The whole stadium followed his gaze down to the front row, to me — standing there now in my faded denim jacket, motor oil still faint under my fingernails from the shop floor I’d worked until four o’clock that afternoon.

Keegan raised his hand and pointed, not at the man in the suit, but past him.

“Warren is the man who gave me life,” he said.

And then, before Warren’s smile could finish forming: “My dad is the man standing right next to him.”

My knees nearly went.

“My dad,” Keegan said, his voice ringing clean and strong across the turf, “is the guy who walked into an empty house when I was four years old and decided to stay, when nobody on earth was making him.

He’s the man who sold his motorcycle to pay the legal fees so I wouldn’t disappear into a foster home.”