Thousands of voices rolled through the concrete corridors.
He had no idea anyone had taken him literally.
Food vendors shouted.
Music pounded through the speakers.
People in jerseys streamed past us.
Ethan just stood there.
Chris leaned toward him.
“Too much, Captain?”
Ethan shook his head.
“It’s awesome, Dad.”
Then he saw the field.
“It’s awesome, Dad.”
For months, I had watched my son’s world shrink into hospital rooms, waiting areas, medication schedules, and careful trips home.
Now there was green grass in every direction.
Real players.
Real helmets.
Real noise.
Ethan laughed when the crowd booed.
He yelled until his voice gave out.
For months, I had watched my son’s world shrink.
He ate half a pretzel and stole three bites of Chris’s hot dog after insisting he wasn’t hungry.
I photographed everything.
At one point, Chris leaned over.
“You tired, Captain?”
“No, Dad.”
“Cold?”
“Nope.”
“Need water?”
“Dad…”
“What?”
“Watch the game.”
Chris laughed. “I am, buddy.”
I photographed everything.
Ethan pointed at him.
“No. You’re watching me watch it.”
Chris stopped smiling for just a second.
Then Ethan turned back toward the field as if he’d said nothing unusual.
I took another picture.
***
By halftime, Ethan was worn out but refused to leave.
“No. You’re watching me watch it.”
“Ten more minutes,” he kept bargaining.
“You said that 20 minutes ago,” Chris told him.
“That was a different ten.”
Then the camera found us.
The giant screen.
The announcement.
And Ray.
I knew Ray from the hospital.
Then the camera found us.
He worked in facilities and seemed to appear whenever Ethan needed a light fixed, a television reset, or somebody willing to argue about football.
Ethan called him “Coach Ray.”
Ray insisted his official title was “Commissioner.”
They had been having that argument for months.
Ethan called him “Coach Ray.”
