I stared at him until the team had settled into pre game warm-up before making my way to my seat. Squeezing by a very pregnant girl inspecting her tickets with what I assumed was her husband dressed in an Army uniform, I glanced back at them again. Gazing up into the stands, their eyes fell into the back as she took the first step up.
I stopped, watching her take a second step. If being pregnant meant stair climbing at one per five seconds, I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy it very much.
“Wanna trade?” I asked suddenly. I couldn’t watch her suck in another breath as she attempted another step. “They’re pretty good seats.”
The husband looked at me, confused, then studied the tickets I was holding out for them. His eyes widened.
“Don’t get me wrong, miss, because I’d sell my first born for tickets like these,”—he shot his wife a sly smile as she smacked his arm—”but see that row, way in the back, right where a few spectators’ noses are bleeding? Those are our seats.”
I liked these two already. “How’s the view from up there?”
“It sucks,” he answered, helping his wife down the two stairs she’d just scaled.
Shoving the tickets into his hand, I smiled. “Well, the view from these seats doesn’t,” I said, backing away.
Kick off wasn’t going to wait for me to get my butt into my seat. “Just do me a favor and make sure to give number seventeen a hard time.” Turning around, I kept walking, smiling the whole way to my seat.
Lou had scored me a solid general admission ticket. Especially since I’d arrived late and didn’t have a reserved ticket. There were two empty seats at the end of the row; mine was the one second in. Smiling over at the family in the row in front of me, the littlest boy turned in his seat to stare at me. He had an orange number seventeen jersey on.
“I like your shirt,” I said. “I’ve got one just like it.”
His appraising eyes widened. It was good to know I could impress a five year old boy. “Do you want to be just like Jude when you grow up too?”
This boy with a smattering of freckles and a cowlick was going to make me cry. For the damn hundred and one too many times this past month.
“I sure do,” I said as he swung around in his seat.
“Me, too,” he said as his mom threw me an apologetic look. I waved it off. “I shouldn’t be telling you this since you’re a stranger and a girl, but Jude’s a superhero in disguise,” he whispered, looking from side to side.
“He is?” I said, glancing down at him on the field, warming his arm up. Tossing the ball, he glanced over to the stands, studying the front row. “Doesn’t the orange and white spandex kind of give his superhero status away?”
The boy’s face scrunched up, puzzling over that one. Two seconds later it cleared. “No,” he said with confidence. “Anyone can go out and buy some orange and white spandex. But no one else can be like Jude Ryder.”
Pulling a pack of Red Vines from my bag, I offered him one. It was the least I could do for Jude’s number two fan.
“Since I’m a girl and all, and am not on the up and up with the superhero circle,” I said, grabbing my own piece of licorice, “what puts him in cahoots with the likes of Superman and the Wolverine?”
“Danny, are you bothering this lady?” his mom called across the row of what I guessed were his older siblings.
He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, looking at me. “Am I bothering you?”
“He’s fine,” I called down to his mom. “He’s keeping me company.”
“Okay,” she said, giving Danny the mom look. “Manners, okay?”
“K, mom,” he answered, propping up on his knees and sticking his chin on the back of the seat. “Your dad and mom haven’t explained it to you yet?” he asked, his freckled nose wrinkling.
“Explained what to me?”
“Superheroes aren’t real,” he said, looking a little sad for me. “They’re make believe.”
“But I thought you just said Jude was one,” I said, chewing the end of my licorice.
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. “Comic book superheroes aren’t real. Jude’s a real life superhero.”
“Oooooh,” I said, nodding my head. “I get it now.”
Danny’s head spun around as the teams lined up on the field for kickoff.
“So what qualifies Jude as a superhero?” I said, leaning forward and watching the field with him. The visiting team kicked off as Syracuse charged down the field.
Danny glanced back at me, looking like this question was my most insulting one yet. “He’s strong, he’s fast,” he began, counting items off on his fingers. “He can throw a football, like, ten miles. He’s going to marry the most beautiful girl in the world and they’re going to make little superhero babies.” He paused; I wasn’t sure if it was because he was done with his list or catching his breath.