Karri Buck – Consultant, Virtual Assistant, Paralegal
Boys of Fall
I know next to nothing about football. I’m at the tail end of my second year as a football mom. Sad, isn’t it? Offsides, false starts, live ball, flea flicker, 3 points, 1 point, touchback? Very limited understanding. That endzone though? Oh, buddy. Watch out. If that ball makes it past the 20-yard line and it looks promising, you’d better believe I’m out of my seat and taking up a large acreage around me with my hands out, urging the running player onward, and hollering at the top of my lungs! I am a touchdown junkie.
I was never much into football growing up. I was into rodeo, because, well, cowboys. There is no other needed explanation. I watched football games, or mostly the clock, waiting to escape the cold so that I could attend whatever event my friends and I had planned for Friday evening. I just didn’t understand the passion behind what seemed like a senseless sport to me at the time. Several years ago my dad introduced me to the movie “Radio”. Ed Harris has a line in that movie towards the end, in the coffee shop. He says, “I love Friday night when you’re looking for a win and I love Saturday morning when you found one.” With two seasons of football under my belt, I’m beginning to see what he meant.
Friday night during football season has its own buzz. It’s a drug of choice for grown men who once ran that field with their own teammates. Now they’re watching their boys or even grandsons become the next generation of local sports heroes. Their chest sticks out a little further, they grin from ear to ear nudging their friend or spouse next to them as their boy runs onto that field. The cheers, and sometimes air horns or cowbells, provide a deafening soundtrack to the night. The smell of popcorn, hotdogs and BBQ fill the air as the people fill the stands. The boys line the field as they watch their teammates fall into the formation of whatever play coach has called. They are a united voice on the sidelines. When the play is in action the boys holler, “Pass!” or “Run!’ depending on the other team’s choice of play. When it’s our turn to have the ball and a play is successful or ends in a touchdown, the boys chest bump mid-air, excitedly clap each other’s helmets and emit a sound that can only be described as pure ecstasy; the crowd behind them nearly as excited and making enough noise to wake the dead. If that moment doesn’t give you the feels, someone ought to check your pulse.
Friday nights level the field. Pun intended. Every boy on the field is provided the same gear: pads, helmets, uniform, etc. When they get on the field, the only thing that matters is talent, not a name, a dollar amount or which political campaign you contributed to. The same thing happens in the stands. For a couple of hours there is no black, white, upper-class, working-class, doctor, lawyer, banker or farmer. For those blissful hours, everyone is on the same side. Those are “our” boys, no matter who they belong to. Elbow to elbow societal hierarchy falls by the wayside to get behind a team of boys who aren’t even old enough to vote, but have the ability to unite with one small, brown ball.
The last two years have been a learning curve. I know that practice will start on time, but it will end when the coach says it does. I know that injuries are common, hurt feelings even more so. I know the pain of watching your kid not play. I know the joy of him running onto the field. I know the feeling of loving the coaches and wanting to string them up all in the same breath. I know the feeling of pride when the coach has my kid’s back.
I know the sound of a fist hitting a helmet. I know the sound of a fight starting on the field. I know the sound of silence when a player is injured. I know the sign of respect as all players take a knee until the outcome is determined. I know the feeling of exhaustion chasing a kid across the countryside so that he knows we are his biggest supporters. I know the sheer exuberance of seeing my kid’s number as he runs out of the tunnel. I know the way a coach’s wife looks after a win and I know what her face looks like after a loss. I know what a clipboard sailing through the air looks like when coach has reached his limit for the night. I know what happiness looks like when the winning touchdown is scored. I know what it looks like when the coach takes a player’s head in his hands, touches forehead to forehead and whispers words of encouragement that I can’t hear, but I know are shaping the next 60 years of that young man’s life. I might not know a lot about football, but I do know this: Friday nights in the Fall are my favorite nights. Here’s to the boys, support staff, team managers and coaches of Fall. May God bless you.