𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓! | harry styles

𝐈

THE late autumn flies and moths buzz and bump against the glass of the stadium floodlights as they shine down on the playing field. The green grass and white stripes now show brown and blue from overturned sod and the neon glow from the scoreboard.

Hot dogs, popcorn, and the smell of cut lawn mingle with sweat as dirt permeates the air, adding to the excitement that comes to my turf every other Friday night in fall.

There's no denying I get caught up in the show and exhilaration as much as the onlookers do. It's a fucking rush of power, watching these teenagers fight and push and strive to be the best under my guidance.

The Best.

Some of these kids might only get this far in life, a dream, a "what if", a hope. But for these forty-eight minutes of game play, they're not a farmer's son; they're not working in the drive-thru of Burger King.

They're fucking rock stars.

"GO! GO! GO!"

I run down the sidelines to keep my eye on Sullivan, as the crowd behind me yells at the action they see on the field. It's only the second quarter, and already my boys are blowing away the opposing team. I'm trying not to smile too much and keep my game face on, but it's hard when it's so obvious just how much better we are than the Bixby Spartans.

Even through the dense crowd, I hear Lydia screech behind me, cheering me and my kids on. The rustle from my windbreaker as I run mingles with the sound of stomping feet and clapping hands. My own hands slap and pound my clipboard, drowning out the cries of distress from the opposite grandstand.

The plastic feels light in my grasp as I thrust it out in front of me, full of plays we've practiced a hundred times, but only matter when everything is going right. The sweat on my neck, chilled from the Oklahoma night air, clings as I hold my breath watching Sullivan run his ass off towards the end zone, escaping the opposing teams clutches, narrowly missing the hold of a linebacker double his size.

"TOUCHDOWN!"

The crowd seems louder than a freight train as the referee's hands fly up, giving my boys their six points. My own fists pump the air as the whistle around my neck flies up and hits me in the chin.

After scoring the field goal, the buzzer signals the end of the quarter, and I jog with them, giving accolades as we make our way across the running track towards the locker room where I'll give my criticisms, as few as there are.

Can't let them get cocky.

"Overall, a good first half, but keep your eye on where Josh is throwing, Sullivan. I don't care how many complete passes you might've caught tonight, one interception is one too many," I chastise my receiver, who smartly says nothing, just nods his head and spits out a mouthful of Gatorade. The cinder block room is alive with activity as I point out things they did right and things they could do better. The freshmen that hope one day to have the chance to be where my players are jump around them with towels and bottles while my assistant coach ices down Josh's all-star arm.

My speech turns to a pep talk, reminding these sweaty teenagers that there is no other option but to get to state. There's really no question that we'll be there, given their talent, but I can't let them lose focus now. Some of these kids will go to college, but most of them won't. They'll run tractors and fix farm equipment, but for right now, for this short but exciting time in their lives, these boys are the heroes of this small town that only cares about football.

The cheerleaders sound out loud past the entrance, giving their rally cries and keeping the pumped up crowd high for the next line of battle as I finish up. I kneel down in front of Josh, his shoulder pads and jersey pushing out as his overheated body pants, and he gulps down a mouthful of water and we decide on the next play.