Saturdays in Autumn the park filled with pick-up football games. Any roughly rectangular patch of land was cordoned off by imaginary lines running between trees and piles of discarded outerwear. Some groups had even brought their own cones, rising above the uncut grass like volcano models from a grade school science fair. The volcano project never won first prize.

A bookie strolled casually from sideline to sideline, taking bets from the handful of spectators. His fedora clung to the back of his head, a size too small, spiting gravity and a couple other laws of physics besides. His suit had the look of burlap, as did his skin. It was difficult to tell where fabric ended and flesh began. He took five thousand dollars from a young Mafioso-type who was puffing almost frantically on a cigar while watching a game between the city garbage men and the recycling center employees. The recyclers ran the triple option almost to perfection, but couldn't cope with the strength and size of their opponents. The snap, fake the handoff to the fullback, sweep left, quarterback leveled just as he pitches to the tailback, strong safety shrugs off a would-be blocker like a heavy jacket in an overheated hotel lobby, dives at the passing tailback, grabs him by the ankle, face-plant, broken nose, garbage men celebrate, tailback gets up, puts wad of tissue in his nose to stop the bleeding, play continues. Hey, it's football, someone says.

On another field, shaded from the sun by an aging skyscraper (Olympus of the industrial age, residence of the gods of commerce), a group of mercenaries played flag football against the city police force. Rommel ran a slant, caught a crisp pass from the little Laotian who was a surprisingly good quarterback considering his short stature, and easily ran away from the pursuing cops. It was his seventh touchdown reception of the day. The mercenaries, not in the habit of celebrating their successes, immediately lined up for the kickoff. The cops shook their heads in disbelief as they walked to the opposite end of the field, comforted only by the box of Krsipy Kremes that wafted provocatively from the sideline, a prize for victory, consolation in defeat. They had found a spot of sunlight to set the donuts in, so that they would still be warm after the game.

“Next time we'll have to play for the donuts,” commented the little Laotian, observing that the mercenaries had made no such preparations.

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