Watching my boy in the State Finals is about as proud as I’m ever likely to be. It’s been quite a season, I don’t mind telling you, but it’s all gonna pay off now, once he gets the ball into Uhorne’s hands and wins the Hornets this game. I guarantee it.
Some say football’s a religion, and if it weren’t against our Lord’s wishes, I’d agree with ‘em every damn Friday. Sure does give you the feeling of His Holy Presence when you watch a sixteen year-old who God saw fit to bless with the talent to run a pigskin into that end zone. You can hear the crowd speaking in tongues when one of our boys gets past the defense and sacks the other team’s quarterback, and you can hear the Devil whispering into men’s hearts when the same thing happens to us.
Not that I need to worry in this game. The D for the Wildcatters is wide open enough we could fit an eighteen-wheeler through it sideways. It’s that shotgun-armed Davy Matticks that could cost us the title. Boy throws spirals tighter than… well, nothing appropriate comes to mind. I hear he and his receiver, Bobby Wilcox, are going to dorm together next year up at the college. Makes you wonder. Then again, you can’t really hold it against ‘em if it keeps those boys as in sync as they are.
Not like mine and Dewayne Uhorne. That Dewayne can’t get open to save his damned life. If I hadn’t had my son out throwing passes in the backyard since he was but six years old, he wouldn’t be able to drop that ball right into Dewayne’s idiot hands right now.
Seconds left, and Uhorne’s in the end zone. Ball’s coming right for him. He’s got it! We’ve won! We’ve- Dewayne fumbled it! Goddamned idiot. Good thing I came prepared. I cock my rifle and fire a shot right through Dewayne’s stupid skull. They’ll have to call the game and reschedule, and that’ll give my boy the chance he needs to turn this around.
Everyone’s screaming. I suppose they’ll put me in jail. But it’s worth it. It’s State.