The first sin happened when I was eight. Back when I could catch any ball thrown my way, in the days when I thought I was the next Don Hutson. Dad was the first stumbling block in this regard, listing off the concussions and Parkinson’s that famous footballers often got.

So instead of Junior Varsity, I was stuck in the Flag Football League. In the pecking order of sports, it was just above the Special Olympics and Women’s Volleyball. They didn’t even use a real football field; they just borrowed the community baseball field and painted yard lines in the outfield. My team was the Shadows, and the opposing team was the Sharks. 

But the Sharks had Tim. 

Brown hair, brown eyes, a couple of freckles here and there. Nothing was outwardly special about him, except that he could run and catch a hundred times better than I could. 

And that was all the Sharks needed to prevail at each meetup.  

“Touchdown!” became their recurring cry. 

“Better luck next time” became ours. 
	
I grumbled at the end of each game, usually about Tim. 
	
[i]Unsportsmanlike conduct[/i], the holy part of my mind said. 
	
[i]Who gives a damn[/i], the other parts replied.  

[hr]

The second sin happened when I was fourteen. My Boy Scout Troop had returned from a camping trip, and we fooled around with the sports equipment as we waited for our parents to arrive. 

At some point, I got ahold of the football and climbed the Hill. It wasn’t a large hill, maybe seven feet above the ground. But from the top, everybody seemed as small as I wished they were. 

“Alright, gather up!” the Scoutmaster called out. 
	
But I didn’t want to gather up. I was on the Hill; you didn’t just get off the Hill. 
	
That’s when I saw Fred. 

Fred, who’d threatened me with his pocket knife and called me a stupid son of a bitch only twelve hours ago. 

My eyes narrowed, and I let the football loose. It hit Fred right on the back of the head, where the skull and neck meet. 
	
I ran down the hill to him, spilling out my sorrys and my very sorrys. And for a while, under the eyes of the scowling Scoutmaster, I meant it. 

But I saw the hurt in Fred’s eyes, that thin stream of tears a boy keeps in when he tries to be a man. 

And I grew happy that I caused him pain. 

[hr]

The final sin happened last night. We went to Mitch’s Tavern, the local sports pub. Adorned with TVs and sports memorabilia on every wall, it was the perfect place to distract oneself from life’s troubles. 

It didn’t quite work in my case though, as my Troubles were sitting beside and across from me. They stared at the televisions, mumbling about So-and-So getting a first down or Whosit dropping the ball. 
	
I wanted to tell the Troubles things. Like how they needed to get off my back about finding a job. There weren’t any to go around. Besides, [i]they[/i] had jobs, and they didn’t look any happier than I was.
	
“Um, can I get out?” the Trouble known as Caleb asked me. “I gotta poop.” I slid out of the booth, and he did the same before zooming off to the restroom. 
	
“We’re in the final minutes of the fourth quarter,” the announcer said. “UCF leads Memphis, forty to seven.” 

I took one last swig of my Pabst, then set the glass back on the table. 
	
“Excuse me,” I said to my Troubles. “I’ll be back.” 
	
I followed the path my brother took, and eventually found myself at the bathroom. I wandered inside and towards the urinals.
	
[i]Ziiiip![/i]
	
I let a thin stream into the piss-station. 

Piss. 

This is piss, and piss is this.

Piss in the wind or piss in the toilet.

My mother is piss and my father is piss and Caleb is piss and I am piss and football is piss. 
	
I zipped my pants back up. I wandered over to the sinks and let the warm water flow through my fingers.  
	
[i]Rinse good[/i], I told myself. [i]You must be clean.[/i] 
	
I’d never be clean, though. I was piss, like everything and everybody else. I could not be cleaned, only directed into the nearest toilet for flushing. 
	
I dried my hands, then rushed out of the room. The stench of Caleb’s shit was beginning to creep my way.