Tuesday Night Lights

Tuesday Night Lights

Brisk wind grazes my cheek, rushing past the edge of my plastic poncho’s hood.  I lean back, welcoming the rough chain links that support my tired spine.  I glance at the clock and see 4:39.  “Man, halftime is short,” I think to myself as I set the rusty scoreboard controller on the damp bleacher next to me and stand up to stretch.  It is a cool October night, with drizzling rain – perfect football weather.  Our 8^th grade B team handily won the first game, now the A team boys are fighting for the second.

I glance around and my eyes take in the scene behind the bleachers in a field that is more dirt than grass.  Boys are grouped up by age, engaged in various football drills.  While there are no pads, helmets, or teams, these boys are learning to play.  Tough dads bark orders and little boys hastily comply.  The older ones are running tires, doing knee-highs, and perfecting a three-point stance.  They attack these simple drills with faces made of stone, never wavering in their determination to be the best. 

On one side of the field a teenager wearing a sling on his arm speaks to a group of rapt elementary age students, explaining to them how important the line is in protecting the quarterback.  They nod appreciatively and marvel at the high school jersey hanging from his broad shoulders. 

Preschool aged boys, egged on by proud fathers, take turns clutching a football tightly and running through an obstacle course of plastic cones.  “Take care of the football!” reminds a large man high-fiving them as they pass.  Off to the muddy edge, a group of toddlers play with nerf footballs under the supervision of older sisters as their mothers watch the ‘big boys.’  The girls point and stare at the boys practicing while feigning disinterest when the boys return their admiring gazes.  The mothers evaluate each boy as well as the men coaching them.  They exchange appreciative nods at jobs well done and knowing looks when a reprimand is given. 

“Miss, I got you some nachos,” chirps a voice behind me.  I turn to see a former student wearing a band T-shirt holding the nachos and a drink form the concession stand where she is working tonight.  I reach for my purse and she stops me saying “Don’t worry about it.  It’s on us.  Thanks for keeping score tonight.”  She grins and trots back down the steps towards the hut on the side of the field house.

I hear the twang of the aluminum bleacher as I plop back down to enjoy my snack.  My eyes travel off past the scoreboard to the varsity practice field where even from this distance I can hear the whistles blowing and the bodies crashing into one another.  I watch young men pushing themselves to their limit running, blocking, tackling, and kicking.  Tonight they wear simple practice jerseys, once white, now the color of grass, dirt, and sweat all worked in over many weeks. 

Past them, on yet another field, I see the junior varsity team doing conditioning drills.  Without complaint, each boy runs, drops, rises, and runs again.  With aching legs, they continue the drills.  I see a boy fall out, and 3 others grab him and pull him along.  The coaches don’t intervene, but they know that the bond these boys form will carry them through the toughest games of the season.  As their practice ends, some of the boys head for the field house, but many don’t.  They drag themselves back onto that well-trodden field for a few more reps.  The coaches watch in silence, with approving nods.

In the distance I can see the stadium.  The lights are on, and the grounds crew is hard at work mowing and painting, preparing for Friday night.  Its tall bleachers and covered press box would be much more welcoming than this cold bench right now, but playing on that field is an honor reserved for only the high school’s elite.

All too soon, the harsh metallic buzzing ends my reverie.  I set the clock for 8 more minutes and watch our soggy huddle break up as the boys rush back onto the field.  Their exhilaration seems contagious and the cheerleaders break into wild giggles.  Despite the rain and the mud, their love of the game shines through.  

As I watch them slog through each play, my mind drifts over the football memories in my head. Stories my dad has told me about his own playing days filled with tough coaches and even tougher players.  I remember watching games perched on my grandfather’s hospital bed in his final days.  Freezing while bundled in all my ski gear attending the playoffs with my dad. Buying and selling tickets in the parking lot and learning the language of the scalpers.  Attending South Grand Prairie High School’s homecoming with my parents and hearing my mom tell her drill team stories.  Listening to my Uncle Brent cheer on the Cowboys as my grandmother did her victory dances.  Football intertwines family, passion, and character. 

As I look around me I see another generation growing up under the lights – not the Friday night lights that bring prestige and honor. The ones filled with long, hot practices, tough coaches, endless conditioning drills, and no spectators – the Tuesday night lights.