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Inside, the noise was a physical force. It wasn’t just sound; it was a vibration that rattled Leo's teeth. When they reached Row 4, the grass of the field looked impossibly green against the red-clad stands.

The drive to Kansas City felt like a pilgrimage. As they pulled into the Truman Sports Complex, the smell of charcoal and hickory smoke hit them—the perfume of a thousand tailgates. The stadium loomed like a concrete cathedral under a winter sun.

During the third quarter, with the game tied and the crowd screaming "Home of the Brave," Leo felt a strange weight in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out his father’s old lucky coin—a scarred silver dollar.

"It’s the playoffs," Leo countered, his voice cracking. "And Dad never got to go."

"It’s a lot of money, Leo," his wife, Sarah, whispered from the doorway.