What he knew about football:

The sideline yelling of the coaches.

The screaming of the fans.

The referee’s whistle.

The call of the quarterback HUT HUT HUT.

 

What he knew about war:

Boys in the mud.

Military issue palm trees.

Rain.

 

What he knew about guilt:

Not getting to them.

Not being able to reach them for all the mud.

 

What he knew about feelings:

That you swallow them, push them down into your intestines so they can’t escape, so they lodge in that warm pink space where they belong—not on the street, not on people’s faces all stricken and blubbery and slobbering.

It’s better not to let anyone know you have them, that way you won’t know either.

 

What he knew about daughters:

The rough, splintered rake handle in his right hand.

Oak leaves in crinkly piles smelling like wet fire.

The squeal of that kid’s tires on the driveway, the one who said I love your daughter, sir, who spent all day killing cartoon people with a handheld controller.

Playing hide-and-seek back when she’d tell him where she was before he could start to look for her like a chipmunk squeaking “Here Pop! Here Pop! Over here!”

The blanket on the couch in the same position since she last got up out of it like it needed her to move, needed her to even think about doing the things it would do on a normal day like keep someone’s legs warm, lay folded on a chair, or try out being a heap on the floor for a while.

That when you say the word “Figures” after they say “Pop, I’m having his baby.” It cuts them like a knife, the kind of knife you can pull out but never undo the slice made by.

That they could be all the way to Boise by now or Seattle or even San Diego.

That she talked about the ocean sometimes, about wanting to see it.

 

What he knew about regrets:

That if he had them, one would be that he should have gotten to them faster.

That if he had them, one would be that he shouldn’t have let mud stop him.

That if he had them, one would be that he should have waved his arms and stood in front of the car.

That if he had them, one would be that he should have told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

 

What he knew about Sundays:

A post-nuclear bomb silence like all the birds had dropped dead at the sight of their taillights.

 

What he knew about Soldier Field:

The reddening of faces in the stands.

The baring of teeth.

The roar of a fourth down conversion.

 

What he knew about today’s game:

That it was on Channel Five.

That fumbles happen.

That seasons get cut short.

That it was a building year (his neighbor had said).

How the set of his jaw was his solace. How she knew that, she should have known that.

How the taste of his tears reminded him of a frothy wind, of a rainy day near the stupid fucking ocean.