My tree, i the cold.

I watched a football game last night, the first time I have watched TV in many months. I watched the Jets-Patriots game, and I like this big, loud-mouthed coach, Rex Ryan, who loves the sexuality of feet. I’ve never been that good at being a man, my father thought I was a sissy, and so did many of the males in the neighborhood. I’ve never been able to talk sports.

Maria came in and stared at me as if I were standing on my head in the snow. “How is it?” she asked, solicitously. Strange, I said. I don’t understand much of it, but I do feel like an American guy, which is nice.  I ate popcorn and drank red wine.  I even called up my daughter and tried to talk sports with her – she is a sportswriter – but I couldn’t quite pull it off. I loved the banal chatter from the sportscasters. Lots of cliches.

I was proud of myself. Maria and I both congratulated me. “It was good to watch the game,” she said, supportively. “Ahh., are you going to watch every week?” No, not every week, I said. Maybe next week.