The man shrugged.
“Not my problem.”
Then he looked at Caleb and added,
“He can watch from the concourse. I doubt he even understands football anyway.”
My son quietly touched my arm.
“It’s okay, Mom. We can go.”
Before I could answer, an elderly woman behind us stood up with an old metal lunchbox in her hands.
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.
