I turned to my father. “Is that hyperbole, or does Georgie actually wish for orthopedic trauma?”

“Hit him, Johnson! Break his legs!”

That’s when I had a terrifying thought.

I closed my eyes.

“No, bonding is a chemical process involving covalent electrons. This is just… loud.”

The stadium was a monument to everything I despise: noise, crowds, and the celebration of physical prowess over intellectual achievement. The bleachers were metal. Cold, unforgiving metal. And they were packed with humans who had painted their faces like warring savages.