I wrote about this last year, but some things are worth saying again, especially for the senior moms and dads and also the newbies just beginning their journey through Tiger Nation. Will it hit differently for you this year? There may be a few young men who venture off into college-land and play an extra quarter or two, but it will never be quite the same as high school football. There is something special about climbing those rickety bleachers that scorch the back of your legs in August, then somehow chill you to the bone by the end of district play. They are not comfortable, they are not forgiving, and after four years your back may never be the same, but one day you will desperately wish you could climb them again. There is something about watching the sun disappear over the far corner of Tiger Stadium, painting the sky in shades of red while the evening breeze catches the Glen Rose flags. Then those first cool fronts begin blowing in from the north, turning the nervous jitters into full grown critters bouncing around in your stomach. The lights come on, the band begins to play, the crowd starts filling the stands, and for a few hours on a Friday night, there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be. When your child is just beginning this season of life, it is simply fun. The wins are exciting and the losses sting, but neither seems permanent because there is always next year. There is another season, another home opener and another chance to get it right. You think it is going to last forever because, for a while, it feels like it will. Then the end of his junior year arrives, and suddenly “next year” becomes “the last year.” At first, you try not to think about it. You tell yourself there is plenty of football left. Then, before you are ready, it becomes the last first day of practice, the last scrimmage, the last season opener, the last Homecoming, the last home game and the last district game. Each one disappears from the schedule until eventually, the final Friday night arrives. It will be the last time your son puts on that Glen Rose uniform. The last time he stands beside his teammates waiting inside that giant Tiger. The last time his heart pounds as the train horn roars and he runs onto the field in front of a cheering crowd. For most of them, it will be the last football game they ever play. You may know it is coming, but knowing does not prepare you for it. You will glance down at the cowbell in your hand or the special shirt you had made, and the realization will hit you like a train. It will hit harder than you ever imagined when he first started playing pee wee football and that helmet looked two sizes too big for his body. The memories will come rushing back all at once. You will remember the first time you laced his cleats and those beautiful eyes looked back at you like you were his hero. You will remember trying to fit shoulder pads onto a little boy who could barely see through the bars of his helmet. You will remember arguing about the mouthpiece he lost for the third time that week, even though he swore somebody stole it. You will remember the grass stains, the sweaty clothes, the long practices, the bruises, the hurried dinners and all those nights when your vehicle smelled like a locker room with an engine. Strangely enough, you will miss every bit of it, the good, the bad and definitely the smelly. In that moment, you will realize you did not get enough. You will wish you had watched a little closer. You will think about the plays you might have missed because you went to the concession stand or spent a moment looking at your phone instead of the field. You will wish you had worried less about the scoreboard and paid more attention to the boy wearing the uniform. You will want one more quarter, one more half and one more down. Your heart will ache for one more chance to watch him break the huddle, one more chance to search for his number beneath those Friday night lights and one more chance to stand and cheer as if your voice could somehow reach through the noise and let him know his mom and dad were right there. For him, life will begin moving forward. He will graduate, find new goals and enter a world much larger than the football field. He will carry the lessons, friendships and memories with him, but he will begin another chapter because that is what young people are supposed to do. For Mom and Dad, it may take a little longer. The silence after that final game can be deafening. It may follow you home and find you late at night when the house is quiet. It will ache somewhere deep inside as you realize an entire season of your family’s life has ended. Not just football season, but the years of hauling equipment, keeping up with practices, taking pictures, planning every Friday around kickoff and always knowing where you were supposed to be when the stadium lights came on. Soon, he will clean out his locker for the last time. He will walk through the door carrying his cleats, gloves, practice clothes and all the little pieces of football that seemed to collect over the years. Mom may complain about the smell out of habit, then catch herself realizing she would give anything to keep smelling it for a few more Fridays. But the jersey will not come home with him. He will turn it in, along with the number Mom and Dad spent all season searching for beneath the lights. For years, that number told them exactly where their little boy was on the field. They could find him among twenty-two players, no matter how far away he stood. Now it will hang in the dark storage of Tiger Arena, waiting to belong to someone else. That may be the moment Mom finally breaks. Not because it was only a jersey, but because when he handed it back, he also handed back a piece of his childhood. There will be no next game to prepare for, no schedule to check and no Friday afternoon text reminding him how proud she is. She will scroll through the pictures on her phone and watch him grow all over again, from the tiny boy swallowed by his pee wee helmet to the young man standing beneath the stadium lights. She spent years hoping and praying he would become strong, independent and ready for whatever came next. Then one night, she will realize he did exactly that, and somehow getting everything she prayed for will still break her heart. Dad will carry it differently. He will feel that same lump rise in his throat, but he will fight it back. He will straighten his hat, clear his throat and pretend he is studying the scoreboard. He will tell his son, “I’m proud of you,” hoping his voice does not crack before he gets the words out. Then he will save the rest for later, when the truck is empty, the garage is quiet or everyone else has gone to bed. Dads are good at hiding heartbreak. We convince ourselves that staying strong means nobody should see it. We swallow the tears, take one more look at the field and act like we are ready to leave. Somewhere inside, though, we are begging for the clock to stop. We know that once it reaches zero, there is no timeout left to call and no way to put even one second back on it. Maybe it hits us so hard because, in some small way, we lived those Friday nights through our sons. We watched them make the plays we once dreamed of making. We watched them become better, stronger and braver than we ever were. We felt pride knowing they belonged to a program and a brotherhood that some of us never had the chance to experience. Every time our son’s number was called, part of us stood a little taller because that was our boy out there. Years from now, Dad may still struggle to talk about it without that same lump returning to his throat. He will close his eyes and see his son adorned in red and white, standing beneath those crisp, cool Friday night lights and playing a game they both loved. He will remember the way his son looked running onto the field, and for just a moment, he will see both of them, the young man wearing the uniform and the little boy who once looked up at Dad as if he were his hero. That is when Dad will understand what he was really trying so hard not to let go. It was not only the game. It was the privilege of standing along the sideline of his son’s childhood, watching him live a dream and knowing that, for one beautiful season of life, they got to share it together. The hardest part for both parents is realizing that you are not only saying goodbye to football. You are saying goodbye to the version of your son who needed you in exactly this way. The game ends, the lights go dark, the jersey is turned in, and somehow the little boy you brought to his first practice leaves the field a man. Time will heal that ache. A new season will begin, even if it does not look anything like the one that just ended. One day you will look back and smile more than you cry. You will understand that the heartbreak exists only because the memories were so good. So, to the parents just beginning, cherish it. Every hot practice, every cold game, every muddy pair of cleats and every inconvenient drive is part of the story. Put down the phone. Let the concession stand wait another play. Watch him closely, even when the ball is nowhere near him. Let your child enjoy it. Do not spend the ride home coaching every mistake. There are already coaches for that. Be the person who reminds him what he did right. After the losses, tell him you are proud of him. After the wins, tell him the same thing. Make sure he knows your love was never attached to a scoreboard, a starting position or the number of times his name came over the speakers. To the senior moms and dads, be courageous. Soak in every second you have left. Take the pictures, ring the cowbell, wear the shirt and cheer until your voice is gone. Do not worry about looking foolish. There will come a day when you would gladly look foolish for one more Friday night. When that final horn sounds, hug your son a little tighter. Tell him how proud you are, not only of the player he became, but of the young man standing in front of you. Because one night, sooner than you believe possible, the train horn will roar, your son will run onto that field, and without anyone realizing it at the time, it will be the last time. Do not regret it. Trust me.... Find A Way.