The setting for Game Time is the day of my First Holy Communion. The perspective is my brother’s.
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Thick cut bacon dances on the griddle; its sizzling delight fills the house. The smell moves down the hallway, slides under the floor crack of my closed bedroom door and into my cave. I am awake. The first rays of spring breach the window blinds and from beneath the tattered threads of my blanket I estimate two hours until game time. It’s Sunday. I am up.
The walls are papered with sports posters, newspaper clippings and certificates of physical greatness with one exception- the Goddess herself, Heather Locklear, in a pink string bikini positioned front and center. Dirty ball gear is piled in the corner behind the door purposefully out of view and thus not a chore. I crack the door to let in more bacon and hopefully not attract any attention as I am not ready for another round of arguing. Too late. They’re up and at it first thing this morning.
“He can miss one game Larry. It’s her First Communion for God’s sake.”
“We’re playing the Astros. Both teams are undefeated and he’s our starting pitcher. He has to play.”
“What about you, are you planning to throw on a uniform and run your fat ass on to the field? What’s your excuse?”
“Okay! We’ll drop him off at the field, drive over to the church and then drive back to the game. We’ll make it. What time does this damn thing start again?”
Enough bacon. I close the door, turn on Sportscenter and return to my cave. One hour 58 minutes until game time.
