Home Field Advantage

by Debbie Shipman

It was a Friday night. The Perkins-Tryon Demons had made it to the second round of playoffs for the state championship, and on this cold November night, they had the home field advantage. Hopes were high; there was far more at stake than a title. One fumble could mean the end of a dream, one missed tackle the end of an era. Twenty-four seniors suited up for the Demons that night; nearly every one of those boys had played football together since the second or third grade. Defeat this night would mean more than a lost title; it would mean the end of their childhood. Being a part of football squad would no longer help define who they are; it would simply say who they were.

            A loss for this team would mean a loss for us parents as well. It would be the end of Friday nights spent huddled on blankets together, the end of dads standing against the fence wishing they could call the plays and congratulating each other for having these young studs as sons. This night could be the last time we meet as a group with a common goal. Though we might on some later day spend time talking about the past, the chances are good that many of these friendships formed on cold bleachers will fade with time having nothing as concrete as these boys to hold them together. We might still bump into each other at the grocery store and recall the night one of the dads got kicked out of the game for being a little too vocal with the referees. Or, that game in Wellston when it was so cold that only the insane would venture out of a warm house for a football game. Football and sanity have never been close friends, and so we watched as the coaches taught our little boys to stick their hands down the front of their pants to keep them warm. We will laugh as we remember the expressions on little red faces that clearly said, “But Coach! My mom told me to keep my hands out of my pants!”

            We know that the end will come soon enough, but we all hope that this is not the night. We are not ready to let go. I spent my entire day on the verge of tears, and a look around tells me I am not the only one. Puffy red eyes avert to avoid too long a look; eye contact might crack the dam that keeps the tears back for now. One father admits that he has been on a crying jag all week; he loves these boys.

            I do not remember the score or much about the game at all. I know that, when the scoreboard ticked off the last second, the game was indeed over. In spite of all our efforts to put off the inevitable end, it had come and we were not ready. No one moved as we watched the team shake hands with their opponents and go into a huddle for the last time. We waited in silence for these boys to walk toward the bleachers, raise their helmets in salute, and shout “thank you!” one last time. That is when the dam broke.

            Parents and fans gathered outside the locker room to wait for the players to emerge. Tears fell and little effort was made to hold them back. Moms hugged their boys “second moms” and fathers sobbed into each other’s coats. We thanked each other for being part of the village that raised our children.

            The lower classmen were the first to exit the field house, and though this was not their night, they all had swollen red faces and watery eyes. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, one by one, the seniors stepped out into the silent crowd. Silent because we had already grieved with one another and now was the time to comfort our boys. Each one found family members to wrap them in their arms before they ventured on to hug the other people who had been such a big part of this adventure. They embraced the fathers who coached them and taught them what it means to be a team when they first suited up as “Bandits” all those years ago. They hugged the moms who fixed them sandwiches and brownies to eat after games on the road. As sad and wonderful as this memory is for me, it cannot hold a candle to the scene that followed.

            My son, one of the last to step out into the crowd because, I imagine, he was not quite ready to let this part of his life go, was still wearing his number 64 jersey. He came and hugged his circle of family and then, with a look of determination, strode off toward two of his friends. Within seconds the three boys were headed toward the football field and, I was sure, bound for trouble. I had visions of them tearing down the goalposts or some other act of vandalism to commemorate the end of this era. I was so wrong.

            These three tough-shelled jocks walked onto the field holding hands. They paced off the hundred yards hand in hand until they reached the north end zone. By this time the rest of their senior teammates had joined them in this one last drive, groups of two, three, and four young men holding hands. The first group of players stopped at the fifty-yard line on their way back up the field and, as each group caught up with them, they were added to this circle of friends. For long moments the boys, hands clasped, stood in that circle and cried and talked.

            I can’t know what was said, but I imagine them rehashing victories and reminding each other of silly things they did when they were nine or ten. I wonder if they were talking about the years they went undefeated and laughing at themselves for bragging (at the age of 13 or 14) about being so good they wished they could just drive on up to Stillwater and show the Cowboys how it’s done. Or, do they still have that much self -assurance? These boys, after all, never did suffer from a lack of confidence. I wonder if they feel grateful for the opportunity they’ve had to grow up together and be a part of something so much bigger than each of them alone. I wonder if they know what a blessing it is to have been raised in a place where so many people think of them as family. And then, I see my son drop to one knee and bow his head and I know he is indeed offering up a prayer of thanks. I send up one of my own.

            As these boys, really grown men, leave the field I feel such great emotion and I am so satisfied. My heart has never felt this large. It would have been nice to go on and win the championship title, but then I might have missed experiencing what it truly means to have the home field advantage.

Note: I wrote this in October of 2005. I now have two grandsons growing up in the PT football tradition.  My granddaughter plans to be a Bandits cheerleader as soon as she is eligible, next year in second grade.