Televisions glow like second fireplaces. The pregame rolls for hours, a parade of opinions about a game that hasn’t started yet. In the afternoon the grocery lots over in La Porte churn a little, then settle—the last-minute run for chips, ice, something sweet. Back in the neighborhood, driveways host two or three chairs each, pulled forward just enough to catch the breeze.
It is a good day for background noise. Kickoff is an organizing principle for people who don’t agree on much else. A pot of chili counts as consensus. The halftime spectacle pretends to be the point and isn’t; the point is that the country would like a clean diversion, even if the commercials sell it back to us at a markup.
Out on the bay the wind forgets the schedule. Tugs nose barges around as if no broadcast exists. A gull rides the seam where currents disagree and then gives up, banking toward shore. The world keeps its own clock, and it is rarely synced with ours.
When the game finally ends, fireworks crack once or twice from somewhere across the water, a punctuation mark with no sentence. The lights inside the houses go from bright to ordinary. Dishes soak. Monday arranges itself on the counter in the form of lunch containers and a list on the back of an envelope.