I went to a high school football game as a college student--and it wasn’t the same.
By Shawn Fleetwood
“Aaaaaaaaand Indians manage to hold the Hawks to 4th down. Making the tackle for Stafford football is number 55, Ian Smith!”
As the blue and gold crowd around me cheers with enthusiasm at the announcer’s latest loudspeaker update, I sit there in a daze. Four years ago, I would’ve found myself down in the student section alongside my classmates, joining in on all the fun and cheering on my school. Flash forward to the present, and I seemingly couldn’t care less.
Who is Ian Smith? And what happened to the Josh Fisher’s and Landon Woodson’s of my high school years? The people that were once the celebrity of my youth have suddenly been replaced by complete unknowns. The blue and gold helmets look the same, but the faces underneath are of total strangers.
High school football has long remained a favorite pastime among American high school students. I mean, who could forget the infinite number of TV shows and movies centered around the game? Titles such as Friday Nights Lights, Remember the Titans, and The Blind Side have become generational phenomena. States like Texas, which USA Today dubbed “the high school football capital of the world,” have taken the game to the extreme and have made it a part of their lifestyle.
Unlike in Texas, where the game is ingrained into the very existence of some communities, high school football in Virginia is fairly different. In the good ole’ commonwealth, there is no “coming together” of the local community. Outside of family, students attending their respective schools seem to be the only ones who actually give a damn about who wins Friday’s game.
For those Virginia students that do show up every Friday night, however, these games are everything. For four years, the smearing of paint across their cheeks and memorization of ritualized chants have become a fabric of who they are. Any stranger to the game would almost think that these kids have joined a cult.
But what happens when those four years are up and students are forced to go their separate ways?
* * *
I decided to answer for myself by returning to my roots at Stafford High School and seeing what it’d be like to be part of the ‘Tribe’ again.
Waiting my turn in the ticket line, I reach into my wallet and pull out the six dollars needed to get in. I vividly remember how I had it made senior year when I was an assistant athletic trainer. Simply say the magic words “I’m in sports med with Ms. Cortese” and you were guaranteed free entry into any sporting event you could possibly dream of. The thought of using the phrase to save me a couple of bucks crosses my mind, but I decide against it.
Making the exchange with the lady at the window, I slip the ticket in my back pocket and head along the curved path towards the stadium. Blue figures flash in my peripheral. I turn to see the Stafford players running drills in the endzone, warming up for the night ahead with the stadium lights reflecting off their helmets. Attempting to see the faces inside, I realize that I recognize none of them.
Upon reaching the bleachers, my hand grazes the cool, metallic stair handle as I ascend to the top. I situate myself on an empty row, waiting patiently for my friends to arrive. Looking across the stadium, I see a sea of blue and gold as family members quickly filter in to watch the night’s affairs. Years ago, I would’ve already heard my name shouted out by the parents of my friends. Now I just sit in silence, taking in the scenery of the strangers all around me.
Back then, we were more than a student section: we were a large, dysfunctional family that savored the thrill of the moment and experiencing something we saw as worthwhile. Nothing could keep us away from standing in those bleachers every Friday night. At least, that’s what it felt like anyways.
In many ways, the whole phenomenon was reflective of the hierarchy of what we regularly experience in high school. The classmates you see cheering in the student section every Friday night are oftentimes the same ones that get invited to all the cool parties, nominated for prom court, and have their own “class group chat.” Those that fit the stereotypical “nerd” or “geek” personas were noticeably absent.
But at the end of the day, nobody questions it. Everyone knows where they stand and seems to be perfectly fine with how things are. It’s almost as if it’s natural instinct for most high schoolers to simply adapt to this kind of existing social structure and embrace that the role that is seemingly chosen for them.
My friends Brendan and Leona soon arrive, snapping me out of my thoughts. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, our conversation shifts to multiple, miscellaneous topics, ranging from how they’re settling into their new home in Richmond, to our thoughts on the latest Marvel movie. Glancing at the scoreboard, I notice that the game’s already halfway through the 2nd quarter, with Brooke Point leading 22-0. “Whoah, when did that happen?” I ask. “I have absolutely no idea,” replies Brendan. We all laugh and continue on with our conversation, barely noticing as Brooke Point scores two more touchdowns to make it 36-0 at halftime.
As the horn buzzes to signal halftime, the blowout score prompts Leona to bring up our senior year when Stafford football went to the state semi-finals. We all begin to reminisce, smiling as we detail the student section antics of our youth that included storming the field on homecoming night and hiding clearly intoxicated friends from school staff patrolling the stadium.
“And now we pay a mortgage and work 40 hours a week,” says Leona. “My god how life changes.”
* * *
Four years later, those same thrills have vanished. Gone are the carefree Friday evenings where school rules were meant to be broken and life could be lived on the edge. Gone are the classmates I used to cheer alongside but haven’t seen since graduation. And gone are the players whose jersey numbers now belong to someone else.
Only now looking back do I realize that the cultural phenomenon of high school football is merely a facade. It isn’t so much the love of the game that we relish, but rather the people that we surround ourselves with in those formative years and the experience of being a part of something bigger than ourselves.
No longer could we count on the communal aspect of high school football to hold us together. Those four years may provide us with a jock or nerd identity to call our own, but the reality of the world after graduation forces us all to figure out who we really are. As we step out of that bubble, we’re not only given the opportunity to shape our own character, but also to find out what role we’re supposed to play in the larger scheme of life.
* * *
As the last seconds on the clock tick to zero, I notice the student section as it begins to disassemble and its members head for the exits. If I was one of them, I’d probably be on my way to the local McDonald’s or Cookout to continue the “post-game ritual” of stuffing yourself with some of the unhealthiest food imaginable.
But I remember that I’m not one of them. Not anymore. Those short, four seasons of high school football are memories that I’ll always cherish, but never relive. My time as a member of the “Tribe” has passed and the priorities in my life are so unbelievably different from what they were back then.
Walking towards the exit, I leave behind the memory of my own version of Friday Night Lights. High schoolers should enjoy theirs too, for once the stadium lights go out, there’s no way of ever turning them back on.