Football Mom

It was the night of the first scrimmage. My oldest son, an 18-year-old senior at Benton High School and a first-string linebacker, was warming up on the field. I, sitting in the stands and in the direct sun, felt for sure that I was going to melt right off that metal bleacher. The sweat pouring from my face was in a race with the bottled water I was pouring down my throat.

I thought to myself, “How in the world can those kids stand to be under all those pads and helmets and still hop around like spring-loaded panthers?”

I could feel the energy on the field sizzle through the stadium. Those boys’ adrenaline was going off like fireworks with every tackle, sprint and block. My own pride and excitement was fueled by the hope that the upcoming months of games would gradually become cooler, eventually and hopefully ending with a freezing cold state championship game sometime in December.

Truthfully, I know nothing about football except that we want to get the ball in the end zone without any flags hitting the field. That’s it! My knowledge beyond that point depends on my other son, a tenth grader, to let me know what is going on. I perk up if I see the coach yelling at my kid, and feel assured he’s done well if the coach gives him a slap on the back.

There is no doubt this time of year brings a sense of nostalgia to everyone. To the football moms, lots of loving emotions mixed with pride well up as we see those babies we raised become men. We remember all the little league pizza parties, cupcakes for the soccer team, and early Saturday games as they began preparing for the future that has now arrived.

So, forgive us crazy women with our jeans, jerseys, cushioned seats, sunscreen, and foam fingers. We will be the loudest ones in the stadium. We will still kiss our kids on the cheek, embarrass them in front of their friends, and might even bake cupcakes for the team, but know that we are the biggest fans under those Friday night lights.

— Crickett Oldenburg