The Great Christmas Bowl by Susan May Warren Page B

half-and-half.
    I was searching the pantry for nutmeg when the phone rang. I scooped it up and set it against my ear. “Hello?”
    â€œMom—I’m so glad I caught you.”
    â€œNeil! How are you?”
    â€œGreat. . . . Listen, Mom, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, especially so close to Christmas, but Anya and I aren’t going to be able to make it. She wants to go home for the holidays, and since we spent last Christmas with you and Dad, I guess it’s her turn.”
    I closed my mouth, fearing what it might say. Not return home for Christmas? But they hadn’t been here for Thanksgiving either. I had half a mind to remind him of the hostage ornaments. Thankfully, my parenting and public relations instincts instinctively took over. “Oh,” I said. “Okay. I guess I can understand that.”
    But I couldn’t. Her family didn’t even have traditions—I knew, because last year she’d oohed and aahed over our tree, our soup, our Christmas Eve readings. Her family threw frozen pizzas on the table for Christmas Eve, had ham sandwiches for Christmas Day dinner. They didn’t even hang stockings!
    â€œWe’ll miss you,” I managed, hating how my voice broke, just a little. “I gotta run—”
    â€œMom—”
    â€œReally, Neil, that’s fine. Have a wonderful holiday. We’ll call on Christmas Day.”
    I hung up fast, fearing he was onto me. I never wanted to be the kind of mother whose children had to cater to her.
    Much.
    I found the nutmeg, shook it, and decided to add it to my list of ammunition to destroy the Christmas Tea. Then I went down to the laundry room to take out the fresh batch of linens I’d washed.
    On the way, I yanked out the Christmas tree lights from the socket. No use wasting electricity on just me.

    Championship game day arrived partly cloudy, with the sun jockeying for real estate between the clouds. I commiserated, freshly acquainted with how it might feel to be edged out, as I loaded the Trout and my cheering paraphernalia into the SUV in the wee hours of the morning. Kevin and his team had headed down to Minneapolis the night before, staying overnight in a hotel.
    â€œAll set?” Mike asked, as he came out of the house. He’d squeezed himself into his letter jacket and wore a Big Lake Trout cap.
    I smiled.
    He handed me a thermos of coffee. “I’ll drive.”
    The last time I’d been to the dome was the year the Minnesota Twins had grabbed their last World Series title. Mike had scored us a couple tickets for game six. I remembered the immensity of the arena, how small I felt, so insignificant, how the field looked a thousand miles away. Yet the excitement in the stands soon energized me, and I experienced the exhilaration of being a part of something larger than myself, especially in victory.
    Similar to how I felt on a Sunday morning when worship was overwhelming or the revelation of God’s goodness in my life found my heart anew.
    Perhaps that was what celebrating Christmas was supposed to feel like too.
    We landed a parking space across from the dome, and I used the passes Coach Grant had given me to walk through the tunnels and onto the field.
    The trapped air of the stadium lent an unfamiliar reverence to the game before us. It seemed our entire town had made the trek south, yet our population took up only one small section on the fifty-yard line. I dropped my gear and my costume—I would suit up in the hallway—and scanned the opposite side of the field, easily a couple miles away. I spotted the Forest City Falcons fans dressed in black and red, clustered in their group, nearly the same pitiful size as ours.
    But hey, we were playing in the dome. I could be standing right where such greats as Fran Tarkenton, Carl Eller, and Chuck Foreman once stood.
    Except, probably not, since the dome had been built after the reign of the Purple