Football Season is here, in all of it’s glory.
The sun is low in the west, and the game lights cast long, thick shadows on the field. The late summer heat is inescapable, palpable. Dozens of adolescent girls in shorts and skirts form a tunnel on the field of battle, waiting for warrior boys. A paper banner is pulled taught, and the crowd roars with expectation for the home team.
Boys streak through the paper, past the bare legs and faces of the cheerleaders, flooding onto the field, braced and ready. They will fight for friends, family and school, for glory, for football.
The field is prepped for battle. The lines are drawn. Armored in helmets and pads, trousers, and gloves each player is a warrior, with painted faces and generals, armed with clip boards and headsets.
As one body, the crowd stands and men grab their John Deere baseball caps and cup them to their breasts quietly. Everyone gazes at a flag, hanging limply in the heat.
A minute and a half later the crowd erupts, cheering and clapping after the anthem to the republic. Cowbells clang as coaches bellow, barking and back-slapping players onto the field.
Another game starts, but not on the field of play. Boys not more then four feet tall, painted by dirt and sweat scramble with a ball behind the bleachers, breathless for the day that they too can be on the field. There are now coaches or referees, just a ball and their passions, chasing in circles as young girls watch, chewing gum and messaging each other on their phones. They too are waiting their turn.
As one, the spectators live for every possession. When their boys cross the goal line, it is their goal, and they stand for it, crowing and clapping with delight. When a player is tackled hard, a collective breath is held. There is a unity in the stands, a singleness of purpose to support those warriors on the field, those boys straining so hard against each other to win.
The ritual continues everywhere in American. Football season has begun.