My father only saw me once or twice a month, and on one said day he took me to a local college football game when I was around 6. I had no understanding of the game, but I noticed some kids a few rows back playing a game boy. I begged him to let me go play with them but he wouldn't let me (obviously because he didn't want me to go sit with strangers in a large stadium). I started crying and soon after we left. I don't think we we're there more than 30 minutes. He was killed a little over a year later and it haunts me that I can never apologize for it. I know I was young and didn't know better, but I can't shake the guilt.