There is a moment that rises above all others when it comes to relaxation. And this is not some white like talcum powder beach, suntanned and toned someone laying at your side, snuggled up in a hammock under a palm the size of a water tower, Mai Tai on the sand below you rubbing elbows with some Grisham book you wouldn’t read in front of your friends, Neil Young’s “Midnight On The Bay” aching out of an old Magnavox with a Parrothead sticker over the speaker while the breeze runs all over you Corona commercial type of relaxed.
The relaxation I’m talking about is slightly different, if only because it could be reality for those who don’t have money enough to frequent the Virgin Islands. That relaxation I’m speaking of finds its lane in Dillon, TX. It’s Tim Riggins, sitting with his brother in front of his unfinished home, Igloo full of Shiner at his feet, looking out on his land, the sun dying between the trees at the top of the hill painting the sky a monarch orange, everything in the valley below him green. If he belonged anywhere, he belonged right there.