Friday Night Lights: A Short Story
They threw their heads back and let it wash over them. They bathed in the floodlights like a paradisiacal pool. Then the shout broke through
It was Friday night in a small, southern town and you could feel it as you walked down main street. The whole county was quiet, but abuzz with anticipation. As soon as the sun began to sink, people started making their way to the football field, located smack-dab in the middle of everything.
The spaces along the gravel track surrounding the field filled up first with pickup trucks. Then the emptiness further out filled with all sorts of vehicles, most spattered with mud, all dusty to some degree. First these appeared, then came the people. The whole town filled in the generations-old wooden stands. Parents proudly told their children where they used to sit when they were young. Grandparents did the same with their grandchildren.
Members of the band set up shop. The teams made their way to the sidelines, clad in battle armor. Once the stand was full of onlookers, students of all ages sat atop the pole fence that lined the field. The brightest flood lights illuminated the scene and people clapped, knowing that kickoff was near.
This was the tradition.
The boy was in middle school. He and his parents arrived late, finally finding an empty spot blocks away. Breathless with excitement, he couldn’t wait for his parents and ran toward the field. As he put distance between himself and them, he could feel his back get straighter, his height grow, and maybe even some hair appear on his chin. It was the first time he wouldn’t be sitting with his parents.
He spotted one friend near the fence just as the opening whistle blew. Soon the boy and the girl were joined by two others, all fairly new friends the same age, spending exciting time outside of school, but away from parents. This was independence.
The boy reveled in this new feeling. Looking for a space along the fence and seeing none, he pointed over to the other side of the pitch, where the spots were plentiful. The friends journeyed over and perched together.
Looking over at the magnificent scene before them — grass, wood, players, families, peers — they threw their heads back and let it wash over them. They bathed in the floodlights like a paradisiacal pool. Then the shout broke through the dream, shattering it.
At first, the boy wasn’t sure to whom the yell was addressed. He looked around, searching for the source. He followed the girl’s eyes to the left, where a group of enormous figures were mere feet away. He wondered how he had missed them.
There were four in all. They were standing on the grass. Unlike every other face in the vicinity, they were looking away from the brutal action unfolding before them, toward the boy. As the shouts grew louder, the boy studied their faces. They were round and unbelievably red. Their mouths were open and spittle was launching out of them. The boy looked away. If he ignored it, he believed it would go away. It did not.
Then he felt it near his ear. He instinctively reached for it and turned his head as he did. One of the big people had stepped closer, launching a projectile. It had splattered across his head. He wiped furiously and sized up the figure, who had taken a step back and joined the litany of large deplorables.
The boy glanced over at the stands, seeking help. When none appeared, he gazed at one of the figures. He thought if he could stare hard enough, they might recognize his humanity. They might get a good look at his young age, and leave him alone, seeking instead an older victim.
After a few seconds, a new shout broke through the noise and lodged itself in his brain, “Wipe that stupid look off your goddamn face or I’ll wipe it off for you!” It was accompanied by another glistening projectile. The boy slid off the fence and retreated from the large figures. His friends refused to leave, so he situated himself on the opposite side of them, out of the direct line of fire.
The assault continued. Only now, it was the girl who was getting the full brunt of it.
A high school student in armor was tackled a few yards away, but the boy didn’t notice because he was he scanning the large wooden stands for any sign of his parents. All he saw was uninterrupted, jostling chaos.
Then it appeared: a familiar face. The boy’s middle school P.E. teacher was striding toward them, looking at the game, not at the action. The boy waved her down, explaining the situation in hushed tones.
The teacher nodded and glanced toward the big people. She took a few tentative steps toward them, palms up, adult authority in her voice. A split second later, slurs and saliva came raining down upon them all — the girl, the boy, the friends, the teacher — like no abuse that they had hitherto known.
The teacher backed away, locked eyes with the boy, raised her eyebrows, and then retreated back to the other side of the field. The boy watched her go, knowing she was gone forever. And the big figures were getting closer, larger than ever, louder than ever. One of them took off his coat and moved toward the children, his beard moving swiftly with his movements.
That was when the boy finally persuaded his friends to leave. They jumped off the fence and bolted away from the figures. The boy looked back just long enough to see the sizable people, who were getting smaller, settle back into their chairs, laughing.
The game ended soon after. The tradition was put in reverse as the fence emptied out, the band put away their instruments, and families meandered toward the exits. Before long, even the pickup trucks were loaded and leaving.
But the boy was still there. His friends had left, but his parents hadn’t reappeared yet. He gazed up at the generations-old, empty stands and saw it differently now. The bright orange paint only masked a worn-out, wooden relic. It was sinking into the ground from years of weight and neglect. It was so very heavy.
The stadium lights flickered out.