Every Sunday he watches the Browns
lose, but he’s used to it.
“At least the Steelers lost, too,” he yells
at the TV screen with a smug smile.
His hands grasp a cold beer,
an IPA, I’m sure,
or maybe a double IPA, black IPA,
but probably a Great Lakes Commodore Perry.
He tells me I’m his assistant
brewmaster. Sometimes he calls
me “Martin” after Martin Dickie,
a passionate beer-brewing Scottish man
who often appears on our TV
when there isn’t a football game.
It’s a show we watch together.
And now we brew beer together.
I can tell you about the malt and the home-grown hops,
high IBUs, and precise ABVs.
I can emulate my dad’s concentration
when he siphons the brown wort
from carboy to carboy,
but I’m a 19 year-old college girl.
I shouldn’t know this much
about bitter beverages. But I want to
learn from my dad as I replace
his beer with a new, cold Lake Erie Monster,
poured perfectly in his Browns beer glass.
He wears a proud yet somber smile
as he says to me after a sip, “Martin,
don’t date a guy who loves the Steelers.”