It still burns when I go to sleep. There’s a jagged shard of glass in my brain, right around the memories of laying down only to be awaken by my excited dad because the Packers were doing something awesome.
Like kicking a field goal.
My father commited suicide September 8, 2010, the night before opening weekend of the 2010 NFL season. He was always a dissentor, born with a brother in the hot sun of Garden Grove, California, my father gave his allegiance to the Green Bay Packers.
He was a buddahist who adored brutes like Curly Lambau and Reggie White.
And now he is dead.
I live in Pittsburgh, and because of my father, worship these gods of the gridiron. Through his eyes the distance between us was never more than 100 yards.
Tomorrow is the Super Bowl, Packers versus the Steelers. The team of my heart versus the team of my soul.
I miss my dad.