by Brock Rhodes
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The radio is tuned to a common ground, AM sports talk. Matthew attempts for a friendly conversation, “What’s up with the Broncos? Damn.”
The old man finds an odd morsel of comfort with the familiar topic. “I know. I thought they were solid enough to go to the show again, but when you give up that one guy. Nails, hard-hitter, on defense… You know?”
“Christianson?”
“Yeah. Once you get rid of a solid veteran like him you just don’t want to win. I don’t understand why they can’t see that.”
“He’s dead, Dad.”
Matthew clears his throat to change the subject to silence, and they absorb the staticy babble. A preachy sportscaster warm-fuzzies the listeners with a “Happy Father’s Day” announcement on a bump to commercial. Embarrassed, Matthew hopes that it’s not too late, “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”
The old man gags on the nauseating gesture, and struggles to keep himself from taking a very late-term abortion into his own hands. “Yeah, Happy Father’s Day. Thanks for remembering. You really mean it, huh?”
“Oh, come on Dad, don’t be like that. I’m taking you to dinner.”
The old man mocks like he just won the lottery, “That’s too much. I don’t deserve that, Matthew. You’re too generous.”
