My eight-year-old daughter, Kelly, had learned football sitting beside her dad.
Austin taught her what every position did, explained penalties she didn’t understand, and let her stay up past bedtime whenever his favorite team played. By seven, Kelly could name more players than I could.
Then, last year, Austin died suddenly in a car accident.
For months afterward, Kelly barely mentioned football. His jersey stayed folded on the back of her chair, and every Sunday she would sit beside me on the couch but stare at the empty spot where her dad used to be.
When she finally asked to watch again, I knew something in her was beginning to heal.
So for her eighth birthday, I saved enough for two tickets to see Austin’s favorite team play.
The night before, Kelly spent nearly an hour making a sign in crooked blue letters:
“My daddy loved this team. He’s in
