Such Good Daring

By Brandon Laird

Anya Major—blond hair, bronze skin—runs to me in red shorts and a white tank top. She’s got my attention. Riot police chase her, clutching black batons tightly to their armored chests; but Anya’s got a sledge—and she knows how to use it. I’m fourteen, watching football, and I am suddenly and completely in thrall to this ‘80s Athena. She hurls the hammer like the discus thrower she is. The Big Brother screen blows up. I’m in the first-wave throes of puberty; I loved Blade Runner; I prefer blondes; I’ve already suffered Orwell. I so get this commercial, it hurts. At fourteen, I’m at the lip of a yawning and loveless well, and I’m hoping that somewhere at the bottom, I’ll find a gal like Anya.

Meanwhile, the Raiders spank the Redskins like redheaded stepchildren. I live on, as every American male must after each Super Bowl, but I’m changed.