The Big Game Is Every Night by Robert Maynor

Author:Robert Maynor [Maynor, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hub City Press
Published: 2023-07-04T00:00:00+00:00

VIII.

Meemaw cooked since it wasn’t her birthday. She made chili in a humongous pot, so much we all could’ve eaten it every meal for three days and still not finished. Homemade biscuits, light brown and silver-dollar sized. A mound of cheddar cheese grated by hand, piled on a platter. She was standing near the stove when me and Mom came in, leaning awkwardly against the counter because her back was sore from standing, but she refused to sit. Marcus, Aunt Gail, and Peter were around the table, but they weren’t eating. Mom and I were late, like always. We’d been laying the new floors and lost track of time, then Mom took forever in the shower.

“Don’t worry,” Meemaw said. “We waited. The game hasn’t started.” She stood up straight and winced a little bit. Forced herself to twist it into a smile. I went over and hugged her. She kissed my cheek.

“Would y’all hurry up with the pleasantries?” Marcus said. “My stomach is barking. I ain’t ate all day.”

“Sorry,” Mom said. “It’s my fault.”

Aunt Gail rolled her eyes. “He’s fine. Just trying to get your goat.”

“Fix a bowl,” Meemaw said, waving at Marcus. “What are you waiting for, come on, hurry up.”

Marcus pushed back from the table, stood, and shuffled over toward the pot. He flicked my ear when he came by me and I punched him soft in the belly. I walked to the edge of the kitchen, where it opened into the living room. The gas logs were burning, and it felt good because it was rainy and cold outside. Shorty sat in his rocking chair in front of the television watching all the pregame festivities. American flag, celebrity singing the national anthem, Air Force flyover. The team captains jogged out to midfield and the referee showed them the coin he was going to flip, explained what the symbol on each side meant.

The Super Bowl meant nothing to me, not just then, but always. Too much extra stuff that had nothing to do with football. Ceremonies, commercials, parties. The game was a sideshow. It didn’t matter who won. The following day, men on sports talk would discuss which players were switching teams, which team was the favorite to win next year. Vegas would begin accepting bets. Even the players always seemed underwhelmed. Last game of the season, win or lose, so what’s the point? No more challenges, no one else to beat. The miracle isn’t winning a Super Bowl, it’s making it to the league at all.

Mom came up behind me, tapped my shoulder, and handed me a paper bowl. “Come on,” she said. “Meemaw’s waiting. You know she insists on going last.”

I fixed a bowl of chili and piled it high with cheese. I took it to the living room where everyone else was getting settled. Aunt Gail and Peter sat on the couch against the wall, Meemaw’s spot on the corner waiting for her. Marcus was perched on the recliner near the fire. There were two foldout chairs to the left of the couch for me and Mom.

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