“And what do we want, Ramona? What can the sport give us? We devote our whole lives to it, and what can we hope to get, at best? A few moments… a few victories, a few seconds when we feel bigger than we really are, a few isolated opportunities to imagine that we’re… immortal. And it’s a lie. It really isn’t important.” Silence settles between them, untouched. Only when Peter pushes his empty cup back across the bar and stands up to leave does the old widow drain her glass and grunt: “The only thing the sport gives us are moments. But what the hell is life, Peter, apart from moments?”
