Orin flies at the Mile-High halftime show — "I punt! I’m paid to punt…"

The doer's protest against being converted into spectacle. Orin's whole identity is that he does a thing supremely well; strapped into feathers and shoved off the stadium rim for the crowd's amusement, he is being forcibly reclassified from athlete to entertainment-object, and the cameras won't let him forget it — he "knows too well the light on the side that means Zoom." It's the same fault line the theme keeps finding between playing and being-watched: the moment the performing body becomes content, the person inside it is consumed, and no amount of skill exempts you. Orin can punt a ball into the coffin corner all day and still end up a freak-show act pinwheeling for the mouths below.