Deep Breath, Dave.

Dave has been standing on his daughter's front porch, a good long minute since he first knocked,

and he's resisting another knock. He knows if he knocks again and there's nothing,

he's going to be mad, and he doesn't want to be mad, he just wants to watch the goddamn game.

Life has become an exercise in patience since the doctor had diagnosed him as a, well, what do you

call it, complete fucking lunatic.

He didn't say it in those words, but that's what he meant.

And Dave knows he is.

He loses it all the time.

And as of late, it's become a detriment to his heart.

Deep breath, Dave.

The fucking minivans here, they must be home.

It's late September in Buffalo, and it's colder than it should be.

The aging electricians, aching hands, massage one another in the front pocket of his

Bill's hoodie.

That's what the kids call it a hoodie.

And he doesn't like the term much.

Makes him feel supremely uncool to say it and he won't say it, except in his own head, hoodie.

A 68-year-old man in his hoodie, looking in the windows of his daughter's house on a Sunday

afternoon.

What in the hell is going on here, damn it?

He's missing the pregame.

...