Kenny Chesney’s “The Boys of Fall” always takes me back. The first cool breath of autumn, the scent of freshly cut hay, the first leaves beginning to turn yellow — football season arrives, and with it comes a rush of memories.
For many years, football has been more than a game in our family — the rhythm of fall, the talk around our family’s dinner table. Plays re-playing from the previous Friday night’s game, informing everyone the upcoming schedule and planned weekends around kickoff. From the first practice of the season until the final whistle, football filled our conversation and our calendars.
Sweet memories flooded my mind of when our two grandsons played for the Pagosa Springs High School’s football team. Packed to the rafters was the dark blue Ford Excursion with bulging sides with our entire family and a couple of friends. We crossed Wolf Creek Pass in a caravan with all of the other devoted parents and grandparents. My two grandsons —the Wylie boys — were part of that football family. We cheered for each other’s boys. That was and is Pagosa’s way.
No distance was too far to travel. No expense, time commitment, or early-morning departure or late-evening arrival back home seemed too great when it meant watching our boys take the field. Every parent and grandparent showed up as though Friday night games were the most important event of the year — because, in many ways, they were.
The Excursion bounced along the mountain roads with the radio turned up loud. We sang at the top of our voices, carried along by the excitement and the lyrics of Chesney’s song. Those were happy days — our social days, family days, the kind that kept us young.
When we arrived, we met the boys, who traveled ahead on the big yellow school bus. Then came the moment we had waited for: the team bursting through a large handmade sign charging onto the lit field.
Each parent scanned the players, searching for a familiar jersey number. “There’s Tyson. The Scott boy. I see Slade, number 64. There’s Creede, 72.”
The greatest thrill was seeing both of my grandsons on the field at the same time. For a few moments, everything else faded away. There were only the bright stadium lights, the roar of the crowd, the sharp whistle of the referee, and those two familiar numbers moving across the field.
Of course, it wasn’t always fun and games. Football carried its share of disappointments and disagreements, but also some honest hard lessons. There were moments when the boys were frustrated, when tempers flared, and when someone had to sit on the sidelines and watch from the bench filled with water bottles.
One night, I leaned across my Sweet Al and ask a family member, “What’s Slade doing over there on the sidelines with the water bottles?”
“It’s a long story. We’ll talk about it later,” came the answer.
And we did. All the way home.
Creede, in his senior year, was suspended and couldn’t play his last game for Pagosa. Apparently, he talked back to the coach. “No, no, no. How could the coach do that? It’s his last game of the season.” He did, and we all lived through it for another day.
We went over, play by play, every touchdown, every missed opportunity. We talked about what happened on the field — and sometimes about what we did not see.
Then there was, “Tiny, from Bayfield.”
That year, our two boys were among the biggest on the team — until they faced Tiny, a giant who made our boys look small. That season, 17 senior football players had transferred to Bayfield High School, a prized and powerful team in purple. The color purple became the team everyone feared and didn’t like.
“Unfair,” I yelled. “We only have three seniors.”
Someone yelled back, “It’s just football.”
“Just football? I don’t think so,” I mused under my breath.
Football was woven into the life of our town. Newspaper clippings from the previous Friday night’s game covered the tables of coffee shops and barbershops. Every Thursday, we opened the local paper and searched its pages for photographs of Pagosa’s Pirates. We studied the names, the jersey numbers and the game results as though they were front-page national news.
Even now for this current season, I gather the NFL schedules, keeping up with this year’s games. My family laughs at me, but they know better than to expect me to give up football.
As the chill returns to the air and the green leaves begin their annual change to yellow and reds, I know exactly where I want to be: in front of the TV watching my favorite teams. I’m determined not to miss a Denver Broncos game this year. I’m counting on a Super Bowl victory.
Final brushstroke: So, as a new season has begun at Pagosa Springs High School and the stands are filled with new parents and grandparents cheering on their boys, football still remains as the most important place to be on Friday night.
No longer a home-made sign to run through, but an impressive sign of PS, for the boys to rush out for their first game carrying the USA flag. Let the games begin.
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