Sometimes you just want to sit on those cold bleachers and actually *watch* the damn game. Not just pretend to. Your kid is running, they’re laughing, and for one glorious minute, you can almost forget the dread that’s been hummin’ in your skull all week—the low-level static of knowing your old man, or your mother, is home. Alone. Waiting for you to get back, because you’re IT. You’re everything. And you feel like a total piece of shit for enjoying that fleeting moment of normal, for actually taking pleasure in something that doesn’t involve making sure someone else isn’t lonely or falling or needing a damn pill. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? Christ, it’s exhausting.