At the shoreline, in the muck and mire, assorted players and fans were in what we called as kids a dogpile, and they roiled over and on top of each other, clutching, grabbing, flailing their arms, moaning, yelling gibberish, clicking their teeth to some secret rhythm I couldn’t quite latch on to. Two audible, breathless words bubbled up from within the tumult: help and please. I remember thinking yes, without thinking the word, if that makes sense.
