You can do it for maybe 10 minutes before your forearms turn to jelly. Think of squeezing a mushy football - that's the kind of pressure you have to create to fill engorged lungs.

I know my football. And I adore football players. The crashing noise of a tackle, the huddle grunting, and the roar of the crowd are music to my ears.

I think bragging rights would be enough for us.

This is a lot more fun than my regular work. There's no waiting on all the usual permitting.

The upcoming primaries will be a test of their old family football cheer: "Clap your hands! Stamp your feet! 'Cause Daddy's team can't be beat."

Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there’s one thing you don’t want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it’s beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in.

Burst of static in his right ear: “G-man, you read me? What’s yo’ twenty, dawg?”

Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. “Concession stand, Section B. Over.”

Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along.

The same voice: “Yo, I’m in position. Ready when you is.”

Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.