Chapter 10 - The Touchdown
Six months later. August in Ohio.
The State Capitol Rotunda was flooded with afternoon sunlight. The marble floors reflected the gold-leaf frames lining the walls, but the largest crowd was gathered around the central glass display case near the main entrance.
Behind reinforced bulletproof glass sat the complete Samuel Fennimore Collection: the bright silver helmet, the 1984 game program, the ticket stub, the photograph, and in the very center, the pristine, original signed championship football.
A small bronze plaque beneath the display read:
THE SAMUEL FENNIMORE CHAMPIONSHIP COLLECTION Donated by Evelyn Fennimore & Family "A true legacy isn't made of glass. It’s made of the hands that hold it up."
I stood in the front row in a simple navy dress, leaning on Washington's arm. He looked healthier—he had left the high-stress corporate firm, opened a small neighborhood practice in Westridge, and gained back the color in his cheeks. His divorce was finalized, the court had ordered full restitution from Rosalina’s family assets, and she was currently serving a community service sentence at a local women's shelter far away from our town.
Beside us stood Big John, Miller, Harriet, and fifty former high school players who had worn the purple and gold under Samuel's command over twenty-five years.
Derek Hollis stepped to the podium, flanked by the State Governor and the Director of Sports Heritage.
"Today," Derek announced into the microphone, his voice echoing under the high rotunda dome, "we honor not just a championship season, but the strength of a family that refused to let heritage be compromised."
The crowd applauded warmly. I looked down at my hand resting on Washington's arm. My knuckles were completely healed, though if you looked closely, there was still a tiny, faint silver line where a speck of glass had caught my skin that night.
When the speeches concluded, the crowd dispersed toward the reception tables. I stayed behind, standing alone in front of the display case.
I pressed two fingers against the glass right over Samuel's signature.
"We did it, Sam," I whispered softly into the quiet air of the rotunda. "The ball is safe. The boys are here. And the house is still open."
I turned around and saw Washington walking toward me, carrying two glasses of sweet iced tea, a wide smile on his face.
"Ready to go home, Mom?" he asked.
May you like
"I am," I said, taking the glass and slipping my arm back through his. "We have to start prepping the smoked wings for opening day next week."
We walked out of the Capitol together into the warm summer sun, leaving the glass behind, knowing that some treasures can never, ever be broken.
