He danced. He hopped a short distance off the ground, shifted his hips, and moved his balled-up hands up and down in front of his large, taught belly. His lips were set in a thin, tight line, but his eyes were crinkled in laughter. He stopped, and a shaggy unkempt mass of hair fell about his moon face. He looked at me and laughed. He took up his beer, Dos Equis, and had a swallow. He floated down to the sofa which rippled in waves from the aftershock of impact a moment longer. The TV was on, and it drew his attention. Pregame had begun. The SuperBowl was coming.


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