The Ice Bowl.

            The snow had fallen heavy during the night. The roads and cars were buried under blankets of soft, white powder. Electrical lines had fallen. Front doors were forced to remain shut, but the windows could be opened just enough to remind us that fresh air was still a possibility.

            My father and I sat on opposite sides of his living room; I sat on the white, plastic fold out chair while responding to e-mails on my phone; my father sat in his green corduroy La-Z-Boy, staring at the empty, black flatscreen television. The room was quiet. It was Sunday.

            “Goddamn that snow,” said my father, his gruff voice breaking the silence between us. “Couldn’t happen yesterday? Where’s the phone?”

            “You called five minutes ago, Dad.”

            “Oh,” he said. He ran his fingernails through the indents in his armchair. “Think they know we’re playing Dallas today?”

            “We’re not playing Dallas, Dad. We’re playing Minnesota.”

             “What do you know? Dallas made the Championship!”

            I looked up from my phone. He rocked back and forth, nodding as he stared into the television screen.

“No, Dad.” I covered my face with my hands and sighed. “It’s Minnesota.”

“Dallas,” he said, his foot tapping against the brown shag carpet. “Where’s the phone?”

I got up from my chair and walked to my father. Next to him stood a small, dark-stained end table with a lamp and a pillbox with labels for each day of the week. The pillbox was empty and the pill bottles were full. It had been over a week since he took them last.

“Lombardi’s gonna lead us to ten titles, Son. You hear me? Twenty maybe!”

            “Maybe,” I replied. I dialed 911.

            “Goddamn that snow,” he said. “Couldn’t happen yesterday? Where’s the phone?”