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I grin at the brood, then call out to the four-year-old kid whacking the high grass with a stick, “Micah, come back.” Under my breath to James, I add, “Watch him. He’s a runner.”

James doesn’t follow. “That’s a . . . good thing in football.”

“Not when the kid’s a runner for the woods.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Last year we all ended up at the base of a tree watching his dad climb up to get him. The kid almost made it all the way to the top.”

“How high was it?”

“The pine? Like forty feet.”

“Oh.”

“C’mon, Micah, drop the stick. I need you to hold this football,” I say, beckoning him closer. The four-year-old with wild hair and only one sock drops the stick reluctantly and heads over.

I clap my hands again. “Okay. Let’s all huddle up. I’m going to explain the rules.”

The rules.

Okay.

I haven’t played Turkey Bowl in twelve years, but I can do this. All eyes are on me, including James’s, and I feel the urge to look impressive. To do this right.

“We’re going to split into two teams. He will be one team’s captain”—I point at James—“and I will be the other.”

Immediately a couple of children edge toward me in solidarity against the “stranger,” and I continue through gripped knees. Children begin protesting and announcing who they’re with and grabbing each other’s arms and linking up as if they’re vying for the last lifeboat off the Titanic. There’s a wide swing to one side that I try, and fail, to correct.

“We’ll get to that part later,” I announce loudly over the chatter of cousins picking cousins. “The point is, we’ve got two teams. And here’s our football,” I say, holding it up. “And the objective of the game is to score points by running over to the end of the field. The team with the most points after two fifteen-minute quarters wins.”

James pinches his lips and gives me a look but doesn’t say anything.

I continue, “The game begins with a throw-off.”

“Kickoff,” James corrects. He says it so politely and so quietly you would think he was trying to talk to a mouse.

“The team who gets the ball will then run with the ball as far as they can to their goal. Then the team with the ball begins a series of plays called downs. The team has two downs, which are two chances—”

“Four,” James corrects again.

“—to get the ball all the way down the field. Like fifteen yards.”

“Ten,” James says.

“Do you want to do this?” I cut in, looking at him.

James dips his head, appearing apologetic for butting in but also carrying a look that says he just couldn’t resist.

“Only if you don’t mind,” he says.

“Why would I mind?” I say, and the kids’ eyes swivel from him to me.

“I don’t know,” he says quickly.

“There’s nothing to mind,” I say, throwing my hands out and sounding a bit like Čedomir’s mother.

“Then I’ll just take over then.”