(You guys. I'm trying to reign it in here, but that foot, that grandmotherly foot, tapping on the linoleum floor. It's killing me.)
She tells him she only wants one tuna fish sandwich, he says she can eat just one, she wonders why he made two, he says he'll eat it after practice. At this reminder, she breaks into a smile and comes alive: "You'll be hungry. After that good ol' practice." He smiles back as he hears his ride honk for him outside. She holds out her arm, pointing at her grandson and says "You..." and then winks and smiles, "...I adore." He hugs her goodbye, his taut youth and mobility poised against her age and fleshy stillness, her pride and dependence. It's perfect. She's simultaneously vaguely threatening and totally endearing. She's a grandmother; she has nothing but love to give him, a teenaged kid who could probably use a variety of other things in a guardian.
Outside the house, Saracen pauses to straighten the tipsy sign and, on the soundtrack, a crystal guitar melody starts playing over the slate bass line. Inside an old wood-paneled station wagon, Saracen's buddy jokes: "You know, I was thinking about getting me one of those signs. It'll say 'Landry Clark: Utterly Useless. All State Jerk Team.'" Heh. I can think of some folks that belong on the All State Jerk Team, myself. Landry is a misfit-lookin' kid, that's for sure. Pale and ruddy, beady little eyes and mucklemouthed. Sticks out like a sore thumb among these thoroughbred Texans.
Saracen unfolds the sports section of the paper to reveal a headline asking "The Best Ever?" with a picture of Coach Taylor and his already-familiar stressed-out squint. The Dillon Panther Radio morning host continues blabbing in the background, going on about quarterback Jason Street's 72% pass completion rate and how that makes him the number one quarterback in the nation. Landry boils it down for us, asking Saracen, "You even gonna play this year?" He continues, telling Saracen that he can't keep driving him to practice like this, if there isn't even a hope of him playing that year. Saracen counters by reminding Landry that he's an insomniac and is up anyway. Landry: "Now, that was mean, Matt. That wasn't nice." These two have the weight of the world on their shoulders.
Cut back to Tim Riggins's house, where he's still sprawled on the couch, shirtless. And I just have to say it: the body on this kid. Jeez. I love a story about wasted potential, so I'm particularly looking forward to his storyline. His older brother walks in (also shirtless, rrawwr!) and claps his hands to get his kid brother up. Older Brother looks like he might have his own story of wasted potential, with a bad case of the facial beer puffs in the unforgiving morning light. He lectures his brother that "they'll kick you off the team" as Tim just sort of moans and turns his head into the couch. The coltish Tyra (played by my old friend Adrianne Palicki) walks in, wearing a flannel shirt and not much else, and gets on the couch on top of Tim. Older Brother snaps, "You ain't that good" and Tim snaps back: "Twice the player you ever was." Another story there as well. Older Brother isn't amused, "This is life, this isn't Maxim magazine." I take a moment to pause and consider what sort of Brueghel-esque nightmare world that would be. Tyra looks at him and purses her full lips: "What's that s'posed to mean?" She is perhaps not thinking about Brueghal at this moment.