I was living.
And, for the life of me, I couldn’t decide why that made me want to scream in joy as much as it made me want to cry.
Thankfully, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. As soon as we pulled up at North Valley’s field, that same energy I’d felt in practice all week swept over us like a strong summer wind, and we got down to business.
There was something about Friday night football in Tennessee, an energy unlike any other in the entire world.
It was almost impossible to explain it to anyone who hadn’t experienced it themselves, that cocktail of anticipation and excitement with a twist of anxiety. The passion for these teams ran deep in the blood of not just the students, but the entire town. There were painted faces and giant handmade signs and whistles and cowbells and synchronized cheers.
When it was game time, nothing else mattered.
Not for any of us.
I scanned the stands for my daughter, and when I found her sitting next to Randy with her wide eyes scanning our players as they warmed up, I smiled. She was pointing to each one of them and rambling on and on to her father — likely about who she thought should play, what their stats were, what part they played in last week’s loss, and what they would need to do to turn it around.
Randy nodded and listened, but I didn’t miss how much his eyes watched me instead of the players.
I was glad I took that moment before the game to find my daughter in the crowd, to watch the excitement on her face, because from the moment that first whistle blew, I didn’t have another spare minute.
The boys played hard.
They had something to prove.
And there wasn’t a single moment of that game that I wasn’t wrapping or icing or working on sprains or joints or helping someone stretch out or checking them for concussions or watching a loud collision from the sidelines while I silently prayed nothing was broken in the process. I ran on and off the field more times than I could count, players on the ground with the stands silent until we both stood in unison and I got them to the sidelines.
It was a long and grueling game.
But when the final seconds on the scoreboard ticked down, we had twenty-eight points, and the Hornets had twenty-five.
We won.
It was an explosion of excitement from our sideline, benched players and all the coaches running out on the field to meet the team. I laughed from beside the bench, watching the high fives and hugs — not just with our own players, but with the other team’s, too. It was perhaps my favorite part of football, that camaraderie that was shown to the opponent at the end.
“Mama!”
I turned to find Paige leaning over the railing of the stands, and I rushed to her, jumping up to high five her outstretched hand.
“We won, we won!”
I chuckled. “We did, didn’t we?”
“If you ask me, it’s because Coach and I had a talk.” She looked up at her dad then, who was narrowing his eyes at me. “I know what I’m talking about when it comes to football, don’t I, Daddy?”
“No one knows more, munchkin,” he said, but his eyes still bore into me. I stood straighter, which I knew he hated.
He was so used to me cowering under that gaze.
“She told me you guys ran into Jordan at the park after I left,” he mused. “How convenient.”
I had to fight so hard not to roll my eyes, I barely had enough strength to respond. “He was there washing his car. Paige saw him and ran over to light into him about the game.” I turned my attention back to her. “Which worked, apparently.”
Her smile doubled, and she bounced a little, her wild curls hopping with her. “Can we stick around to talk to Coach, Daddy?” She tugged on his sleeve. “Please, please, please!”
“They’ve got to load up on the busses, sweetheart,” he said to her, rubbing her head to pacify her as she pouted. “And we’ve got important business, too.”
“We do?”
He nodded, lowering himself nearer to her ear and whispering, “Ice cream.”
Paige lit up at that, squealing and bouncing for a new reason. Randy chuckled and I couldn’t help but laugh, too.
When our eyes met, we shared a brief moment of understanding.
A brief insight into what it felt like to look at each other before.
But as soon as it had come, it was gone again.
I hardened my gaze, his laugh slipped off, and with a quick hug and instructions to be good, Paige grabbed his hand and they were gone.
It was complete chaos for Jordan after the game ended. He was talking to local news reporters and shaking hands with administration and doing business with scouts and stealing players away for brief moments of either criticism or praise or both. It wasn’t until we were back on the bus that he had a moment to himself, and as soon as he sat down next to me, he blew out a breath.