Sandy Brown

STADIA AFTER ALL

"Dad," I said, saying so, "Shea Stadium and Yankee Stadium make two stadia in New York." (Hell is two dogs fighting over water.) "No, nope," he said, saying so, "two stadiums in New York. Stadiums." (Hell is a conundrum involving a sump pump, with water.) "Dad?" I said, feeling so, "In the struggle to be free to strife I am bound." Whereas Dad, in his dadlike way said, "You must be leaving football out for a reason." (Hell is a funnel in which Deirdre drowns.) And not to be ousted, in so doing in doing so, said I, "Two stadia plus two stadia equals an horrendous day for gladiators in the Latinate arena." Dad said, I mean, he said, "You always got what you wanted when you were little, brat." (Hell heretofore bears no resemblance to Bratwurst, nor to any German cuisine. (Hell is a barrel filled with water floating down a logging river.)) Dad cut a V in it then lit up his cigar. "You can't always get what you want," said he, doing so. "Can't," said I, cantor queen of decanter fogdog, "as in can but not, as in not yet, as in can too, can 2." Then said I (under my breath (for hell is a parachute on a Pekinese)), "Water pearls on my upper lip like the come of a sailor's son." Dad puffed on the cylindrical cigar. I took off my T-shirt to show him where a sweater worn without a bra had rubbed my nipples raw. (Hell is two dogs in a duel over water.) I said "Two red lights atop two stadiums on two Saturdays mean rained out games." Dad said, as a dad is wont to do, "Wrong you are." (Hell is dried bourbon on the bar.) "I shall have had been going to get there this past fall," he said, "and it is stadia, after all."