Taking my 92-year old grand-father 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.
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