My son loves football. He is an eighth grader at Manzano. Nothing excites me more than watching him make a great catch or take a double reverse for 30 yards or seeing him as a corner tackle a back behind the line of scrimmage for a loss.
Football is a myth. It is totally USA. He lives the myth. He is no different than my son who chases the musical myth for the last decade in Austin as a musician. Just win, baby. Just win!
I believe that when you are dead, you are dead. Sports is my religion and my son is my apostle. God bless Catholicism. Sin and sin and sin and in the end ask for forgiveness.
We are swept along the river until we are deposited in the gulf. In a dream last night I had missed Christmas because I had gotten drunk at somebody's else house. I had to leave because several of the revelers wanted to beat me.
When I arrived home my siblings were children. My youngest sister was showing me her tea set. My mother wanted to know if I had been drinking. My father, although he didn't look like him, walked into the living room, pointed a gun at my forehead and fired.
"I've shot my son," he said.
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