Signs and Wonders: High School Football

One sure sign of Fall: high school football kicked off last night across Alabama.

College football is king here, a place where you must choose between one of two teams, and close friends and even family members may not speak to each other for an entire year depending on the outcome of a game in November. But high school football is still pretty important, especially in the small towns of rural Alabama. Places like Eufaula, Reeltown, Ashland, Demopolis, and Brewton. Places where there's not much to do but grow up, graduate, and go to work. Where generations of men have suited up as Aggies, Bulldogs, Tigers, or Generals for a few Friday nights that became a lifetime of memories and stories. Where you can still find grown men with families and mortgages and problems "down at the plant" sitting on picnic tables outside the Dairy Queen and talking about an October night twenty-five years ago when "it looked bad at half time, but Sammy ran wild in the second half and we won 28-27."

High school football is a rite of passage in these little towns. A connection between place and time as well as fathers and sons. I vividly remember crisp Friday nights of childhood, going with my dad to see his Alma mater in our town. There was always an ancient black lady named Mabell who sold roasted peanuts (they were called "parched peanuts" then) in front of the stadium--a lady rumored to know voodoo and who supposedly carried a straight razor to fend off peanut thieves. We always sat with my uncle, a man who finished his Friday nights of glory and spent the rest of his life working in the cotton mill. But he never forgot. I can remember numerous occasions when his beloved team was down by three touchdowns in the fourth quarter. But a first down or two would have him on the edge of his seat, fist clinching and unclenching, muttering "we're coming back" like a Tibetan mantra (and no, uncle Arnold, they weren't coming back. They never came back).

I was not immune to the fever. My first year was great. An inspiring coach--the kind who made speeches that made you play better than you really were. A good season one win shy of the playoffs. The second year forever limited my glory stories: a new coach and a few returning players led to a win less senior season. My last memory of playing football is walking off the field after that final defeat to our biggest rival, who had only won one game previously that season. Their stands chanting "'O and ten, do it again"; ours responding "two and eight and you think you're great."

My youngest son has better stories to tell. A three year starter for a big school in a larger town, he knows far more about wins and glory than his father or grandfather. Yearly trips to the playoffs. Playing in front of thousands instead of a few hundred. Late night highlights on television news. A year of college ball to prove he could play at "the next level". Memories and knees still intact.

But for others, high school football is still essential to life. So much so that it even requires serious thought and planning. I recently learned that an old acquaintance was considering holding back his son's entry into first grade (he has a late August birthday) because it would give him a year's advantage over the other kids in football. Knowing his dad's athletic ability, I doubt five years would make any difference.