The thing about tomorrow is that it's not today

We were standing in a muddy side yard complaining about our team's lack of defense. "You've got to blitz more!" Jerry said, but Jerry said that same shit every week. No matter how many times we told Jerry that blitzing was a risk reward type thing, like going up and chatting with a pretty girl in a bar, maybe you get a number, or maybe you get your pride beat to hell. The point is, you've got to know when to do it. None of us ever played football, which means we're eminently qualified to talk about it. Nobody likes taking advice from others though. Life is always easier to live when it's someone else's.

None of us had amounted to much, except as great defensive coordinators come Monday, and I'm not sure that's a thing worth bragging about. A couple of us, Steve and Jim, had actually had brains, but, as they'd explained to us, sometimes it's hard to get a brain to work hard. "They're like poor people," Jim said, always wanting a hand out.

The sun is up and burning without purpose, like some cigarette butt languishing in a tray, a few vague clouds are ash in its wake. I'm trying to focus on not sweating. I'm supposed to see a girl tonight, and I've already showered twice today, and that seems like once too many as it is. We all know deep down that we should stop seeing women, that it would be better to take up something nobler like bowling. None of us can bowl for shit though, so I suppose we're stuck looking for women we used to know.

Jerry is done talking about the ills of the front four, but not without having gotten his heart rate up significantly. The bastard is sweating like we're in a mid-August wedding. I let them all know that I'm heading out, and they nod knowingly, and make a few lewd jokes about the woman I'm seeing.

I'm back by nine, the whole night a strange kind of failure. I'd wanted her to be like this girl I knew back in junior high, sweet as hell and innocent and funny. Maybe that isn't true, about the girl from way back. Maybe I just wanted the girl tonight to be better than she was. She was a goddamn chit chat, and after I'd listened to her prattle on about her day at work for upwards of an hour I'd lost most of my will to live. I think, minutes later, she might have asked me something about my day, but I suppose that's what I get for meeting someone face to face. We are all so much better in that other world, where we can collect our thoughts, create images of ourselves that remind us that we were once like gods, a step above mortals. I'd tell her she doesn't look much like her photo, but what intelligent person ever does?

Steve has gone off to fight with his girlfriend, but Jim and Jerry are sitting in the side yard trading beers and stories. The night air is thin, our limbs slip through it like silk. The stories are as familiar as our own old shirts, time worn. The football season has only four more weeks left, and we are already dreading the long interim that will follow. We wonder what we will do on the weekends, or talk about on Mondays? We wonder what things we've let go of these past few months to spend our time indoors? We dread almost everything though.