PART 1: THE SEATS HE WAITED A LIFETIME TO SEE

My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, Jeremy, taught me that football began long before kickoff.

Every Saturday, he opened the curtains, wrapped the same faded blue scarf around his neck, and claimed the worn recliner beside the television. Nobody else could sit there because, according to Grandpa, the team depended on our routine.

My grandmother June used to tease him about the scarf. She died twelve years earlier, but he still kept her photograph in his wallet and left the chair beside him empty.

That spring, Grandpa’s doctor warned me not to postpone anything important. His heart was weaker, and walking had become difficult.

When the biggest match in years was announced, I spent most of my savings on two premium accessible seats near the field.

Grandpa cried when he saw the tickets.

“You should be saving for your future,” he said.

“You are part of my future,” I replied.

On match day, he tucked June’s photograph into his pocket. At the stadium, he held it toward the field.

“We finally made it, sweetheart.”

Then a sharply dressed man arrived with his wife and teenage son. He checked our numbers, glanced at his row, and announced that he was taking ours.