“Have you been to a real football game lately?”

By

Gerry Niskern

The bright lights on the football field below our house have been on late in the evening the past few weeks. Down on the turf at the high school the jerseys are wet with sweat. It’s still in the upper 90’s at 7 o’clock. “Down-set-hut-hut!” The snap and the quarterback falls back and looks for the receiver. The slap of pads hitting pads and grunts, when spikes hit skin, fills the air as each linesman nails his guy. The scrimmaging goes on and on as these kids learn to play as a unit.

The boys get used to being called a few unprintables if they don’t hit hard enough, but as one young player confessed, “The worse part is the wind sprints at the end of practice.”   They won’t leave until around 8 and then it’s homework time. “If your coach is your science or math teacher, he’s harder on you than anybody.”

The quarterback doesn’t pull down 20 million a year and the halfback on this team didn’t receive a big fat signing bonus when he joined the team. They are required to sign in for workout during the summer. Most of the kids on the football squad at your high school can’t wait for the bell after last period.   Sure, there’s a little thought in the back of everyone’s mind that “maybe I could make the pros someday”, but that’s not what keeps them out there night after night. They love the game.

One of my earliest memories as a toddler back east is of sitting on the bleachers between my parents in the falling snow. While we cheered our team to victory the white stuff piled up on the blanket covering our laps. My uncle was their four- year quarterback. He was small but quick. He had to be. The steel mill towns up the river had a habit of keeping full-grown men in high school, at least through the football season. They played with little padding and Uncle Joe was rarely replaced during the game. I remember my mother screaming, “They’re piling on our boy.”

Years later in Phoenix, the big game at my high school was always on Thanksgiving Day. Back then most mothers timed the turkey to come out around six in the evening. After all, the Coyotes of Phoenix Union was playing their bitter rivals, the Mustangs of North High. The red and black against the red and blue was the best game of the year.

Forget the Pros. Think about taking your family to one of the games at your neighborhood high school. The Vikings have been gearing up. So have the Mountain Lions, Eagles, Knights, Cobras, Coyotes, Cardinals, Rockets, Demons, Trojans, Mustangs. The list goes on.

Most games start around 7 and are over early. The tickets are no more than three or four dollars. The bleachers aren’t wooden anymore and if you need a backrest, sit up top. Maybe you can show your kids or grandkids the plays you used to make or mom can teach them one of her old high school’s cheers. As you walk along the sidelines, you will feel part of the tension of the parents who have taxied these players to their practices year after year. They’ll be secretly praying that there is no “piling on” their boy.

When the band marches onto the field you’ll wish you knew the words of the school song. And I promise you, you’ll see a real football game!