by John Richmond

They were both sixteen years old, well into puberty, yet, were free-floating in a nether world- between hormonal fantasies and still being children- that would subtly begin to change after they found their seats for the football game, but that was still four hours away.

In the meantime, they were consumed- as well as excited- about going to the very first American Football League Playoff Game- against the Boston Patriots- despite the fact that it was December 28^th– in Buffalo- and the forecast was calling for a high of twenty degrees and a wind-chill of nine.

In addition, they knew they would be sitting on the bleachers in what was known as “the uncovered end zone,” and that the seats were probably going to be cold and covered in snow.

Fortunately, they had both received new ski jackets for Christmas, as well as woolen socks, hats, new gloves and insulated boots.

No, at their age, there wasn’t the slightest hesitancy or apprehension as they walked out of Jack’s house and made their way to the # 3, Grant, bus stop, out on Military Road.

Their wait for the bus started out benignly and boringly, but immediately escalated into an incident that could almost be seen as an omen of things to come.

Joe, who became restless, first, began climbing the snow mounds that ran along the curb between the sidewalk and the street.  At first, he was able to maintain his balance, but, then- and quickly- he lost his footing and began to fall.  And, to make matters worse, instead of falling in toward the sidewalk, he slid right down into the street.

For Jack, it was a matter of one moment seeing his best friend, laughing and horsing around, and in the next, his complete disappearance.  It was only when he heard Joe shout out, “Oh, shit!” did Jack realize not only what  had happened, but the imminent danger Joe had put himself in.

Running through the gap in the mound that had been shoveled for the would-be passengers, Jack turned up the street and saw Joe scrambling to get to his feet before the approaching bus reached him.

Climbing now- hand over hand- back up the snow mound, Joe managed to make it to the top- and safety- just as the bus managed to stop, just feet from where he would have been in the street.

Back on his feet- and on the sidewalk- Joe brushed the snow and slush off of his blue jacket.

He considered the entire matter forgotten until he mounted the stairs, dropped in his fare and glanced at the driver.

 “That was a foolish and dangerous thing to do,” the driver told him in a tone and with sufficient volume for it to be heard throughout the bus.

The boys nodded, shrugged, then quickly moved down the aisle and took a seat- opposite the driver’s side- midway down the bus.

For the most part, they sat in silence, trying to restart their excitement and enthusiasm for what was to come.

Hindering the rekindling was the fact that at every stop and every red light, the driver would look up in his rearview mirror at the two of them, but focusing mostly on Joe.

The driver starring at him- and shaking his head- reminded Joe of being in school, sitting at his desk, doing his work, then, looking up and seeing the teacher doing the very same.  The looking, the starring- the head-  all were quite familiar to Joe, and he was more than happy to exit- through the rear, side-door of the bus- once they got downtown.

It was only a matter of minutes before they caught the #8, Main Street bus to Best Street, then made the twenty minute walk up to the stadium.

As they got closer and closer, the hulking- and even menacing- edifice of the stadium took on a presence of its own.

Built in 1937, It had been renovated a number of times so that for today’s game there would be a capacity crowd of 46,500 fans.

The boys shuffled and slid their way through the growing crowd and on to the window, where they bought their tickets, then, continued on to the appropriate gate.

Once inside, they saw there was snow everywhere, and the boys wondered how exactly they were going to find their row- twenty-two- and then their seats- fifteen and sixteen.

It was Jack who decided that a couple of well-placed questions were not only in order, but could save them a lot of time searching.  Questions like- “Excuse me, what row are you in?”

He only had to ask a couple of them to figure out where the row was that they were supposed to be in.  After that, finding their seats was even easier.

Standing there, in front of what they believed was going to be their seats, they found the expected- they were covered in snow.

Joe brushed some little amount of snow away to reveal seats 15 and 16.

“Here they are,” Joe chimed to Jack as they both turned to assess what sort of view they would have of the field and ultimately the game.

Yet, before they turned to look at the field, had they looked up at the next row, they would have shared a quick glance with each other, acknowledging one of the two people huddled under a dark brown blanket.

Initially, they would have seen a young couple- probably in their late twenties- trying to stay warm and passing a metal flash back and forth between them.  But, had they looked even more closely- which they didn’t- they would have seen this “nondescript bearded guy” with his arm around this “stunning blonde.”

“What do you think?” Joe asked Jack, pointing out at the field.

“Yeah,” Jack said with a nodding approval of his head, “this is fine, but let’s hope that all of the scoring happens down at this end.”

No, the boys had two overwhelming priorities, watching the game and being on the lookout- “scouting-out,” if you will- for someone who might fit the profile of “being inclined to accept the exchange of money for an afternoon of beer from a vendor.”

The first quarter started dismally for the home team, down 10 to nothing.  By the time that the half came, they were behind, 16 to 0.

It was during the halftime break, that the boys began to feel both the temperature and the wind-chill.

They began shifting in their seats, standing, stomping and- perhaps more importantly- looking around.

Joe bent over, picked up an handful of snow and fashioned it into a snowball.

“Do you think I could reach the field?” he asked Jack.

Jack looked from the snowball to the field and back, again.

“Maybe,” he finally said.  “But if you do they’ll probably throw us out of here.  Besides, if you don’t make it, and hit somebody, they’ll probably come up here and kick the shit out of both of us.”

Joe looked from Jack to the snowball, then to the field, before dropping the snowball to his feet.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “you’re probably right.”

They sat back down, shivering, now, and watched the Bills score eight points in the third quarter to make the score 16-8.

Energized by the score, the boys found a renewed interest in a game that had become as stiffly cold and paralyzing as the weather.

It was right after the beginning of the fourth quarter, when after jumping up for a particularly exciting play that other things began to unfold.

Jack was in the process of sitting back down, when he was shocked by the fact that he sat down on someone’s hand.

Almost as if on a spring, Jack sprung up and turned to see what was happening.  There, behind his seat- lying in the snow- was the “nondescript bearded guy,” totally passed out.

Then, Jack looked up at the “stunning blonde.”  She was still beneath the blanket, still holding the flask.  They stared at each other for a long moment, before Jack looked back down at the “nondescript bearded guy,” and then back at the “stunning blonde.”

She broke an ever so slight of a smile, held the flask out to Jack, while patting the spot on the seat next to her that had- as far as Jack was concerned- just recently and fortuitously been vacated.

“You want to join me- and get warm?” the “stunning blonde” asked.

Jack exchanged a split-second moment of eye-contact with Joe- before turning back to the “stunning blonde” and saying in an ever so simple- but certain- way- “Sure.”

With that, he took the flask, stepped over the bleacher seat, side-stepped the “nondescript, bearded guy,” got under the blanket next to the “stunning blonde” and took a long sip.

He passed the flask back, and then looked down at the “nondescript, bearded guy” sleeping at his feet, and nodded to himself because he knew that, today, he was her second choice.  But, right now, that was okay, and with that understanding, he slid closer to the “stunning blonde” so that they were almost- thigh to thigh- touching, just a matter of inches.

The “stunning blonde” took a long swig, and then passed the flask back to Jack with a smile.

Jack smiled back as he gained a newfound appreciation for the football phrase- that now applied exclusively to him-“Second and inches.”

Yet, instantaneously, that thought- not to mention whatever they were drinking- propelled a change in him as his imagination began to wander and his mind began to entertain the question- what if he slid over just a couple of inches more and put his arm around her, would it- could it- lead to first and goal?

For the first time, he wondered.

John Richmond has “wandered” parts of North America for a good portion of his life.  These “wanderings” have taken him from a city on the Great Lakes to a small fishing village (population 200), before heading to Tennessee, Georgia, North Carolina and then on to a bigger city on the Great Lakes- Chicago- then, eventually, New York City.  Since then, John Richmond has made his way to a small upstate New York town and has sequestered himself in his office where he divides his time between writing and discussing the state of the world with his coonhound buddy- Roma.

Recently, he has appeared in A New Ulster (Northern Ireland), Founder’s Favorites/Halcyon Days (Canada), Journal of Expressive Writing, Danse Macabre du Jour (3), Ygdrasil (Canada) (4), Caveat Lector, Birmingham Arts Journal (3), Adelaide Magazine (New York/Lisboa) (2), The Green Silk Journal (2), Front Porch Review, The Oddville Press, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Indian Review (India),  Pudding Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Lipstick Party Magazine, Hackwriters (U.K.), Quail Bell Magazine, StepAway Magazine (U.K.), The Potomac (2), Peacock Journal, Embodied Effigies (2), Streetcake Magazine (U.K.), Former People Journal (2), The Other Story, Nazar-Look (Romania) (2), Lavender Wolves, Indiana Voice Journal, Fuck Fiction, The Corner Club Press, The Tower Journal, Stone Path Review, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Rogue Particles Magazine, From the Depths, Flash Frontier (N. Z.), riverbabble (2), The Writing Disorder, Lalitamba, Poetic Diversity, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, ken*again (2), Black & White, SNReview, Voices de Luna, The Round, Syndic Literary Journal,  Slow Train, and Forge Journal.