Anyway...Buddy fulfills the prophecy that was written for him by his Oakleys: he watches Matt throw the ball, and sneers to Coach Taylor that even the best-case scenario would have Jason Street out for a month, and so what are his plans for Friday or for the rest of the season?
Camera pans in on his disgusting sweaty gin blossom of a face as he asks, disingenuously, "You think little Matt Saracen can git it done?" Close up on Coach Taylor's gorgeous, finely-tuned, Titian-esque face as he curtly replies, "I guess we're fixin' to find out. That was a nice sermon, wahd'n it?" Awesome. Leaving Buddy behind, he moves toward Matt and motions him over telling him "we gotta lot of work to do son."
Melancholy guitars take us to the credits, which, I'm afraid to say, I find a tiny bit uninspiring. The sequence consists of shots from the pilot episode -- the landscape, representative shots of characters looking optimistic/fatalistic/furrowed/et cetera -- while the name credits glint and flash and dissolve rather subtly on the screen. It's definitely pretty. But I'm not so sure "pretty" is a compliment here (see, for further reference, "pretty, Lyla Garrity").
Commercials, at least half of them starring Peyton Manning, which is appropriate after the preceding church scenes, since he is football's patron saint of lofty expectations being dashed in an eye-blink. Interior shot of hospital hallway, Lyla walking purposefully, her purposefulness both at odds with and complemented by her silly cheerleading costume and the fact that she is trailing a couple of metallic "Get Well" balloons behind her. A nurse greets her by name (she's been there a lot already) as she bounces up and down, her ponytail swishing sublimely this way and that. Inside Street's room, Lyla is all hushed sweetness in the face of Street (no longer in a halo, luckily enough for the actor Scott Porter), lying at a 75-degree angle in bed, head and neck immobilized by a large brace. Lyla launches right into her "no paralysis" cheer routine, asking Jason if he's heard of "Nathan Foreman." He mouth-breathes a "No," but before continuing her well-choreographed rhetorical moves, Lyla lets out a sharp "'Scuse me! Could you come help me?" to someone she caught walking down the hallway. A man in a white lab coat walks in, and Lyla instructs him to help her to unfurl a banner, asking if he's ever heard of Nathan Foreman. No, he hasn't, so Lyla continues saying she found his story on the internet, that he "had a terrible accident" -- and when she says this, she scrunches up her forehead in the MOST simpering manner and pronounces "tewwible" as if she were speaking to a three-year-old -- but now plays varsity basketball in college. When she expresses surprise that the doctor hasn't heard of this case, he demurs, "Uh, I'm oncology," the irony of which -- other people's problems, other people's slow deaths -- Lyla can't register. I even half expect Lyla to start clapping and cheer-spelling O-N-C-O-L-O-G-I-S-T in an obliviously random show of support.