So cheerfully black and white, he loves reffing.
And whew. No blood or grass stains, no accidental tackles today.
‘Ready to go?’ I holler.
He holds up a fist. It opens, closes like a clamshell.
What? Is he waving bye? Throwing a football signal?
My hands form a blowhorn. ‘Honey, meet me at the car.’
The fist opens.
Slowly, as if that’d help, I mouth: ‘Wanna go ssstraight hooome?’
The first closes.
‘Or stop sssomewhere tooo eat?’
Suddenly, dimples. That smile.
Touchdown. The End Zone Steakhouse — his favourite — it is.