I wanted to say something. But I hesitated. I didnât want to be the âgrumpy boomerâ ruining the fun. âDad, stop worrying, itâs just social media,â Jen would say.
So I stayed quiet. And that silence almost cost us everything.
Now, standing under the metal bleachers, I was watching the consequence of that silence.
The man was average. Thatâs what made him scary. He wasnât a monster from a movie. He looked like a dad, or a contractor, or a neighbor. Jeans, gray hoodie, baseball cap pulled low. But he stood alone near the fence line.
He wasnât watching the game. He would look at his phone, then look up at the cheerleaders, then look over at the dark corner of the stadium marked âNorth Gate.â
He was verifying the intel.
My heart started hammering against my ribs, hard enough to hurt. In the fire service, we call it the âspidey sense.â The hair on my arms stood up. This man was hunting.
I looked for a police officer. I saw Deputy Evans, but he was fifty yards away breaking up a scuffle between two teenagers.
I stood up. My hips popped, but adrenaline is a powerful painkiller. I walked down the concrete steps, moving toward the end zone.
In our town, we have a group called the âIron Guardians.â They arenât a gang. Theyâre a motorcycle club made up of combat veterans and retired first responders. They look roughâleather cuts, tattoos, beardsâbut they are the salt of the earth. They stand near the end zone at every home game, a silent wall of security.
