Then C.W. joined me. He appeared as a young boy of 12 dressed in a gaudy cowboy suit, complete with a bright red hat laced in white with a drawstring under this neck. He walked in silence for a good ways before speaking.
“I heard about it on television,” he said.
“Heard about what?”
“That God gave your football team the victory yesterday.”
“He did what?”
“One of the players told us.”
“Told you that?”
“Yes. He personally thanked God for giving his team the victory.”
“Oh.”
“Well it created a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“I am sort of busy right now.”
He ignored me. “First, is this a technique confined to your Judeo-Christian God?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I haven’t heard Allah being thanked for soccer victories.”
“Oh, please.”
“Second question.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Aren’t the kids still starving in Darfur?”
“Last I heard.”
“Is there the slightest possible chance that this might take precedence in the mind of a god over deciding the outcome of a football game?”
“Why are you dressed like a cowboy?”
“I dunno. Just seems to me they were better role models than football players.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
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| Hoppy says winning isn't important. Justice is. |
“What do you mean?”
“What possible interest could he have in our conversation?”
“You are irritating the hell out of me?”
“That brings me to my final question.”
I chose to ignore him and stopped to examine a group of plants. Then my curiosity began to uncurl like the blossoms of one of the young flowers. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“So what is your question?” I was hoping for an end to it all.
He looked at me with all the earnestness of which a young child is capable. He blinked, and then spoke.
“Exactly what did the other team do to piss Him off?”
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