Short short story: Lion Man
A different, slightly darker take on the ultimate game (beyond football).
One Sunday, I hiked to a tavern two blocks away and ascended a barstool to watch the second half of the Packers/Bears game. A guy I’d gauge in his 40s sat hunched a couple seats over.
After a series of downs, I leaned toward him and asked if he had a dog in the fight. He replied no, his favorite team was the Detroit Lions and they were a long way from the Super Bowl. We fell into talking about where we were from. Michigan, he said. When I mentioned mostly Montana, he said he’d never been there but heard it was a beautiful state. He didn’t know if he’d ever make it.
He asked if I was married. I said yes, thirty some years. He looked sideways as I asked him the same question. He shook his head and went on to explain he’d been divorced for many years but had three kids he kept in touch with.
We both glued our eyes on the game, not wanting to get too close. He fidgeted on his stool and I could tell he had more to say. After a long swig of what appeared to be Pabst, he wiped his mouth with the back of his pale hand, turned a bit my way and poured forth.
“I’ve done some dating, but haven’t met anyone who desired more than that. It’s been tough.” He had a pained expression, searching for the words to continue. He sighed and divulged that he had a problem. My ears pricked up and I slid my eyes from the TV and looked at him.
“About eight years ago I was diagnosed with cancer,” the guy said. “I now have a dozen tumors on my liver. Doctors at the time told me I had five to ten years at most.”
The pause that followed was pregnant and I took a swallow of my IPA. “Well, I’m no doctor, but that sucks,” I finally said, unable to utter a more caring response.
He went on to say he wasn’t sure when he should spill the beans to the women he dates about his problem. He knew he should tell them immediately and he tried to, but it always threw cold water on the evening.
For the women who didn’t immediately bolt and would consider a second date, he had another problem. I wondered what could be worse than having twelve tumors (too many on the field) attacking your liver.
He said, “Because of my cancer, I have …” The last few words after “I have” I didn’t hear because the Packers scored and the crowd erupted.
“What?” I asked, cupping my ear. “I didn’t hear ya – because of your cancer you have what?”
“Irritable bowel syndrome!” he shouted. “The shits!”
My eyes darted to the TV, unblinking, trying to refrain from showing any expression. Conversations around us quieted.
I was relieved that he reduced his volume as he went on to say, “I have to hit the can about twenty times a day. It’s not exactly a turn-on for women. Can’t say I blame them. But still, I think I’ll find someone.”
I nodded, as if I knew what he was talking about – been there, friend. Of course, I haven’t been anywhere near there. I focused on the TV, trying to preserve some dignity between us. It wasn’t easy. I had to marvel at the guy’s positive spirit. He was absolutely convinced there was someone out there who would be a good match. I tried to imagine it.
A minute passed and the guy said, “I don’t want to die alone. And I’d like to fall in love one last time.”
I wanted to say I’m sure he will find someone, fall in love, but I didn’t. I figured he didn’t need to be led on. It was too sad to drink and think about. So I finished my beer and told the Lion man I had somewhere to be and said good luck and left. Went home and watched the rest of the Packer/Bear game with my wife, sitting comfortably on the couch, cheering for the Lions.