long blonde hair bright as the sun. She smiled, revealing a few gaps in her teeth. 

They sat at one of the tall round tables, her feet dangling high above the ground. He ordered a beer and she ordered a soda with extra cherries. As they waited for their drinks, he slid a notecard across the table. "This is your cheat sheet," he said.

On the notecard was every rule of football, the sport of all sports, and what it meant. She had barely learned how to read, but studied it hard, wanting to please and impress her father. As the game began her father would explain what was happening, pointing back and forth between the TV screen and the notecard and making gestures with his hands. "Oh! Did you see that guy move before he hiked the ball? That's a false start."

She nodded her head enthusiastically every time, watching the players run around on the screen. At the end of the first quarter she asked, "Is it over?"

A muffled laugh was heard from the men around her and her father chuckled and shook his head. "Not even close."

During the second quarter she wolfed down a hot dog, no ketchup, no mustard. Just hot dog and bun. She nibbled on some fries and sipped her soda while her father roared at the TV screen with the other men, throwing their hands in the air and clutching their foreheads, thrusting fists above their heads and high-fiving. They argued back and forth about which team was better and whether the referee's call was right or wrong. All the while, she nibbled on her fries, sipped her soda, and watched the players run around on the big screen.

She didn't understand why the time on the screen went by so much slower than on the clock on the wall. Each quarter was supposed to be fifteen minutes, but it seemed a whole lot longer. Finally, after a few more fries and another soda, the game moved into the fourth quarter. Her father seemed eager, as he was sitting on the edge of his seat and had balled his hands into fists on the table. She checked over her cheat sheet one more time and looked back at the screen. The player in the middle of the line threw the ball back between his legs to the player behind him, the quarterback. She could remember that one. The rest of the players ran all over the place, some to the left, some to the right, and some ran right into one another. A yellow flag flew onto the field and the men in the bar all yelled and threw their hands up.

"Facemask!" A little voice piped up over the noise. 

Her father looked down and smiled. "Yes! That's right!" he said and put his hand up for a high-five. 

She smiled, reached back, and slapped his hand as hard as she could.