My son loves football. 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 has been chasing the musical myth for the last decade in Austin as guitarist and vocalist. Just win, baby. Just win!
Sports is my religion and my youngest son is my apostle. God bless Catholicism. Sin and sin and sin and in the end ask for forgiveness.
In a dream last night I had missed Christmas because I had gotten drunk at somebody's 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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