Other Side

18 | Teacher Talia

She let the story settle in her head for a few moments, understanding the magnitude of his attachment to this pastime; it was practically in his genes.

"Have you ever tried writing something before? A book or some poems, maybe?"

"Poems, yes. I've written a few here and there for my classes. Other times I just enjoy writing down my thoughts and calling them poetry. Never ventured into novel territory, to be honest."

"But don't the two usually revolve around one thing anyway?" He cocked his head to the side in confusion, forcing her muster up the courage and let the word slip out. "Love. Not like you have to experience it to write about it, though." She added the last sentence as a coverup, squaring her shoulders a bit to reclaim her composure.

"No, you don't," he murmured, voice just a whisper as he finished, "but maybe we all hope one day we will be."

***

"Okay, get this. This is the simple part."
Talia faced away from the wide flatscreen to recapture Zaid's attention, finding him nose deep in a news article written in Arabic, displaying no interest in the classic American pastime before them.

He placed his phone face down and snapped his head up, forcing an enthusiastic smile.

"The field is exactly one-hundred yards, and each end—fittingly called an end zone—belongs to one team. The aim of the game is for each team to bring the ball into the opposing team's end zone and score a touchdown. Now, how do we get to a touchdown?"

"I don't know, Talia, how do we get to one?" he asked wryly, eyes twinkling.

She narrowed hers. "This is the downs stuff I was talking about earlier. Each team has three tries to move the ball forward ten yards—well, technically, four, but fourth down is a little complicated, since the team risks losing the ball at an unappealing location on the field." She was losing him in the jargon, so she cleared her throat and lowered the volume of the TV, still playing pre-game commentary. "Anyway, to put it simply, the team wants to get the ball across the yellow line in three tries or less. Then the cycle repeats. Oh, and by the way, that line is computer-generated, so don't focus on it too much in case you ever go to an actual game."

He blinked. "No, I thought a moving fluorescent line followed the players all across the pitch."

"Field, Zaid," she said. "This is my football, remember?"

"Well, it's pitch in mine," he grumbled, "but I concede."

She tightened her arms over her chunky brown sweater, shooting him a look. "Come on, I'm just trying to make this seem less foreign to you. Most people hate watching this game because they don't understand it, not that it's boring."

"Or because they raised a traitor who then had a daughter who is now expecting me, a Patriots fan of nearly forty years, to sit through a 49ers playoff game." Her grandfather appeared in the living room doorway, holding a bottle of Coke in one hand and a giant bowl of salt and vinegar chips in the other. He dropped to the armchair to the left of her and Zaid and heaved a long sigh. "You have no idea how many Sundays we'd spend huddled over our little TV, practically begging the universe for a win. Hell, I couldn't tell you how much money I wasted taking him to real games, all for what? Your dad to go to college in California and come back after one semester with a new obsession—that he passed on to the next generation."

"But didn't the Patriots kinda suck back in the day? They only got good with Tom Brady, and Baba was, like, pushing thirty when he got drafted."

"It's not the number of points the team scores, Talia, it's the loyalty." Fouad shoved in a mouthful of chips and grumbled, "I'm only sitting here because I love you."