Hard Times

It’s Thanksgiving. I don’t have to work, I don’t have to write, I don’t have to broker a single art deal. All I have to do is play football on Ward Parkway with a bunch of teenage punks, take my wife out for espresso and quiet conversation, then later build a fire at the house and welcome in friends.

How will we begin dinner? The same as always: by everyone expressing, in turn, the things for which they are grateful. We live a middle-class life in this wealthiest of nations, have never known great want or privation, and though we’ve sure seen some difficult times, our “hard times” would have been welcomed as times of wealth by many people in the world. It’s a good day to remember these things.

Now for football. At the end of the game I always have all the punks line up at one end of the field, me at the other. They kick off, and each year I run right through them. This year? Hell, a lot of them are bigger than I now. I’m pretty sure I’m going to get flattened. Well, it’s time.

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