poem

 The Big Game

Overheard in the line at the concession stand at halftime of the Big Game:

Man in white t shirt: We structure everything meaningful in our lives around the downtimes, the gaps in between the expected action. Here we are seeking sustenance and hydration and, frankly, human fellowship in the form of conversation only because we find ourselves in this defined interval known as halftime. We can talk about whatever we want here. Not just passing on first down or the wisdom of prevent defenses.

Man in green shirt: I've never liked that term. It’s debasing. 

White: Which? halftime?

Green: Exactly. You go to the theater and there is an “intermission”, sometimes two. It sounds cultured and urbane. There’s no reason why it can’t be the same here. We aren’t animals.  

White: So, we're in an intermission right now?

Green: Second intermission, to be precise.  Between the 1st and 2nd quarters is first intermission. Then a longer, more leisurely 2nd intermission and then finally a third intermission occurring between quarters 3 and 4. 

White: Hockey does that.

Green: They have to. The experience would be too barbaric otherwise. 

White: True. Men are allowed to strike one another. Men have been slashed. Men have bled out on the ice. 

Green: Football is brutal too, but the violence is cleaved into short pulses of duration. Not free flowing carnage like rugby or hockey or even soccer. Between each play is an opportunity to catch our breath. The players mill around, grab quick refreshments. Take their helmets off. Become human again. Look to the sidelines for guidance from the coaches. Time itself stops, occasionally, as when the action ends with the ball carrier getting forced beyond the boundaries of play. And when time stops, there ceases to be a difference between instantaneousness and infinity. While the players huddle, we have a choice. Right now is either eternity or a series of fleeting moments stacked on top of each other, eternally. Six of one, half dozen of the other.  It either lasts forever or gets wasted in a series of lost moments.

White: What if the player is tackled in bounds and the clock keeps running

Green: Well, then, we become slaves to time. Time is all there is. It can’t be stopped. It can only run out. It exerts its control over us by eliciting anxiety. Every attempt to get it to pause or elongate is met with futility. It’s a nothingness we think we can defeat by hoarding.

White: You can always call a time-out

Green. Yeah, but only a few times. And most people waste them too early in the game.

White: True. A good coach is a good clock manager.

(a roar reverberates from the inner bowels of the stadium)

Green. Indeed. It sounds like the teams have returned to the playing field.

White: Our intermission seems to be drawing to a close

Green: Not to be rude, but I could use a little break from this particular intermission

White: As I said, everything occurs in the spaces. There are even gaps between the gaps.  Between the moment I verbalize my order and the first bite of the hot dog. Between the mustard and the ketchup. Between the final horn and the sound of my garage door thudding shut. 

Green: When you think about it, most of all this is just interlude. The defined events barely even register. No wonder entire lives are forgotten.  

White: Atoms are 99.9% empty space.

Green: Everything you say, if you notice, is followed by a pause before a reply

White: Days from now all you’ll remember is how good that Vienna beef dog tasted, though.

Green: I wish you were right here in the silence before I respond. 

White:

Green:

White:

7/27/25