The least I could do was take the field every Friday night and play the game of my life. My father needed that joy, that hope. We all needed it. And I’d needed the purpose. But then we rearranged our lives again, and that time it was to make room for grief and loss. Those Friday nights turned into a tribute. Every game was played in his honor, a memorial service in many parts. My family—the whole town, really—had grieved and celebrated his life through those games but it’d never worked that way for me. When the scholarships rolled in, I went as far from home as I could get. As far from the
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