“These are accessible seats,” I said. “They belong to us.”
He glanced at Grandpa and shrugged.
“The old man can sit anywhere. He probably won’t remember the match tomorrow.”
His son, Brandon, went pale.
I called for a steward, but Grandpa touched my wrist.
“We didn’t come here to fight.”
The stranger sat in Grandpa’s seat. His wife followed, avoiding my eyes. Brandon remained standing.
I helped Grandpa turn toward the aisle. The excitement had vanished from his face, and that hurt more than losing the seats.
Before we reached the end of the row, Brandon called after us.
He opened a faded blue backpack and removed an old captain’s armband. The cloth was nearly gray, with an old club crest stitched across it.
“It belonged to my grandfather,” Brandon explained. “He wore it to every match.”
Then he looked at his father.
“My grandfather always said a captain gives up his place before taking someone else’s.”
The entire section fell silent.
