"It's Empire," Alex said, appearing beside me without a sound. She was wearing an oversized gray sweater and her usual glasses. "Manny brought it. It's a strategy game where you expand territories and conquer the world."
"And Luke is playing?"
"Luke is moving pieces at random and making explosion sounds. That's his way of conquering."
I sat beside her on the couch, close enough to see the screen, close enough for our shoulders to almost touch.
"What do you do at these events?" I asked.
"I observe. Analyze. Calculate probabilities. Sometimes, when I'm bored, I make predictions about who's going to explode first."
"And who do you think it'll be today?"
"Safe bet: my uncle Mitchell," she said with a smile that barely curved her lips. "My grandfather told him his job isn't 'a real job.' Mitchell's been trying to prove it is for twenty minutes."
On the screen, a player scored a touchdown. Jay let out a grunt of satisfaction.
"That's how it's done! That's football!"
"It's just large men crashing into each other," Mitchell muttered.
Jay looked at him. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. I said it's a very... strategic sport."
"You didn't say that. You said it's large men crashing into each other."
"Because that's what it is, Dad."
"Football is more than that. It's tactics, it's discipline, it's..."
"It's a sport where men get paid to hurt themselves while other men watch and feel important by association."
The silence that followed was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Alex, beside me, had stopped drumming her fingers. Her eyes were fixed on the scene, recording every detail.
"Mitchell," Cam said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. His voice was soft, conciliatory. "Honey. Why don't you take a moment?"
"I don't need to take a moment. I need my father to understand that just because he likes something doesn't mean it's intrinsically superior."
Jay stood up from the armchair. "You know what, Mitchell? You're right. It's just a game. It's not important. Nothing I like is important to you, is it?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I've been hearing it for twenty years. That I'm a simple man, my tastes are simple, my way of seeing the world is simple."
"Dad..."
"No, let me finish. When you were a kid, you told me I didn't understand your problems. When you became a lawyer, you told me I didn't understand your work. When you met Cam, you told me I didn't understand your life. And now because I like football, I don't understand the sport."
"That's not the same..."
"Isn't it?" Jay looked at him, and in his eyes were years of accumulated wounds. Years of not being enough, of not understanding, of not measuring up. "Then what is it, Mitchell? When am I going to be good enough for you?"
No one spoke. In the kitchen, Gloria stopped chopping onions. On the floor, Luke and Manny had stopped playing. Even the TV seemed to have lowered its volume.
"I..." Mitchell started, but he couldn't finish.
It was Cam who spoke. Cam, who always seemed to be in the wrong place with the wrong comment, but this time found the perfect words.
"Jay," he said, approaching with slow steps, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Mitchell doesn't think you're not enough. Mitchell is afraid he's not enough for you."
Jay looked at him. "What?"
"For as long as I can remember, Mitchell has told me stories about you. About how you took him to games, taught him to throw. About how even though you didn't understand why he liked ballet, you still took him every week."
"That was once..."
"It was three years, Jay," Cam said with a tenderness that disarmed. "Mitchell told me you took him on Saturdays, sat in the stands, and even though you couldn't tell a plié from a jeté, you never complained. Never said it was boring, never said you'd rather be somewhere else."
Jay opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Mitchell doesn't want you to be different," Cam continued. "Mitchell wants to be like you, and he thinks he can't."
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't tension. It was something more fragile, something that needed to be protected.
"Mitch," Jay said, and his voice was softer than I had ever heard it. He approached his son with hesitant steps. "Is it true?"
Mitchell didn't answer, but his eyes were shining, and his jaw was no longer tight. His hands trembled slightly.
"You're a great lawyer," Jay said. "A great father. A great... everything. And I... I don't always say it, but I see it. All the time."
Mitchell nodded once, quickly, as if it were the only movement he could make without breaking.
"And football," Jay smiled, a crooked smile that made him look younger. "Football is just an excuse to be together. If you don't like it, we'll watch something else. Whatever you want."
"No," Mitchell cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Football is fine. It's not... it's not that bad."
"You want me to explain the rules?"
"Not necessary. I know the rules."
"Oh, you do?" Jay raised an eyebrow, and for the first time in hours, there was a flash of his old humor. "Then why aren't Illinois winning?"
"Because the quarterback has a sixty-two percent pass accuracy, and the offensive line isn't protecting the pocket."
Jay stared at him, eyes wide. "When did you learn that?"
"Cam helped me," Mitchell admitted, blushing slightly. "He said if I was going to criticize your favorite sport, I should at least know what I was talking about."
Jay turned his head toward Cam, who stood in the kitchen doorway with an expression of barely contained pride.
"Cam," Jay said. "You know about football too?"
"I know enough," Cam replied with a wide smile. "For example, I know that if the quarterback doesn't improve his completion percentage, the coach is going to put the backup in for the second half."
"They're not putting the backup in," Jay said, and for the first time in hours, his voice had its old authoritative tone, but now it was affectionate, not dismissive. "The backup's a rookie. He doesn't know the system."
"He knows the system," Mitchell interjected, brightening. "He's the son of the Patriots' offensive coordinator. He grew up with it."
"And what does that matter? The pressure of a live game is different from practice."
"He was in the Rose Bowl last year. Came in the fourth quarter against USC and threw for two touchdowns."
Jay looked at him. Then looked at Cam, then at Mitchell again.
"You really studied this?"
"I wanted you to know I care," Mitchell said quietly. His voice trembled, but not with anger. "That I always cared."
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Jay said he wasn't enough. Mitchell said he wasn't either. Cam brought out the tissues.
Gloria watched from the kitchen with a knife. It was just for the onions. That's what she says.
Alex calculated probabilities like her family was a final exam.
Who won the argument? Jay, Mitchell, or the guy who brought the burgers? 🏈🥩🍔
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