Dad knocks on my door. He’s wearing his Colts jersey. They’re playing the Pats tonight, under the lights of Lucas Oil Stadium. We’ve been looking forward to this matchup all season.
“Game’s on. It would mean a lot to me if you came down and watched with me,” Dad says. His reasonable tone is infuriating. “Mom made nachos, Kermit style.”
“Kermit style” simply means a gigantic half-sheet pan full of delicious goddamn nachos. I throw off my comforter.
“Fine. But I’m in it for the nachos.”
“Duh. Me too,” Dad says, rubbing my head as I pass.
In the den, we sit side by side on the loveseat with the sheet pan across our laps. The seat has recliner features, so we pop up the legs and stretch out.
Mom comes in with our Sprites in two big Colts tumblers. She laughs at the sight of us, under the pink blanket, with the napkins tucked into our chins.
“This is not our manliest look,” I say when she leaves.
“We are not the manliest of men,” Dad says. “Thank goodness.”
Sometimes I do that. Float a test balloon, to see how he responds. His track record is pretty good. Dad believes in a softer side of masculinity, a kind where it’s okay for a dad and son to snuggle on a loveseat, a kind that means where we are now is about the closest either of us will ever get to an end zone.
We cheers with our Sprites. I don’t know where the line is, why it’s okay to wear pink and cry tears but not okay to have these other feelings. Why he’s comfortable sitting here like this and at the same time I’ve heard him use words like unnatural, effeminate, and queer in ways that don’t feel complimentary.
“Are you ready for some football?” sings a pretty woman in cheerleading garb.
“We are,” Dad and I say in unison.