No offense to all the other high school sports.
I enjoy every one of them.
But there’s something almost magical about football and Friday nights.
The lights that rise above the stadium, making navigation easy enough even if you’ve never been to that particular field before.

I’ve driven out to rural areas where not even GPS can penetrate the desolation; small towns where gas stations simply pump gas and not sell submarine sandwiches and birthday cards; and diners where waitresses refill your coffee cup long before it is even necessary.
There will be nothing but empty fields and farmhouses for miles, but the glow that is created by the lights embroidering the high school football field make it easy to locate.
Roll the car window down, even on a frosty night, and you can hear the marching band warming up. The trumpet section and the drum line puff their chests out until someone cries “Uncle!”
The public address announcer’s echoing syllables. The snare drums' urgent staccatos. The cheerleaders and their hair-trigger smiles. The concession stand hawking popcorn, hot dogs, soda and Snickers bars.
Pads smacking and helmets thwacking and breath exhaling and coaches shouting from the sidelines.
It is all part of the sound track of high school football.
Too busy to get to a game this year? That is too darn bad. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have done Americana better.