Game Day

It’s game day, and Mike is watching his laundry machine. He watches the suds bubbling up, listens to the metal innards tumbling around, and catches glimpses of the dark red football jersey as it’s tossed about. His lucky jersey is being washed. It’s like he can see all the luck floating around in the dirty water, and once the machine is done, it will all drain away into the sewers of the city. He feels a tug on his shoulder and is pulled away from the machine.

“We need to go,” Amy says.

“But the jersey,” Mike claws out for it in vain.

“It’s already in there, you can wear it next week.”

His wife, Amy, decided to wash the jersey because it smelled like twenty years of dried hot wings and stale beer, because she always thought his superstitions and rituals about Game Day were silly. Of course, she said it was a mistake, but both of them knew that wasn’t true. Mike wanted to get angry, but he wasn’t an angry person. Let it go, shoved it down somewhere, where he put important things he didn’t want to look at anymore.

“Move it, we're gonna be late,” Amy says.

Mike is pulled out the door, into the gray sedan he bought because it was fuel efficient, out of the cul-de-sac, around the block, into another cul-de-sac, and right up to the door of a house that looked very similar to his own. The house belongs to Bryan, who has been hosting game days since he and Mike were in college together, and continued to host well into their middle age.

“No jersey?” Bryan says, a look of confusion on his face when he opens the door to Amy - smiling pleasantly - and Mike - staring absently. His confusion climbed when he realized Bryan was wearing a plain white t-shirt, no jersey.

“It's in the wash,” Mike said.

“Wash? The lucky jersey?” Bryan asked.

“Honest mistake,” Amy said.

Bryan's hand drifting up to rest on his cheek, managed to get out a simple “come in” between filler words like “uhm” and “uh”, before quickly excusing himself to make a phone call. Mike and Amy split apart, her to the kitchen where she could dig into the food and ample wine, and him to the corner of the couch, where he always sat. He slid into it like a lover's embrace, tried not to think about his lucky jersey soaking in soapy water back home.

He noticed someone else in the room - one of Bryan’s neighbours, who Mike never quite got along with - staring. The neighbour watched him with dead eyes, and his phone was out, pointed at Mike.

Is he recording me?

“Are you recording me?” asked Bryan, trying to be polite.

“Me? No, not at all,” replied the neighbor, slipping his phone into his pocket and turning away, ending the conversation.

Mike tilted his head, his mouth drooping, swallowing the saliva in his mouth.

Is everyone looking at me?

He noticed that quite a few people, actually, were looking at him.

The TV grabbed his attention before he could think about it much. Talking heads, four men in black suits with red and blue ties, chuckle as they discuss strategy for the upcoming game. The camera switches to an overhead shot of the field, feet dig at the grass, and whistles blow.

The game starts.

If we lose, they’ll crucify me.

Hours pass like minutes, and it's over. It’s over and Mike’s team lost. He clutches the bottom of his t-shirt, wishing it had been his jersey.

The TV switches back to the talking heads, one of them asks, “What went wrong today?”

A picture rolls on screen behind the commentators, and they turn to look at it. It’s Mike, in his T-shirt, clutching it like a teddy bear for comfort. “Mike here did not wear his jersey, disappointing both the team and fans around the country. You had one job, Mike.”

Silence in the room.

TV switches again, this time an interviewer holding a microphone close up to one of the players. A banner scrolls across the screen at the bottom, “disgusting man causes team to lose.” The player being interviewed looks like he’s been crying, says, “I heard that Mike didn’t wear his jersey today, and I just couldn’t muster up the strength to play. Damn you, Mike! I hope you pay for this!”

Mike's picture, again, on screen. This time, it’s been altered to show him kicking a stuffed version of the team's mascot, punting it across the room with an evil grin on his face.

“That’s not me, I didn’t do that!” Mike stands, pointing at the scream and looking about with desperation. But the looks he receives are accusatory, silent knives that tear into his gut. They approach slowly, heads tilted down.

“How could you?” one says, their fingers pointed at him, hissing the word through curled lips.

“Are you even a fan?” the neighbour who was recording him says.

` Bryan runs, grabs Amy by the wrists, and sprints out of the house. They spill out the door, slamming it behind them.

“Go!” Amy says, trying to keep the door closed, the people inside beat against it, throw themselves at it. Each time they slam into it, Amy’s body rocks against the weight. She can’t hold them for long. Tears well in Mike’s eyes; he doesn’t want to leave her. She says it one more time, calmer now, “Go,” and she adds, “I’m sorry.”

Mike runs towards the car. But now people spill out of the other houses, sprint after him. A young boy jumps through the windows of one house wearing a bicycle helmet and wielding a broomstick like a club. The glass shatters around him, and he sprints through it barefoot, leaving bloody footprints on the concrete. Mike, stunned, watches the boy hurl the broomstick at him, watches it collide with his chest as he runs for the car..

He tries the car door, but can’t open it because it’s locked. Mike fumbles for his keys and is blindsided by the twelve-year-old boy who grabs at his legs and gnaws at his ankles, trips him, and so Mike slams into the driver's side window as he crashes into the ground.

As his vision fades, he sees the swarm of them, all wearing polo shirts and clean khakis, grasping for him, screaming at him, spittle flying like rapid animals.

Flashes of lucidity, knees scraping on concrete. Sharp pains in his palms. Stiff legs and a beating sun.

He sees, thinks clearly again, finally, awoken by the sound of the ocean. Crashing waves against a shore. Cheerleaders dance beside him, pom-poms glistening in the afternoon sun, skipping in circles around him as they chant. He’s in the center of their routine, and it isn’t the ocean. It’s the crowd, the fans, cheering his name from the stands of the football stadium.

His palms hurt, nails driven through them, straight through, pinning him to the cross he stands on.

He has no clothes on, naked save his jersey, still damp from the wash. No, no, not water, blood, deep red like the cloth.

Mike moans.

The crowd roars.

The pom-poms twirl.