Chapter 2 - THE THING JERRY’S GRANDFATHER LEFT HIM
The keepsake had belonged to my father before it belonged to Jerry.
Dad’s name was Michael Reynolds.
He was a public-school history teacher for thirty-seven years and the most devoted football fan I have ever known.
Not wealthy.
Not famous.
Just committed.
He had season tickets in the upper deck for twenty-six seasons.
Same section.
Same two seats.
He saved ticket stubs.
Programs.
Pins.
Signed photographs.
Old pennants.
Anything connected to the team’s history.
Most of it was worth more emotionally than financially.
Some pieces were valuable.
I did not understand how valuable until after he died.
Dad had lung cancer.
He knew he was dying.
Jerry was five then.
During Dad’s final Christmas, he called Jerry into the bedroom and handed him the little green-and-silver helmet.
I still remember Jerry staring at it.
“What is it?”
“My lucky charm.”
“Does it work?”
Dad considered that.
“Depends what you call lucky.”
He smiled.
Then told Jerry he had worn it on a chain to the first game he ever attended with his own father.
The clasp was old.
The enamel chipped.
Jerry loved it immediately.
After Dad died, he wore it to games.
School spirit days.
Once to church before I noticed and made him take it off.
The rest of Dad’s collection came to me temporarily under his estate plan, but his will was clear about the final destination.
The memorabilia belonged to Jerry.
I was to preserve it until he was old enough to decide what he wanted to keep, donate, or sell.
It was not a trust worth millions.
There was no secret fortune.
Dad simply did not want pieces of family history scattered while his grandson was still a child.
A professional appraiser cataloged everything after the funeral.
Most pieces ranged from fifty dollars to several hundred.
A few signed items were worth thousands.
One vintage championship program and game-used ball were worth significantly more.
The whole collection, depending on the market, was estimated in the low six figures.
Enough money to matter.
Not enough to transform anyone’s life.
Adam knew all of that.
He had helped move the collection into climate-controlled storage.
For years, I trusted him with the access code.
Why wouldn’t I?
He was Jerry’s father.
My husband.
The person who had stood beside me at Dad’s funeral while I could barely speak.
Three months before the stadium incident, Adam asked:
“Have you ever thought about selling some of your dad’s stuff?”
I looked up from dinner.
“Why?”
“It’s sitting in storage.”
“It’s Jerry’s.”
“He’s eight.”
“Exactly.”
“You could put the money into his college account.”
“Dad wanted him to decide when he’s older.”
Adam shrugged.
“I’m just saying collectibles have cycles. Sometimes holding sentimental things too long is bad financial management.”
I laughed.
“My father would haunt you for calling his signed ball an asset class.”
Adam smiled.
The subject disappeared.
Or I thought it did.
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Now he was standing inside a football stadium hiding Jerry’s keepsake behind his back.
And the woman beside him looked as shocked as I felt.
