Friday Night Lights: Ain't Nothin Finer in the Land

Football season is upon us, y'all. Hallelujah!

I turned on Peachtree TV to whet my insatiable appetite last night, watching the Calhoun Yellow Jackets absolutely dismantle the Ridgeland Panthers in the first game of the annual Corky Kell Classic, 38-8. Calhoun stalled out on its first three drives of the game and it appeared a grudge match was in the making, but a halfback pass for a touchdown on their fourth drive started a scoring barrage that left Ridgeland devastated. The Jackets have to be encouraged with a victory over a perennial playoff team, especially with a new head coach and replacing a boatload of starters. 

The following game was another blowout, where the Marietta Blue Devils avenged an opening day loss from the 2018 season, handing the Rome Wolves a 48-14 whipping that had the Barron Stadium crowd shaking their heads. It was Rome's first regular season loss since 2016, but it was doozy. The Wolves were carved up on both sides of the ball and beaten physically, a rare occurrence in the John Reid era. Marietta was supposed to be good, but I do not think anyone predicted a 34-point shellacking of the home team. While Rome picks up the pieces, the state of Georgia was put on notice. Can Marietta finally put it all together and win a state title? It sure appears that way. 

High school football in Georgia is a tradition that will never die. From Rabun Gap to Bainbridge, Folkston to Trenton and all points between, the populace awaits fall Friday nights like the $450 Mega Million drawings that give birth to office pools and morons spending their last dime in hopes of beating the 1:3,678,986 odds (or something like that). The hallways, barber shops, streets and radio waves are abuzz with determination, fear, hyperbole, coachspeak, poormouthing, braggadocio and the ultimate hope that this is finally "our year."

Message boards light up in late July with tales of the fastest running back anyone has ever seen, one-handed grabs over seven defenders, quarterbacks who throw 80-yard post routes from their knees and coaches who make players run 27 miles before every practice and eat a handful of thumbtacks before every game. Fall practice dispels these wild myths with the quickness, as reporters and pundits get the real scoop that we all have come to realize.....these are 15-18 year-old kids who play their hearts out, but make mistakes. Some of them are really fast. Some of them are really big. A small handful will play major college football and an even smaller group will see the gridiron on Sundays. 

I was not blessed with much ability or size when I was in high school. My physical peak happened when I was 19 years old and I exacted punishment on the intramural basketball courts in Athens for 4.5 years. People still tremble at the thought of my patented jump hook and my penchant for blocking out with a vengeance. I snarled when I grabbed rebounds. I started fights. I talked junk and walked with an arrogance that I never knew existed. I loved every second of it. Team sports are the bedrock for a successful adult life, I wholeheartedly believe that. Part of me wishes I peaked earlier, but I would not change those years for anything. 

However, despite my arrogance and physical peak, the chances of me making it professionally in any sport were akin to a snowball falling into a pit of lava. All it took was one look at Richard Seymour, Champ Bailey, Jarvis Hayes or Ben Watson and I knew that my future as a desk jockey, attorney, writer or business owner was secured.  In fact, only five things in this world are less possible than me playing a down of football in the NFL or one minute in the NBA:

1) A gluten-free food aisle at Cass Grocery

2) Any of the guys on the benches asking "hey man, y'all got coconut milk creamer?"

3) Testifying against any of the Clintons

4) Shaquille O'Neal actually fitting in a Buick (have you seen him up close? No freaking way)

5) Georgia fans wanting a home-and-home with Shorter 

I am lucky in that I get to see much of this high school football craziness firsthand as a color commentator for Bartow Sports Zone. Mothers with milk jugs full of rocks, students painted pink for Breast Cancer Awareness, old heroes walking the aisles talking about the days of eight-hour practices, bands warming up with the ESPN theme, nervous coaches pacing and trying to sneak a dip of snuff....all the while, the players stretch out to sounds of mumble rap, pop country and Imagine Dragons blaring on the speakers. Teams have Jumbotrons, play clocks and Ipads now. Guys in the 1990's were lucky to have a dry-erase board to draw plays and one Walkman to share in the locker room. Shoot, guys in the 1980's probably still smoked cigarettes on the sidelines. 

One part I truly enjoy is walking up the bleachers to the press box. I shake hands with old friends, high-five and hug, point and wave, then turn around and survey the field. As I digest my usual pre-game Waffle House extravaganza, I ingest the sights and sounds. I feel glad to have another night under the lights and pray for many more. The buses for the opposing team rolls in and the foreigners walk toward the locker room under the stony gaze of the home fans. The commentary begins:

"Oh dang, 76 is huge. I hope Bobby ain't blockin' him."

"That quarterback has 765 offers and bench presses a Prius. He would start for Bama right now."

"Their band better not take up more than 10 minutes at the half, Mikayla has a solo." 

Occasionally, an old man will grab my arm and say "we got a shot this year?" I smile and give the same response every time:

"Yes sir. Everybody has a shot tonight." 

Cass Grocery's Wifi Password was "NattyLight1810"

Ladies and gentlemen, it has been over six years since I blogged here. I do apologize. For those of you who have read, purchased, reviewed, loaned out or spread the word about my book, I am forever grateful. I have sold thousands of copies and had folks from as far away as California contact me about how much they enjoyed it. When I wrote "Reflections," I had no aspirations that it would sell very well. The world is so tied to the smartphone and Instagramming their lunch choices, I figured only my friends and family would be interested.

I was wrong. (even my kids, Elizabeth and Anderson, point to the cover and say "Daddy." They cannot read yet. Worry not, they are only four and two years old....not Auburn fans.)

Speaking of Instagram, I read an article this week that really hit home. The author had gone on a Caribbean cruise with a group of friends, all thirtysomethings, fully equipped with smartphones and detailed itineraries. As the trip unfolded and the group took part in excursions included in the trip,  the author noticed an alarming trend.

Rather than enjoy the natural beauty of the islands and company of the people standing RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM, these people were more concerned with getting the perfect picture to share on Instagram. In fact, members of the group made it a point to find spots to take multiple pictures of themselves, doing thirty-plus takes and poses to ensure the best picture to upload. Some of them even coordinated outfits for the occasion to be sure they looked a certain way for their followers. The shallowness of this makes my skin crawl. In fact, there are only five things that make my skin crawl more:

1) Strawberry Lemonade Natty Light (No. Just no.)
2) Trying to finish a drop set on the bench press and Florida Georgia Line comes on at the gym
3) "Touchdown, Auburn."
4) Walking through a spider web in the dark
5) Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Never mind the gorgeous waterfall or one of the Caribbean's amazing sunsets. Never mind a genuine smile or a spontaneous moment of happiness. How can you soak in a breathtaking mountain view looking through a screen and clicking? You cannot. No, let's be sure to stage it, kick out a fake smile 37 times and validate ourselves through "likes" of people who are not even present on the trip. My personal feeling is that this oversharing is a mechanism for covering up a deeper sense of sadness and an outright cry for help, or simply bragging to those who could not be there. (Your high school classmate working third shift does not care that you are in Tahiti. I promise you.)

I cannot imagine trying to convince the guys on the benches of Cass Grocery to pose for anything. They would not understand why we are glued to a screen. Someone once suggested that we should get the electronic gas pumps that allow you to swipe credit cards and there was a resounding "nay" from the entire crowd.

"That's how it starts. Next thing you know, David will have girly magazines and sell white wine."

"Them things never work. I ain't giving out my zip code anyway, that's how the government gets you."

"I heard Iraq gets 2% of all profits on them credit cards. Hell no."

I will use Billy Fortenberry as my example, as he would be the least likely of all to agree. Hell, Billy got annoyed if somebody shook his hand with both hands. I can hear his gravely voice now: "You see that? Can't trust nobody who does that. Politicians and crooked preachers." The request would go something like this:

"Billy, go stand in front of the gas pumps and smile." (holds up phone)

"Get that damn phone out of my face."

"Aw, c'mon. Just a couple of pictures. One of you looking toward Adairsville and the other of you propped up on the gas pumps."

"How about a prop you up an ass whuppin?"

"It will only take a second and I will airbrush some of the wrinkles off your face. It will get at least 87 likes."

Billy would spit Taylor's Pride on my foot and the other guys would instruct me to "get back to the beer cooler before you get hurt."

Those guys lived simply. They did not live for "likes" nor did they care if you agreed with them or not. I miss those old conversations about carburetors, sprinkler pipe, rain gauges and complaining about traffic. There were no smartphones and I took no pictures, but I soaked in every bit of knowledge I could from them. I could not share a live video of them, but I remember every detail of their demeanor, what they wore, what they believed and their ideals.

The author of the article remarked that the best day of his trip was when everyone agreed to put the phones down. Indelible memories were made on a boat ride, where they listened to music and get this....actually talking to each other. They made no pictures, but they took away so much more.

Let's be honest though, those guys on the benches should be glad camera phones did not exist. They would probably all be fired, divorced and everyone would know that bass they caught in Pine Log was not really a 12-pounder.