I think high school football games are the best kind of football games. Some people prefer the pros, or college, or even the little elementary two-touch-as-opposed-to-tackle football when the kids are just going into first grade, but high school is my favorite. I don't know why; I couldn't quite explain that to you, maybe it just is that way. Maybe it's the fact that everybody's there together cheering and routing for the school together, acting like crazy idiots, but in the long run we're all a family that night. And you're out there, cheering for your "brothers" on that field, and you just get this great feeling.
Tonight was a lot of fun. Just being there was the best part, screaming my lungs out, cheering on "that boy in my math class," or "that kid I sit next to in English." It's weird to see them once they put on that helmet and padding. It's like they're looked at as some iconic figure in the student body. A celebrity, perhaps. As we were making our way up to the turf field from the gym, the team was walking out through the grass soccer field, and it looked like a scene out of Remember the Titans or something. There's honestly just something about the football players - in that sense that makes them so looked up upon - that I can't quite place my finger on but know it's there. They're like superheroes, maybe.
Then there's that boy that you can't keep your eyes off of, and he's on the varsity team. He plays the entire time; wow, is he good. When he gets tossed around you feel a slight pain in your heart. Is he okay? He hops back to his feet, his comrades slapping him on the shoulder pads and gleaming white helmet. He's fine. Phew. Take a breath.
He's a quiet boy in English class. When he talks it takes your breath away; his voice is the perfect tempo - deep, but not scary deep. It's a low mysterious murmur, but it's something beautiful. You can see his muscles through his shirt and suddenly pity the boy from another school that, chances are, he'll never see again, but he has to be slammed in the face (or helmet cage) with that tonight. His blue eyes are alight with wonder. The veins in his arms twist up and around his biceps, and his smile is sleek and quiet. Not loud. His smiles are never loud. You really have to look and wait in order to catch them, because they're sort of something rare. Well, the real ones are.
When he runs on the field you can see the muscles in his legs. You wonder what his thoughts are. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, he'll take off that pearl-of-a-helmet to reveal his ruffled black hair, plastered to his face with sweat. What does he think when he sees someone - another boy who's easily 6'5 - charging at him? It can't be that much of a competition, because he's that height, too.
You're distracted when suddenly you see the ditzy girl in front of you is wearing his away jersey. Your heart sinks. You feel like you're being kicked in the stomach. Why would he give his jersey to her? He's quiet, she's loud. He doesn't drink, she does. He's smart as Einstein, and she's really actually unintelligent. But she's pretty. And he's so painfully handsome that it hurts. She probably asked, right? That's what you want to think. You never know, though.
But you keep on smiling for everyone. And enjoy the evening that you'll grow to love in nostalgic washes of guilt sometime in college when you're huddled over a desk, tapping your pencil to the beat of the sneakers on bleachers and the sounds of the drums under those Friday night lights.
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