He died doing what he loved, watching football
in ultra high-def and shouting out corrections
of the color guy’s grammar; duly pouring
an Octoberfest at the start of each quarter
to either embolden the young secondary or help
re-establish the running game, while many in town
were out dragging in wooden skiffs, getting their
limit of bay scallops on special family permits.
The fall here stands you up, buckling leaves the
deep red of Falcons’ sleeves Away, peach tips
of yellowing swamp maples aglow like early ‘80s
Buccaneer jerseys spinning down in SLO-MO.
Dinner for those who culled and shucked will be
pearly gobbets simmered in butter, but game fare
here was cheesesteaks, loaded—no, it’s O.K.,
the no-huddle Iggles in the other conference.
What ground is gained, boats cranked up onto
trailers as the clock winds down and officials mark
forward progress. Why move the chains—let
the unbalanced lines crash into each other.
He should be remembered for his love of the end
around and cadences that insisted, always
seemingly split out to the left, bending forward, set
on the hard count, looking at third and manageable.