Coffee Break: Friday Night Lights

It’s that time of year again—the air turns crisp, the seasons slowly shift, and the trees trade their greens for reds, oranges, and golds. There’s something about autumn that carries a certain magic, especially in a small town. For many of us, those memories are tied to Friday nights under the glow of stadium lights, when the whole community gathered for one thing—football.

As a teenager, I lived for those nights. Our little town came alive in a way that only Friday football could bring. Families would pack the stands, neighbors waved to each other across the bleachers, and no matter how big or small the week had been, it all seemed to pause for those few hours. It was more than just a game—it was a tradition, passed down through the generations. Most of our families stayed rooted here, or if they left for a time, they found their way back home. Those Friday nights stitched us all together in a way that still lingers.

I remember the thrill of being in junior high, finally old enough to run around the stadium with friends, thinking we were the coolest kids in town. Then came high school—sitting shoulder to shoulder in the student section, cheering with everything we had. Some were on the field, some were on the sidelines with pom-poms, others marched proudly with the band. And oh, the band—there wouldn’t have been Friday nights without the music that carried us through, giving every touchdown and every timeout its heartbeat. The roots of those memories run deep.

Now the seasons have shifted again. We are the parents, and it’s our kids out there under those lights, living the moments that will become their own golden memories. I watch my oldest on the sidelines now, cheering her heart out, her little voice carrying across the crowd with more pride than she knows she has. I catch glimpses of her running off with friends, laughing, free, with that same joy I once felt. And it hits me—like a flashback—that those carefree nights, where everything felt simple and possible, never really leave you. They just find new life in your children.

It’s hard to believe I’ll soon be the mom in the stands, watching her cheer as a high schooler. I wasn’t a cheerleader myself, but I remember the electricity of the student section—the way we chanted and shouted for the boys in red, black, and white. Now, as I look down the row at my kids, I find myself wondering how many nights I’ll sit here again, how many memories we’ll make in the same stands I once called my own.

No, I don’t wish to go back and relive it all. I don’t need to chase my own glory days through my children. What I feel is something different—it’s peace. It’s the reassurance that even though the world changes, even though life moves fast, there are pieces of the past that still remain. And those pieces matter.

Because whether the team wins or loses, we all know this truth: above all else, we were—and we still are—Wildcats.

So if you’re that parent sitting in the stands this season, caught between cheering for your child and remembering your own youth, I see you. I feel it too. These moments have a way of taking your breath away, of stirring up emotions you didn’t expect. But one thing never changes—seeing these kids, our kids, make memories worth holding onto. And that’s something this small town will always carry with pride.