The man in front, Dad. He's tall isn't he.
There's the roar of a goal.
Dad. What's a rictus?
Never you mind, son.
Sounds bad, thinks the son.
The match continues.
Ten minutes pass. The son is curious again.
Do you have a bleak introspection?
A bleak introspection. Mum said you have a bleak introspection.
Did she, now?
He can't see the match, so the son looks up at the sky.
Clouds float by and he wonders when Dad's bleak introspection will pass down to him.