EPISODE 11 EPISODE 11Football-shaped bowl of nuts was on the coffee table. Starter log was sputtering in the fireplace. Dog had been walked. Wings were in the oven.
Official play begins.
Francis, ensconced in his tattered college sweatshirt, cargo pants he bought himself off the sale rack at Target, and ratty old sheepskin slippers, surveyed the field, attempting to locate the best seating formation for maximum game-viewing comfort. Uncapped beer in hand, he glanced around to be sure I was not in the room, then hovered over my favorite spot on the couch.
Francis didn’t utilize his quadriceps to gradually lower his weight into a seat like most human beings; instead, the instant he felt his knees break their upright locked position, he disengaged all muscles, allowing his entire torso to plummet toward his desired location. Interestingly, Francis, all three of his brothers, and their father were infamous chair wreckers, leaving snapped legs, warped springs, and crooked recliners in their wakes.
As if seized with temporary paralysis of his lower extremities, Francis’s knees buckled, sending his girth rocketing toward our aging couch with violent impact.
GUH-GLUNK!
Unnecessary roughness.
Entering the room, I saw Hayden sitting on the floor munching from a bag of tortilla chips, and Francis in my seat. Hoping a bit of nagging would roust him, I harped, “Hey Hon, if you insist on watching the game from my favorite spot, could you at least sit down gently? Every time you sit there, I hear that spring clunk under you like it’s broken or something.”
“God help me,” he grumbled under his breath.
I settled temporarily for the other end of our couch and realized Francis’s offensive move required a smarter defense. “You know, I think you’d better poke that fire Honey, you know how unpredictable those starter logs can be.”
Francis looked at me suspiciously, but I feigned ignorance, “Have the Seahawks’ colors changed? Didn’t they have royal-blue jerseys a few years ago?”
As Francis stepped toward the fireplace, I inconspicuously employed a slide-lift-blitz maneuver to regain my territory. But just as I reached the center cushion, our dog, Moby, appeared, licking my face.
Interference.
GUH-GLUNK!
“Alright guys, c’mon, let’s get some real points on the board!” Francis yelled after swiftly retaking my rightful seat. To add insult to injury, he lobbed his ratty sheepskin-slippered foot into my lap and slurped the last of his beer.
Unsportsmanlike conduct.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes,” I muttered, after unclenching my teeth.
“Are those wings done yet?”
“Not yet,” I looked over just as Hayden tipped the bag of chips above his open mouth, triggering a mini-avalanche of corner crumbs, which cascaded into his mouth, eyes, shirt, and the freshly-vacuumed family room carpet, “But I’m fairly certain you’ll survive.”
Just then, the cells of my brain called a huddle—a new play was forming.
Time out.
While Francis and Hayden laughed like simpletons at silly beer commercials, I disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a heaping tray of hot wings. Like a dedicated wife and mother, I smilingly doled out platefuls to my unsuspecting husband and son.
And then I waited, nibbling patiently on a stalk of celery.
As expected, they dug right in, Hayden meticulously dissecting each tiny radius, ulna, and humerus, then sucking each finger from base to tip. Francis, on the other hand, plopped whole wings into his open mouth, and after manipulation with teeth and tongue, pulled the bones out from his pursed lips, stripped clean of meat, fat, skin and cartilage.
“Whew!” Francis exclaimed, wiping his brow with a sauce-stained napkin, “Spicy, huh?!”
Hayden was the first casualty, running for a soda, while Francis tenaciously sweated through another wing or two before abandoning his position in search of cold beer to soothe his burning lips.
Thanks to a few extra shakes of hot sauce, my play had worked. With the coast finally clear, I mustered what was left of my middle-aged agility.
Hail Mary.
Reentering the room, Francis saw me, firmly seated in my favorite spot on our couch. I pumped my upturned hands in the air while wiggling my knees back and forth, in a victory dance.
Score.