“Section 112,” he said proudly, waving the tickets in the kitchen. “Great view. Close enough to feel everything, but not close enough to get beer dumped on us.”
By kickoff, the stadium felt alive.
Thousands of fans filled the stands, shouting, clapping, stomping, and roaring every time the players moved. The field glowed under the lights like something made for television. Music blasted between plays. Strangers high-fived each other like old friends.
My younger son could barely sit still.
That was when I noticed them.
A woman and a little boy sitting a few rows below us.
At first, they stood out because they were so still.
Everyone else was yelling, waving towels, and reacting to the game. But the boy sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap and his shoulders pulled inward.
He looked about nine or ten.
He wore dark sunglasses even though it was night and the stadium lights were already bright.
He didn’t look at the scoreboard.
He didn’t turn toward the field.
He didn’t react when the crowd erupted around him.
