It seems staring at screen caps from an epy is a good way to get bitten by plot bunnies.
The football is warm from Jim's hands. I feel like I should be able to see the imprints of his hands on the leather, he's been cradling it so long, his fingers twisting and turning and twirling the ball compulsively, over and over, as he revisited his long-buried childhood.
It occurs to me that I haven't been to a Superbowl. Three World Series, five NBA playoffs. Countless "Uncles," most of whom I never heard from again. For several Christmas in a row I secretly asked Santa to bring me a dad.
Jim had a dad, and I'm holding a football.
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