Jeremy Corr

In Iowa, 70,000 people turned their backs on a football game, and for a second I thought something terrible had happened. My buddy Kyle got me a ticket. Kinnick Stadium. I'd been studying football for two weeks and had just figured out what a "down" was. I was ready. End of the first quarter. Whistle. The whole stadium stood up and turned around. Away from the field. Everybody. The old guy next to me with a seat cushion older than me. The college kids with gold paint on their chests. Kyle. Where I'm from, you don't turn your back on the stage. Not on a teacher, not on a shrine, not on a guest. My first thought was that Iowa was forfeiting. My second thought was that the governor had shown up behind us. I turned around too. Mostly so I wouldn't be the only guy facing the wrong way. They were waving at a building. There's a children's hospital right across the street. The top floor is big windows. And in the windows, little kids. Hospital gowns. A boy with an IV pole. A girl holding a sign over her head with both arms. I couldn't read it from there. Seventy thousand people waving at them. Then the players on the field turned around and waved. Then the other team's players. Then the refs. A minute, maybe. Then everybody sat back down and played football like nothing happened. I asked Kyle if it was a special day. "Every home game. Since 2017." "Who decided?" He thought about it. "Some mom posted it on Facebook, I think." No law. No committee. One mom on Facebook, and 70,000 people have done it every home game since. I don't remember much about the second quarter. I went back two weeks later. I turned around too early, before the whistle, and the man behind me put his hand on my shoulder. "Not yet, buddy." Then the whistle. A little boy on the 12th floor waved right at me. Kyle says you can't tell from that far. I could tell.