A Bubble Off Plumb

I spent some time Thursday night at a football game. I was there to shoot for the paper, and even though the merciless heat was very reminiscent of my own high school days, little else was similar.

The high school I went to was big – big enough to split my freshman class and send half to the newly built school across the county. The football team was a perennial powerhouse, usually going to the state playoffs in one of the upper divisions.

Our band, too, was enormous and my senior year, it was the lead off band in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Only the best sounding crews wind up there.

One might think, with that background, a small-town football game might make a pretty dull evening.

Not much could be further from the facts.

It was all right there, an experience stored away in the back of my mind like a precious pearl.

It was the thought of how vital it seemed on those weekends to win, for the team to perform well, for the cheerleaders to sparkle as brightly as stage lights. It was as if life itself hung in the balance.

The same need shone in every face, on both sides of the field. The band members played their hearts out, whether there were 10 or 200.

The same pride was there in the faces of the parents in the stands, watching their kids sweating, often playing both offense and defense, hustling, hustling, working for the W. It was familiar in an unknown way.

The sun went down, and the light went with it. I’m not a skilled enough photographer to capture usable photos with field lights, so I headed out.

But driving home, windows rolled down, crickets chirping, I was right back there with those kids in the stadium and those who I sat next to more than 40 years ago. The memories and recollections, the rush of that old Friday-night feeling – on a Thursday, no less – were a gift of immeasurable value.

And just like those longago evenings, it was a long, long time before I could drift off to sleep.