During autumn there is no chance for peaceful hot wings amidst the screams of “I’ve waited all week for this!” and I wonder if the chickens said the same. I order a steak because cows have been abandoned by football. I compare the uniforms at the bar, their complementary colors and names for God, to my authentic James Wright jersey with the tattered right elbow and collar frayed by so much indecision. My team colors clash. And I am as bored as these passive girlfriends sipping soda and clucking like pullets. They’re not touching their wings. I ask the waitress if they’re showing the Ashberry/Collins game. She says “soda pop?” I fall in love. She probably pulls for Collins. We break up. When the Bears score I cheer because Chicago belongs to Sandburg and by clapping I finally feel the ripping at my shoulders that must signal manhood and I drink to civilization from a straw while my arms are dipped in honey barbecue.