Natalie Sinclair is standing on the sidelines, about twenty-five yards in front of the flag, next to her father. Her back is turned toward me. RYAN is printed across her small back in block letters. Where it stretched shoulder-to-shoulder on me, it practically hangs off her body. But it’s my jersey. That’s when it clicks. At that moment, with my name on her back, I decide she’s going to be the girl who wears my jersey for the rest of her life.
