A row of black men clad in black uniforms is down on one knee, their arms interlocked along the sideline of what is obviously a football field. Their heads are bowed, while behind them stands a row of racially varied men in casual, mostly identical civilian clothes, their arms also hooked together as they stare into the near distance. It commands a kind of tender patriotism that asks: What is it to love one’s country, and, for that matter, to love anything? Music from deep mournful cellos begins to play as the scene comes to life, though the figures and…