We pour from the stadium and from our homes, into the streets and bars of the city, tumultuous as heated atoms, for we’ve won the game. Triumph crackles underfoot, in puffs of air and smoke, in the hearts of men, vicarious triumph through the sweat and bruises of younger men from the university gained from young men from a farther university. In the Stone’s Throw the splash of a clumsily handled and overfilled mug precipitates a trip, a shove, a shout, a countershout, an elbow. Cheery and anonymous, the brawl expands and men fall into it joyfully, bloody good, bloody—good! This is the abandon that others feel in lovemaking, in speeding or in death; no longer self-preserving and single-bodied, we rattle and shout, blur all edges, and become a larger pulse.