“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken your seats.”
Caleb glanced at the empty wheelchair space.
“They aren’t better seats, you know. They’re just the seats I can actually use.”
For a moment, the man said nothing.
Then he nodded and walked away.
I thought that was the end of it.
The man was gone. Caleb had his seat back. Hayes’s mother had disappeared toward the field.
I didn’t know she’d taken Caleb’s story with her.
Caleb rolled into his space.
I sat beside him and tried not to cry.
Caleb looked at the field.
For the next hour, he became himself again.
A few plays later, Caleb pointed toward the defense.
“Blitz.”
The ball snapped.
He was right.
I smiled, remembering the man who had decided Caleb probably didn’t even understand the game.
Then the retirement tribute began.
When Hayes walked onto the field, Caleb shouted so loudly that the man in front of us jumped.
