She looked at the man.
“Get out of that seat.”
He laughed.
Then she handed him the lunchbox.
“Open it.”
The second he looked inside, his face went pale.
And less than a minute later, the man who had refused to move was kneeling beside my son’s wheelchair asking for another chance.
But to understand why, you have to understand what that football game meant to Caleb.
My name is Dana Pierce.
I’m thirty-seven years old, and Caleb is my son.
His father left when Caleb was four, so for most of his life it had been the two of us.
Caleb discovered football when he was six.
He found an old, slightly deflated football at a garage sale for three dollars and brought it home like he had discovered treasure.
“Mom, can I keep it?”
“Of course.”
Then he asked,
“Do you know how to throw?”
“A little.”
