The first time I set foot in my new high school, on a bitter cold, January day in 1984, I despised everything about it.
My family moved to the Washington D.C. area in the middle of my freshman year and everything I had come to love about life as a 9th grader in a sleepy little, rural Massachusetts community was over.
Instead of the traditional hallways, lockers, common cafeteria and classrooms with windows of my former school, the new place was culture shock at its’ finest. Open classrooms without windows, locker “commons” and food service lines by grade level, and an astronomically sized building that was beyond intimating. I clearly remember sitting in the back of my Algebra I class with Algebra II going on right next door and within full earshot, and thinking: whose bright idea was this? Nightmare. I remember asking to switch seats to the front of the room.
Switching high schools mid-year is tough for any kid and life felt pretty miserable for a while.
Flash forward 36 years, as I instinctively avoided the parking lot chaos in the front of the school, and parked my car in the same back lot as I did on Friday nights back in the late 80’s. I headed toward the football stadium to watch my senior play against my alma-mater, and chuckled when I walked past the same outdoor area in the back that used to serve as a smoking court for students in the 80’s.
The area around the stadium was as lively as a carnival, with food trucks and exuberant teenagers, and lots of purple, white and silver balloons. I was reminded of a time when I decided purple as a school color was nothing less than contemptible, right up there with the open classrooms.
Why all the “festivities” I briefly wondered, in the same moment I overheard a parent, dressed in a bright purple t-shirt and hat, on the phone explaining to someone that it was the Homecoming game for the host school.
Ahh. Of course.
As I made my way over to the ticket booth to enter the stadium, my son’s team was walking out, with the click, click, click of their cleats on the pavement. As they started to ascend the stairs to the visitors locker room, my eyes followed the team, searching for my 6’2, number 73. They all look the same in uniform. I finally spotted him, making his way up with his teammates for a pre-game pep-talk. I sat in that same locker room for the pre-game pep talks.
In a surreal twist, back on land in the parking lot and perhaps due to nothing more than viewing the scene through a more intentional perspective in that moment after realizing it was Homecoming, absolutely everything within my line of sight on that side of the campus, looked exactly the same as it ever did including those stairs.
As I made my way to the visitor stands with the other visiting parents and kids dressed in our black and red attire, I took in the view over in the packed home stands. It was a massive sea of purple, white and silver. The colors and the scene of “Friday Night Lights” alongside ole’ Stringfellow Road, caught me somewhat unexpectedly with nostalgia and pride to have been a part of this school community, all those years ago. I laughed to myself in that moment, and felt a little sorry that I had ever been so critical of the school colors.
The sun was starting to set through cloudy, early-October skies, as the scoreboard clock ticked down to the National Anthem and the start of the game. The announcer enthusiastically welcomed back all alumni for Homecoming and the band played the old, school song.
Perfect.
I thought briefly how different my life would have been if we had never moved there in 1984, and all the wonderful people I would have never known, or the five kids who probably never would have been born, including the one in uniform on the field, if I hadn’t met their father in Washington D.C. just a few short years after high school.
What an incredible and fun game in the end for my son’s team with a 21-14 victory and some really exciting moments on both sides. I was really glad I was there to see it and be part of the evening from the visitor stands as a parent.
I met my senior at the edge of the field as the team departed toward the bus with high spirits and fun memories. We crossed through a little outdoor basketball court, tucked away in the stadium, and through a back gate.
Mom, did you play basketball on this court when you were my age, he asked? I couldn’t remember if that court was there back in 1987, so I just answered with a smile and happy memories in the end, of teenage years gone by: “probably.”
