The second half began badly.
Neither team scored for most of it. Then the opposition found the net, and the stadium groaned.
Grandpa lifted his faded scarf.
“There’s still time!”
I smiled because those words had appeared in every birthday card he had ever given me:
Never stop believing until the final whistle.
With two minutes remaining, our team equalized.
The stadium erupted. Grandpa rose halfway from his seat, waving his scarf while I steadied him.
Then, deep into added time, our striker broke free.
One pass.
One shot.
Goal.
The sound around us became enormous.
Grandpa jumped—actually jumped—and laughed while tears streamed down his face.
“You saw that, June!” he shouted toward the sky.
When the cheering softened, he opened his wallet and touched my grandmother’s photograph.
“We made it.”
Then he looked at Brandon, who still held the captain’s armband.
This time, Grandpa reached for it. Brandon gave it to him, believing he had finally accepted the gift.
Instead, Grandpa carefully slid it over Brandon’s sleeve and straightened the old crest.
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