Taking my 92-year-old grandfather to the biggest football match of his life should’ve been our happiest day. Instead, a stranger stole our seats, sneering that Grandpa “wouldn’t remember the game anyway.” Five minutes later, the man’s teenage son opened a backpack and silenced everyone around us.
My grandfather, Jeremy, taught me that football matches begin long before the referee blows the whistle.
They began every Saturday morning when he pulled the curtains open, wrapped the same faded blue scarf around his neck, and lowered himself into the worn recliner beside the television.
Nobody was allowed to sit there during a match.
Nobody was allowed to sit there during a match.
Not because Grandpa was territorial.
Because he was superstitious.
“The team can sense routine,” he told me when I was seven.
“They’re forty miles away,” I said.
“Exactly! We can’t risk confusing them, Orrie.”
He never washed the scarf during the season, either.
He was superstitious.
My grandmother once tried to sneak it into the laundry basket.
Grandpa caught her halfway to the washing machine and acted as though she’d attempted to sabotage the team personally.
She handed it back, laughing. “One day, that thing is going to stand up by itself.”
Grandpa kissed her cheek. “Then we’ll give it its own seat.”
My grandmother, June, died 12 years ago.
The scarf remained. So did the empty chair beside Grandpa’s recliner.
My grandmother, June, died 12 years ago.
***
Football was never only about winning to him. He applauded brilliant plays from the opposing team, picked up litter before leaving local matches, and never booed an injured player.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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