Life As an Afterschool Special

When I was in high school I had my own column in the local paper.

It was a “students view” of what was happening in our town.

Our town LOVED football. They still do. Its like Varsity Blues or something.

My parents went to almost every home game for eight years.

They have the tee shirts, and the sweat shirts, and the jackets.

All of my sisters and I had varsity jackets. We wore blue and gold ribbions in our hair and the boys jerseys to games. We painted paw prints on our faces. We had SPIRIT.

We were PROUD of the home team.

One of my most “famous” articles was about my last highschool home game. After I wrote it grown men came up to me with tears in their eyes and told me that the loved it, that they saved it, that it reminded them of their “glory days”

I was 18. And completely overdramtic, but I had a passion to write and passion for my town and passion for the game.

So here it is….

On Friday I stood on the football field with my eyes closed tightly. Perhaps I was trying to capture the moment, or perhaps I knew if I opened my eyes the tears I felt would soon overflow. I felt as if by closing my eyes, I could immortalize every detail of the night in time. I would remember the crisp autumn air, the full moon, the starry sky, and the thrill of a close game.

It was the last time the class of 1997 would play at home, and I felt a bit nostalgic as I stood on the field.

Over the past four years I have been to countless football games, but it is only now that I truly appreciate what I had. I have come to respect and admire the boys who dedicate so much to our school. I have watched them experience triumph and sorrow on the field, and I have seen them grow because of it.

I have enjoyed watching Coach Rowley. I know he feels every glorious moment of victory and every agonizing moment of defeat along side his athletes. I see it in his face. I have enjoyed the fans, the cheerleaders, the band, and the spirit of the game. I have enjoyed the things you can always count on seeing, like Blue and Gold in the stands and Coach Rowley’s bright yellow pants. I know I will come here many more times in my life, but it will never mean what it does now.

I felt it, and so did many of my friends around me. It was obvious in each of their faces.

It was also obvious in the eyes of the senior athletes. As the boys walked off the field there were tears in their eyes. The field was a place where dreams were made and broken. It was a place where boys became men, and destines were fulfilled. It is the place where their memories will linger on long after they are gone.

As the night drew to a close I reached down and took a small handful of grass off the field. I held it in my hand, taking a piece of the past with me. I looked around at the individuals I had spent the past four years with, and I realized no matter how far we are from one another, we are always united in our history. The class of 1997 held on to each other for a moment, finding comfort in shared experiences.

Then we turned and left the field the same way we entered…together.

Ok so it is cheesy.

Especially the “It was a place where boys became men, and destines were fulfilled” line.

But I meant it at the time.

And the truth is I still mean it.

I loved my high school.

I loved my friends.

I loved going to the games.

And even now, nine years later, that article takes me back to that autumn night… when I believed anything was possible.

And it is true… that no matter how far we go, we ARE always united in our memories.

(go wildcats)