Friday night light questioning

The season opener for the mighty Blessed Trinity Titans was Friday night. Here they are (above) against the rival St. Pius X somethingorothers. (Lions? Cowardly Lions? I forget …)

Mary Jo and I went, of course, to show some school spirit, to watch Luke do his thing with the BT drumline (he, of course again, mostly ignored us) and — yes — to just be a part of a high school football night.

Too cool with the snare.
Too cool with the snare.

You know. The skinny freshmen. The seniors who look like they can beat you up. The too-perky screaming cheerleaders. Their ex-cheerleader too-perky moms. The dorky kids and their still-dorky parents. The teachers, many of whom I swear are the same teachers from Caesar Rodney High School, 30+ years ago.

The teachers that are so young I can’t bring myself to call them “Mr.” or “Mrs.” somethingorother.

And, yeah, we went to watch some football, too. Of course. Which is a lot of fun. At least for me.

For Mary Jo and those around me … probably not so much.

It’s a curse of a sportswriter to always analyze games. I’ve seen enough football in my life, covered enough, talked to enough players and coaches, that I have a decent working knowledge of it. I’m no coach, and I don’t cover it now enough to say I’m anything close to an expert.

But I understand. I see a hold and a flag before most. I know a dumb call. Once in a while, I’ll come out with a prediction. (Truth be told, it’s not always right.)

Unfortunately for anyone near enough to hear, I comment on it, too. A lot.

So, to the guy in front of me, an inch into my knees and about three inches from my chin: Sorry I yelled for the punt returner to get back before the St. Pius punter blasted one over his head to the 13 yard line.

Sorry I knocked on the PA announcer for saying, “That had to be a 50- or 60-yard punt, didn’t it?”

Sorry I laughed at the kid writhing around on the ground in a clearly soccer-inspired flop. (Relax, the kid was fine.) Sorry I wondered what the coach was doing — hey, it was the other coach, not ours — having his quarterback throw the ball. Sorry I questioned the early timeouts.

Sorry I corrected the announcer on every wrong mark, sorry I called Too Many Men on The Field before the ref signaled it, sorry I pointed out our upset punter getting reamed by his position coach.

Sorry I was wrong about things those 10 or 12 times. It happens.

Still, it was fun for me. Had a hot dog. Watched the halftime show. Took some pictures. Just sucked in a little Americana, the kind I’ve been taking in since I was in junior high.

We won’t make every game this season, Mary Jo and I. We’re definitely fair-weather fans. But we’ll make it when it’s nice, and we’ll make Homecoming, and we’ll be there, too, for senior night. It’s what we, as parents of a high school kid, do.

Sorry about that, guy in front of me.

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