The Concrete Doughnut

I notice that my father waits until the game is just about to begin before he comes into the family room. It is only preseason, so we do not engage in any of the regular-season game-day rituals, but Dad has put on his number 5 McNabb jersey and now sits on the edge of the couch, ready to jump out of his seat. He nods at my brother solemnly but completely ignores me, even after I heard my mother say, "Please, just try to talk to Pat" when they were arguing in the kitchen. Mom puts the food on folding tables, takes a seat next to Jake, and we all start to eat.

The food is excellent, but I am the only one to say so. Mom seems happy to get the compliment, saying, "Are you sure it's all right" like she does, because she is modest when it comes to cooking, even though she is a great cook.

"What do you think the Birds will do this year, Dad" Jake asks.

"Eight and eight," my dad answers pessimistically, like he always does at the beginning of every NFL season.

"Eleven and five," my brother says, to which my father shakes his head