Monday night, the football team that Greg helps coach, lost.
Sixty five game regular-season winning streak.
Contenders to win the state championship.
And they lost in the third game of the playoffs.
Don’t get me wrong; in some respects I’m not sorry to see football leave our lives until next
August May and I would be lying if I hadn’t (jokingly) talked with my cohort wives that also suffer alongside me while our husbands are living out their dreams, about all of the wonderful things we would do when we had our husbands back from his mistress that is football.
But Monday night?
Monday night I would have taken it all back to let them play one more game.
To not have to watch 18-year-old, 6-foot, 185-pound boys cry like small children because they were walking off the field for the last time. Knowing that they would never play the game the same way again. Knowing that they wouldn’t again feel the excitement of putting on that black and white jersey and running out onto a field listening to the hometown crowd erupt in cheers of joy, excitement and hope.
I know that it’s just a game to most people and it seems silly to be sad about it when there are so many other things going on in the world.
But over these last 12 weeks of games and all of the two-a-days over the summer, those players and coaches have formed a bond. Greg was just as upset as some of the players last night.
Because they are more than players to him.
Because he knows how it feels to be that 18-year-old kid walking off a football field for the last time in that black and white jersey.