Thursday night lights. No that isn’t a typo. If your kid plays JV, you play on Thursday night, not Friday night. I’m Bobby Boucher’s momma from the movie, The Waterboy. I hate football but every one of these boys playing and these girls cheering need to be here. That band that’s been practicing all summer in the heat while wearing masks, they need to be here too. These kids are all performers in one way or another and they need to perform. It’s in their DNA. They need that validation and recognition in their thing of choice.
Tonight, is the biggest game of the season. It’s a showdown of the two high schools in Metroburg. It’s a grudge match to end all grudge matches. I don’t want to be here but my kid is on this field. I hate sitting on a hard ass metal bench in temps that would rival the 7th level of hell or Siberia. I hate the overpriced nasty food. I hate the parents yelling at their kids from the stands knowing damn well those kids can’t hear that yelling. I hate the over zealous coaches trying to relive their glory days through these kids. I’m hating wearing this mask outside when I am already distanced like 12 feet from my nearest neighbor. A neighbor that is wearing a jersey with the last name “Stank” on it. How unfortunate is that?
Yet, here I sit because that’s my kid down there and it’s important. So, I’ll sit here in my mask, my eyes trained on my kid’s number and pray he doesn’t get creamed by some big kid on the other team.