Getting to the bottom of this beer I thought of Kris Kristofferson and his having one for dessert. There’s something wonderful about the smell of a cigarette carried by a cool spring breeze. Waiting for a late-game goal.

He drank his whiskey every night from a giant bottle, he said, a hundred-dollar bottle of Glenlivet. Because it’s smooth, he said. Sounding almost apologetic, as though the bottle should be bigger and the Scotch more expensive. He talked about his pot, his edibles. Doesn’t do any on weekday mornings, he’s head of data analytics. But that first joint at home, at night. So beautiful. He’s been here for Chelsea games, it’s better when they lose. Not so good when they win. Easier, easier when they lose. He smoked a joint in the back one time and Vinnie got mad. He’s a family man. Not having that. Got into a huge fight with Vinny and the bartender. Kicked out, stayed away three months.

In the bathroom of the bar the pictures on the wall, small in nice frames like it’s someone’s parents’ house. The haphazard variety. But all dated, black and white. An ancient view of Yankee Stadium from a balcony in the Bronx, the occupants waving and cheering some historic event. Fred Astaire grinning in his top hat. A view of a classroom of insolent grade-school boys. And that picture of people in a theater wearing 3-D glasses, uniform and impassive.

Crystal Palace 1, Liverpool 0.

Adam pointed out the backyard used to be gravel, and I remembered it was, but still I said, oh yeah, huh. Used to be gravel, before Vinny put down the boards. We used to throw pebbles into the cigarette spittoons for luck, or fun. Or competition. I didn’t. He said we did. Whoever we was, it wasn’t me. And here we are stretching the morning into a day, pretty day, after two all against Man U.

The radio said there’d be violent storms, a tornado even. Watch out for flying branches. But instead it was beautiful, just a little cloudy. It got weirdly bright and silvery midafternoon and then big, fat drops of rain fell straight down like they were dripping from a sieve.

When you’re watching your team it doesn’t matter how good they are, they seem plagued to you, forever vulnerable, unlucky. Because you see yourself in them maybe. I was so sure they’d lose the penalty shootout I braced myself. Clenched my stomach against the inevitable sorrow. Then they had a chance to win, and missed. Now for sure it’s all over. How can it not be over? But they won.

In the supermarket after the game. There’s no such thing as pretzel rods anymore. Ever since the pandemic. You can buy a bag of black truffle sea salt potato chips but no pretzel rods. I dropped a couple things trying to carry them away from the checkout counter and the guy ahead of me apologized profusely like it was him who knocked them out of my arms. Then the cashier offered me a bag and didn’t make me pay.

It was a quiet time at the bar. Just a few of us out back, a few inside. A man with long white hair and a goatee sat at the table in the corner of the yard, smoking a cigar that never seemed to get small. Not paying attention to the game. But there just the same.

The outside TV was way ahead of the inside TV. Twenty, maybe thirty seconds. Just crazy. There’d be a chance, we out there would cheer and groan, and like clockwork our exclamations were echoed half a minute into the future.

Perhaps for this reason people gravitated out. Some heavy hitters, shouters. They drew others out by their gravity. There was nowhere much to sit. I had my place at the picnic table, Andy opposite. Others were sitting all around us now, some crouching on the gravel. The mood was antic. Adam and Paul talking about the Irish in Liverpool like there’s no fucking game on, come on.

Then the equalizer. A deflection into the corner of the net. Howls of glee like the game was won, not tied. The scoreline didn’t change but neither did this undue jubilation. Buckets of icy cold Carlsberg appeared, like something someone ordered for a shitty party and left behind. I drank one, or almost one. Saleem from Lebanon sat down beside me and told me what it meant to him to be a fan. He couldn’t say exactly why it was important, he just knew that it was. He spoke around it, elliptically. I will remember this moment right now for the rest of my life, he declared. It’s a way of marking life. Punctuating. Of better remembering what’s not the game. There was a bombing near where he grew up on the day of the Champions League final and as soon as it was established that his mother was alive the TV went on. He keeps a football journal now, he said.

The owner of the bar came out back to turn up the TV volume after I’d already turned it up partway. I was sitting back on the table bench. He said something to me, gesturing.

“What?” I said.

He said it again, a little different.

“What?”

He said it again. I made out a couple words. “Up.” “Top.”

“What?” I said again like a total jackass moron.

“Didja turn it all the way up to the top?”

No I had not. So he did, and the volume was now loud and clear, reaching out across the graveled back patio and reverberating gently off the tin walls. There were some ads before the game began.

I thanked him and he made a joke and I thanked him again and he went inside.