Whitey and Peyton walk across a bridge. They're just talking, quietly and nicely. He starts off by saying something about how his wife wouldn't let him smoke cigars in the house. It's a sweet anecdote. Peyton asks him how long he's been coaching basketball. Woda replies, "Too long." She asks, "Do you ever wonder about it?" What? "Knowing you spent your whole life watching boys play a game." Woda chuckles. "I'd prefer to think that I was teaching them to play." They stand and look out across the water. How do they get rid of the bugs? How come no one's ever swatting any bugs on television unless it's for some running gag? Anyway. Peyton's got my sympathy, but man, could her delivery be any more forced? It's like every word has to be ripped from her lips because they've sewn her mouth shut or something. Whitey: "Sometimes I think about the conversations I missed with my wife. The holidays I missed because I was off coaching somewhere. That's the closest I get to thinking it was a mistake." At least Peyton can get up and put on her orange lipstick while she's in mourning. Man, that's an awful colour. She asks, "Do you miss her?" Whitey says, "Every day." Pause. "Peyton, it's hard to lose somebody. I spend a lot of time searching for reasons or answers. But you can't find what's not there." We should start keeping track of these Woda-isms, put them all in a book, and call it Life According to Woda: Lessons in Everyday Living. We'll market it to tortured teens and troubled parents. Then we'll donate all the proceeds to charity. She asks if he's going to light the cigar he's been carrying around all day. He says no, he hasn't smoked one since he lost Camilla. He changes the subject back again: "I don't suppose I've been much help to you, but I do know one thing. Your mother's proud of you." Her eyes well up with tears as Whitey walks away. Aw, shucks, so do mine -- damn you, Whitey. Damn you!