Small Town High School Football

I have no time for or interest in pro (or even college) sports. Give me, instead, small town high school football.

I love the volunteer labor force: the eager ticket takers, the friendly concession stand workers, the local cops with their guns on their belts and their hands in their pockets.

I love the passion of the people in the stands: real passion, born of seeing the players grow up, of knowing their parents, of dining next to them at the local pizzeria more times than can be counted.

I love the tribal energy on the field. The warriors clash and strut. The women pose and gyrate. The earnest but clumsy band works itself into a frenzy. The prize is won and lost and won again.

I love the watery hot chocolate, served lukewarm in a styrofoam cup, with clumps of powder floating on the surface. I love eating salty, oily popcorn right from the red- and white-striped cardboard box. I love the smell of cheap hotdogs and fat meat patties on the concession grill, and the way the grey cook smoke hovers over the face of the field in the still November air.

Forget steroids and corporate sponsors and steroids. This is what football should be.

Posted with Blogsy