You're happy. Your job isn't bad - leaves your nights and weekends free so you and your family are close. Closer than most. One day you're up fixing the roof of the garage. Notice a soft spot when you're clearing the gutters, tired of having rain leak through to drip down, puddle your car. It's three. John Wayne. You remember there's a John Wayne movie on today. You read in the listings. It was one you watched with your dad once. Even though you don't like Westerns, this one would be your favorite if you did so - it's time for a break.
You take a beer from the fridge on the way to the couch. The remote is in your hand, you're turning over the channel. Before you see the horses and Stetsons, your son tumbles into the room, him and his mates back from a practice or a session in the park. Their pre-adolescent chirping bombards the living room, the quiet ranch life on the tele overdubbed with talk of Owen's last goal - wicked man wicked. "Could you take it outside?" It comes out harsher then you mean. You catch him roll his eyes from the edge of your vision but you don't say anything because he listened to you this time. For a moment you think maybe you should've asked him to stay and watch, send his friends home but you don't. He wouldn't like it anyway.
The football bangs against the back wall. You hear its constant thud; decide to leave it because you don't want to look like a bad dad. You'll leave that to your wife. She doesn't mind. You don't know how long you sit there watching mid-west fantasy before a crashing sound focuses you outside. You go to the window, see the boys, your son's friends but not your son. They stand still as if in a painting interrupted. Doing something wrong. "He fell in - we were just playing footie. It went on the roof. He fell in."
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