The game didn’t start until one.
“We’re leaving at ten,” I told him.
“Can we leave at nine?”
We left at nine.
He wore his favorite jersey.
He was careful pulling it on, as though the shirt itself was part of the occasion.
We drove to the stadium.
I had already arranged accessible parking and studied which entrance we needed.
We unloaded the wheelchair and went through the appropriate gate.
The moment we entered, Caleb stopped.
He lifted his head.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I can smell the grass.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t the artificial version from television.
It was real.
Grass.
Food.
Popcorn.
Air flowing through a stadium on game day.
He breathed it in like he had been waiting months for that exact moment.
Then we headed toward our section.
When we reached our row, I stopped.
A couple was sitting in our seats.
The man was occupying the companion seat.
