He dropped the ball again.
And it hurts just to look at him, to see the shock morphing to realization collapsing to resignation. That's my little brother who should be smiling, and I wish I could make it better, but nothing I say will change what's happened, and everything I do just makes it worse.
I hear Dad on the bench, all the way from across the field, and I wince. If he stopped yelling for just a minute and actually looked at the play . . . but he won't. He'll never see that it wasn't even Faramir's fault, and neither will Faramir. It's another mistake, another mark against my little brother that I can't wipe out, no matter how hard I try.
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