A few days later, a woman from a wish organization visited Ethan’s room.
She pulled up a chair.
“If you could do one really special thing, Ethan, anything at all, what would you pick?”
I expected a famous player.
Maybe a trip.
Maybe something extravagant.
I expected a famous player.
Ethan chirped immediately.
“A football game!”
He named his favorite team.
Then he added, “With Mom and Dad.”
Chris squeezed his shoulder.
“Obviously, Captain.”
The woman laughed.
She worked with Ethan’s medical team, arranged accessible seating, transportation, and everything that would make the day memorable for my son.
“A football game!”
We thought we knew the entire plan.
Apparently, Ethan had made another request when we weren’t in the room. He had no idea anyone had taken him literally.
***
On game day, I understood why he had chosen the stadium the second we walked inside.
He stopped at the entrance.
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…”
