by W. E. Turner
The men pull their jackets close about them to ward off the wind's chill, unnoticed while the game was in progress; the field populated with straining, sweating boys and the stands barely containing the expectant, cheering students, parents and townfolk. They pass the bottle of bourbon among them and each, in turn, pull from its umber contents one smoky, nostril-tingling swallow.
They curse, each word it own sentence; testimomy to every sound's intensity.
“God. Damn.”
“Son. Of. A. Bitch.”
One by one, the men speak, detailing the turning point. The words are delivered slowly, in a high plains nasal twang. Each statement pronounces sentence on the season. Every addition is individual, surrounded by its own frame of silence.
“One little ol' diddy-waddle pass an' that's it. Finished.”
“All's them Bonnet boys had t' do 'uz knock it down. But did they?”
“Naw. They had ta go an' play Volly Ball with it.”
“Let that sum bitch get b'hine 'em and ketch it.”
“An' that's it. Finished.”
“Outta th' playoffs agin.”
“In the first fuckin' roun'.”
“Same dam' thang as las' year.”
“Well, I don't think the boys have anything to be ashamed of. They played a hell of a....”
The statement straggles off to no conclusion as every other set of eyes slowly turns the speaker's way; glaring, searing such altruism away. They don't want similar ideas to form and contaminate their misery.
The litany repeats.
“God. Damn.”
The men continue to sit in the stands, even after the liquor is gone.
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