Out of my League

If you know anything about life in a small town in Texas, you know about the central importance of high school football. Maybe you’ve seen the amazing TV series (which I miss desperately), or read the book, or viewed the movie. Heck, there’s even an exhibit at the state history museum. Friday Night Lights, it’s called. (We watched the TV series for a while before moving here — it felt like a low-risk way of getting a peek at Texas culture.)

And now we’re here, in a town not far from where Friday Night Lights, the TV series, was filmed. Our home team is called the Panthers. Their colors are purple and gold. And they’ve won a couple of state championships in the last few years. From Kindergarten up, the kids are encouraged to go to the games on Friday nights. If they buy a special t-shirt, signifying they are a part of the Fighting Panther Club, they can run across the field before the home games. This time of year, practices are gearing up for the start of the season.

So, for the last week, every night, either myself or Michael (mostly Michael) have been going to football camp, watching 6-year-old Callum run through drills for his pee-wee football league. There’s no flag football around here, mind you, no matter their tender ages. We’re talking full pads, helmets and tackling. At 5 or 6. The motto for the camp was “hustle, hit, and never quit.” Michael even witnessed one episode when a mother pulled her son (in one of the older groups) off the field in the middle of practice, telling him he just couldn’t cut it and he wouldn’t be coming back. He cried. Michael told me the mother was right — he was outclassed.

We seem to be at an interesting time, culturally, when it comes to things like kids’ sports. You hear stories about leagues where they don’t keep score, where everyone (however terrible) plays, where everyone’s self esteem is coddled. Then there’s the Tiger Mom approach — relentless badgering and insisting they meet their potential. Pee wee sports here seem to be much more aligned with the latter school of thought, and I think I’m fine with that.

Still, to be honest, I’m a bit conflicted about this thing. The football part is definitely a guys-only event. No women allowed, unless they’re cheering or are “team Mom” or something of the sort. I certainly wasn’t the football type growing up. I was more the spiked hair, parachute pants, safety pin through my ear type. I grew up in a big city, where there were other things to do than be obsessed about the high school football team.  This is a foreign culture to me, one for which I don’t know the rules.

But we’re new in this small town, we hardly know anybody, and I’ve got two boys — boys who might enjoy tackling and running and hanging around other sweaty boys their age. Not to mention the fitness benefit and the attention of coaches that can help them learn about taking care of their bodies.

The other night, we went to a “meet the coaches” event and picked up a few essential pieces of equipment for Callum — shoulder pads; pants with pads; cleats; a practice jersey. He tried it all on together when we got home and he looked like another kid entirely — a kid I don’t know. But then I heard him ask, “Daddy, can I have a hug?” Now that’s a language I speak, and a cultural practice I can support. And if this kid wants to play football, I’ll brave this bewildering foreign land along with him.