Life is a football game. Someone passes you the shuttlecock. You remember there’s a badger infestation at both end zones, so you slowly run toward the sidelines, dodging your opponents. The coach blows the whistle; you sit down to drink and regroup. Someone you recognize walks past you. You remain quiet, until he’s out of earshot, to say hello. Everybody waits for the shuttlecock to grow another tooth, as it does every inning. This time, it’s an incisor. The coach blows the whistle again. You run onto the field, waving to your fans, who—standing in the bleachers—stare silently and wait. Their unreasonable expectations buoy you, imbue you with warmth. You high five your parents, the other players can’t see you, and it is always nighttime.