My dad died while watching Monday Night Football

Code blue. Crash cart. And football. On the TV in his hospital room, a football game played before the code and the cart arrived. It played after doctors and nurses injected, pumped and electrified his body. It played when I stood over him in grief in 1986 on November 17. The game was Washington versus San Francisco. The 49er Joe Montana, online history says, tried throwing 60 passes against the Redskins. Probably my dad didn't care about Joe’s reach. My dad enjoyed watching football. As far as team support, he was a generalist: generally, he preferred the underdog. A Cyclones fan by birth on the western half of Iowan soil, college ball ruled over the NFL. But Monday night was Monday Night. Often, we watched together, father and daughter. Me resting against his side, feeling his lungs breathing, his heart beating. On that final night, the game played while he waited for his family, for me, to visit. The game played while he waited for the next day when he was scheduled to get further treatment for leukemia. By that final night, I had not touched for years the football (and tee) he bought for my use in our California thumbprint yard. The football from his youth was in the garage, flat and within eyesight. I knew for three months he was sick. I'll bet he knew it longer. I knew the disease could kill him. I believe he knew it would. Yet, I was unprepared. In denial, really, about his likely score. I wanted him to win this game for his life. And then he didn’t. And I cried. And Joe threw.