Friday night lights — there is nothing like it. Cool temperatures, the roar of the crowd and the smell of freshly popped popcorn. Folks are cheering, clapping and calling out, “Watch for the fake,” and chanting, “Defense!” And if I knew what the heck was going on down on the field, I could really get in on the action.
Alas, I know just enough to make me dangerous. I know the goal of the game is to get the football into the opponent’s end zone. I know penalties are bad, that we want a first down and to drive the ball methodically up the field as efficiently as possible.
Although I don’t know a bootleg from a buttonhook, I can recognize a clip. And, thanks to a few tips from fellow fans, I now know what encroachment is.
To quote my sidekick, Toni, “Our little girl is really growing up!”
Some say the best games are the close ones — the contests where it is neck and neck the whole time, and it ain’t over until it’s over.
Quite frankly, I much more enjoy a relaxing game. I like it when our team is far ahead and the outcome of the game is obvious from the get-go. I can then settle in my Sherpa coat, socialize in my stadium seat and crack jokes like it’s my job.
But sometimes that just doesn’t happen. Take a recent contest, for instance. The opponents scored, then we scored — oh no, wait! That one was called back due to a block in the back. Then they fumbled the ball, we scooped it up, and I’ll be darned if we didn’t just score again!
Anyone who has been around the game knows one team must be several touchdowns ahead before one can breathe easy, and trust me when I say that did not happen last week.
Moments later, the opponent was tiptoeing into the end zone, and although excessive celebrations result in a penalty, I’m sure the whole team was mentally doing the “chicken dance” and holding up a large foam No. 1 finger.
Back and forth it went — and just when we would get far enough ahead that I could settle in my seat, the victory seemed to be slipping away again.
Talk about anxiety and chest pain.
My heart was racing, and I found it hard to swallow. I know it’s just a game and there are certainly more important things in the world. But I’ll tell you, as I sat in the stands and watched our team play, I wanted nothing more than to win — even if I didn’t know what the heck was going on.
“I hate this game!” I called out to no one in particular after we went three and out. “Will this never end?” I asked after we received a penalty. And when the opponent’s running back had a 99-yard run and subsequent touchdown, I leaned my head back and hollered, “Oh, for crying in the night!”
I slumped my shoulders, stomped my feet, and groaned and moaned.
Seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes were like hours. Timeouts were called, first downs stopped the clock, and I was quite certain that by the time this contest was over my clothes would have gone out of style.
Not that anyone would have noticed under my Sherpa coat.
But the gods of football were shining upon us, and when the clock ran out and proclaimed us the victor, I was suddenly happy as a lark. “That was a great game!” I called out again to no one in particular. “Really enjoyed it,” I said to folks who passed and, as if we hadn’t almost gotten the socks knocked off of us, I walked away with a smile.
Football and Friday night lights — there is nothing quite like it. Until next Friday, that is. Then, I’m not even going to lie to you — sometimes I hate that game.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons. You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].