Friday Nights in America

This Fall has given me an opportunity to wittiness life in a special manner. Oh, sure, I have been to many football games before, to many of my son’s sporting events and to even many professional football games. This year was a time for me to view this in a manner I had not before. Each of these past Friday nights, I have had a special feeling. That feeling can only be described as Friday Night in America.

Each Friday, a small group of parents gather together 2 hours before the games. They meet not in some pub or bar or fancy restaurant, but in the un-paved parking lot of a small football stadium in small town USA. They share their life’s and food and some good company. As they anxiously await the hard charcoals in the small portable grill to glow red, they begin placing their donations and contributions on the make-shift tables. Most of the food is placed on the lowered tailgates of one of the parents’ SUV’s. One of the parents, usually a father, begins cooking the meal for the evening: hamburgers and brats and hot dogs. The wonderful aromas of the cooking meat enhance everyone’s appetites, raising the conversations to a higher level. After a few minutes, more people begin to gather. Soon, there are more tailgates and lawn chairs and small card tables gathered around in a tight group. Paper plates and plastic forks and spoons are allotted to each parent. As they begin to fill their plates and find their places, many standing, the conversations begin to flourish.

With each new parent who arrives, there are warm friendly greetings. Many of these people see each other everyday, some occasionally through out the week, and some only here. As they begin to consume their meals of freshly grilled meats, potato chips, homemade potato salads and raw vegetables such as carrots and broccoli, the conversations become more focused, more intense. However, there is no heated debates about foreign policies, no complaining about the outrageous prices of gasoline, no bipartisan squalls on the current state of the Union, no quarrels about city hall. They are only talking about their son’s. Most boast and exaggerate, as all parents do, some anxiously discuss college futures with a gleam and flickers of hope in their eyes. Others brag about statistics, while some of us are just happy their sons’ are playing. Some quietly hope their son’s will be the hero while most of us are proud no matter what. Some openly express their fears and concerns of glorious victories and disappointments. Occasional, there is mention of the “Old Days,” the “Glory Days,” and was it like this for us back then. Did our parents do this for us? Sure. These traditions have been handed down from generation to generation. For many of these parents, this is/was their high school, as it was for the parents of these parents. After the main course is consumed, all without alcohol or bickering or hate or discontent or jealousy, they indulge in homemade cookies or brownies, things they would probably otherwise avoid. Clean-up commences and all do their part. They slowly amble as a group into the stadium to take their places, to their un-spoken, self-assigned seats. They all ask questions of each other as their son’s prepare, warm-up, for the game. “How is Tanner’s ankle doing?” “I see Billy’s going to be able to play tonight.” “Yes, he got his grades straightened out.” “How is Jeff’s Grandmother?”

Finally, the teams leave the field to thunderous applause and the band, with just as much enthusiastic applause, takes the field. After the uniformed marching band has assumed their positions, the local ROTC members fortunate enough to honor this great country, present our Colors and Flags. The announcer, an alum of this particular high school, asks us all to rise and remove our hats. Most of us already have, placing our hands compliantly over our hearts. The band begins to play our National Anthem and most of us sing along, horribly, yet, from our heart’s. We know theses words so well by now that we do them unconsciously. That is when, in my mind, in my heart, in my soul that special feeling flowed through me. There is a sense of pride and joy and honor and gratefulness and… comfort. Yes, some of my thoughts go out to our veterans and our way of life, but I am, at that moment, living our way of life. In one simple sentence, in one simple phrase, this immense feeling can be described. This is Friday night in America.

Much of this is uniquely American, uniquely rural America. SUV’s and tailgating and football, American football, make us uniquely American. Yet, I somehow doubted that there are many others standing with their hands over the hearts, singing loudly and awfully a song they know better than themselves, if any of them are thinking they are unique in the World. Many may not be fully appreciating the events that have just taken place, yet, they will the next 2 hours. For the next 2 hours, they will not fret about their second mortgages. They will not worry about their car payments and the paperwork that awaits them at the office. They will not give much thought to wars and the possibilities of Global Warming. Most will not wonder about where they might be getting their next meal or if the bus they take to work Monday will explode from some act of cowardly terrorism. For the next 2 hours, they and myself, will only be worrying about our sons’ health and playing well and hopefully, putting the icing on the cake by winning the game.