I never understood the allure of football until I had a kid who played football.
I actually never really understood the allure of any sport. I never played any sport, I don’t like to run or have people throw things at me.
I was never a cheerleader, although I did try out once when I was 12. It was at my elementary school, we were the Bulldogs. I got up early on a Saturday, sat in the gym, practiced the chant in my head, when they called my name I lined up and waited for my turn. Then it became my turn.
I yelled, “Go Bulldogs,” and started to run to the center of the gym but realized I’d forgotten how to run, so I walked, stood, forgot my cheer, did something weird with my hands and then attempted the worst hurkee in human history.
I did not make cheerleader.
We blessedly moved that summer.
Sadly, this event does not even make it on the list of my top ten most embarrassing moments.
Sports were not my thing.
But then, my third and last son, after a combination of a pivotal growth spurt and Crossfit, got good at football.
I am now a fan, and I get why the concept of high school sports is such a very big deal for people who participate in them.
It is not just because it’s fun, or that it teaches one to be disciplined, or that it gives one a sense of self-confidence, it’s because a person is actually leaving a little bit of themselves behind.
Like the handprints of a phantom, breath and sweat and adrenaline soak into the atmosphere and leave their marks.
They are the fertilization of roots.
They are the creation of alma-maters.
They are what make people long for home no matter how much home has changed, because these marks remain the same.
Time is often like a flimsy plastic bag in the wind, erratic and non-negotiable. But, sometimes, it allows us to hold it and peer inside, and it recalls our names, even when everyone else has forgotten.
Time can be still. It stands next to cheers on the sidelines, or breathes up into the faces of bodies crouched on the field, or even sits next to a nervous mother in the stands. In these moments we can hear time whisper, “This feeling you will remember.”
And so we do, forever.
As football season draws close to an end, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote last year. You may insert whatever color you wish. This poem just happens to be “Blue.”
The Boys in Blue
Boys in blue against green grass with steady breaths and wild pulses, are perched and ready.
They move all at once, their arms and legs are parts of a single-minded machine long ago started by other boys in blue.
Acoustic heart beats echo in their ears to created a symphony of excellence.
They follow its lead launching into battle, after battle, after battle, to once again take a field.
They are all brought closer to winning the war and possessing, for a time, a tiny piece of the world.
And their fearless leaders? They smile because they know the true importance of these moments, and give glory to God and to the boys in blue.
Best of luck to the Indianola Academy Colonels as they enter the playoffs, to the Gentry Rams as they play O’Bannon, and to every other boy stepping on a field.
