My eleven-year-old son, Caleb, had been counting down the days for four months.
He had marked the date on the calendar, talked about the game at breakfast, and watched old highlights of his favorite players whenever he had the chance.
For Caleb, this wasn’t supposed to be just another football game.
It was supposed to be the day he finally felt like himself again.
Six months earlier, football had been taken away from him in a matter of seconds.
Caleb had been walking home from school when he saw a five-year-old boy chase a ball into the street.
A pickup truck was coming.
There was almost no time to think.
Caleb ran.
He reached the little boy, shoved him hard enough to send him back toward the sidewalk—and saved his life.
But Caleb wasn’t fast enough to save himself.
The truck struck him.
The impact fractured his spine.
What followed was a nightmare no parent should ever have to experience: hours of surgery, weeks inside a hospital, endless tests, difficult conversations with doctors, and a future filled with questions no one could answer.
Eventually, the doctors told me they could not promise that Caleb would ever walk again.
I remember sitting beside his hospital bed, trying to stay strong while feeling as if my entire world had collapsed.