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Leo tried to argue. He pointed out that on his laptop, he could watch any game, any time, from any angle. He could see Messi’s pores. He could pull up a heat map of a midfielder’s runs. It was more sport, not less.

“Same time next week, Abuelo?”

Every Saturday, Leo trudged down the creaky basement steps. He left his phone on the top stair. “No cold light,” Abuelo would say. “Only the warm glow.” cool tv digi sport

“No,” Abuelo said, turning the dial. The picture flickered. “It is less. You are a god of highlights. But gods do not feel the rope burn.”

“What?” Leo asked.

“The signal is cleaner this way,” he would lie, tapping the antenna. “The players run with more soul.”

Abuelo Reyes had emigrated from Guadalajara in 1989 with three things: his wife, a bronze medal from a regional cycling championship, and a 1987 Sony Trinitron television. The TV was a beast, a wooden-housed behemoth with a curved glass screen, dials that clicked, and a bunny-ear antenna that looked like a wounded insect. For the last ten years, Abuelo had refused to upgrade to cable, let alone a smart TV. Leo tried to argue

Abuelo caught his wrist. His grip was strong, surprisingly strong.