Saying goodbye to Friday Night Lights.

Illustration by Ward Saunders
Early last November I began to suspect I had a problem.
It was game day for my 18-year-old son, a high school senior and offensive lineman. As I opened the door to his bedroom that morning before heading to work, I was in high spirits. It was his last season, his most important, and I was all in. Not even the pile of dirty clothes that remains permanently parked on his floor—next to his empty laundry basket—could dampen my mood.
“Have a good day, hon,” I said as I gave him a quick kiss. “Go hurt somebody tonight!”
He opened one eye and gave me a groggy thumbs-up. “Ok, Mom.”
Friday Night Lights. I love it—the pregame tailgate, the heady beat of the band’s drum line, the greasy burgers at the concession stand. I even love the ropes of little plastic footballs I wear around my neck though they always seem to end up tangled into a knot and choking me by game’s end (I swear I’ll throw them away every time, but I never do). The day couldn’t go fast enough.
When it was finally game time, my husband and I settled into the stands just as the cheerleaders sprinted into the stadium, the team and coaches on their heels.
I felt my heart stir—with pride of course, that was my boy, a captain, taking the field—but something else too, something beyond maternal support. I could only describe it as, well, primal. I have always thought of myself as polite, considerate even, so I knew it was wrong—but suddenly, I really, really wanted the win.
A moment later, our team kicked off and the game was underway.
By the end of the second quarter, we were tied at 7-7; it was going to be close. And it was clear the officials weren’t on our side. “Come on, ref, are you blind? That was obviously holding,” I screamed until my voice was hoarse. (Was I getting too upset over this? Nah, I decided.) Then, with just seconds to go in the half, my son pancaked his man, opening a hole for our running back to sail through all the way into the endzone for the touchdown. Yessss!
As I jumped out of my seat woo-hooing and high-fiving everyone sitting around us, I noticed a friend sitting nearby (when had she arrived?). But I did not have time for small talk. I had to stay focused.
Near the end of the fourth quarter, the other team came close to tying it up, gaining enough yards to advance into field goal position. But in those breathless final seconds, our boys blocked the kick and pulled off a win, 14-7. Students, teachers, parents, younger siblings, we all rushed the field in a torrent of school spirit.
Afterward, exhausted, my husband and I hauled our gear—stadium seats, blankets, a foam finger, or two, I think—through the dark parking lot to our car. It was then that I realized I hadn’t said anything to the other parents during the game, other than to brag, “Oh yeah, that’s how we do it!” after some particularly good plays.
Something was beginning to come into focus.
Was the season, as much as I loved it all, changing me?
I was thinking about this in the grocery store the next day when, a few feet away, in the meat section, I spied ribeye steaks, on sale. (I spent most of my football-season Saturdays grocery shopping—at 6 feet 2 inches and 220 pounds, my son needed sustenance, and by God, I had given it to him.) I managed to dive in just ahead of a couple reaching out for the last two packages, smiling as sweetly as I could and saying, “Sorry, football player to feed tonight,” before I hurried off with my brimming cart.
By late Sunday night, my earlier suspicion was confirmed. I was on my last load of laundry for the weekend when I remembered my son had dropped his gym bag in the garage after the game. It was unusually warm for late fall, and his sweat-soaked clothes had been in the hot garage for three days.
I grabbed the steaming bag and hauled it into the laundry room. I unzipped it and dumped it out into the wash machine, the stink flooding the room immediately … and I didn’t gag.
Horrified, I realized I had built up a tolerance—a terrible, unnatural tolerance—to the nightly loads of reeking clothes I had been doing since two-a-day practices had begun in late July.
I knew it then—I needed the season to end.
It was time to say goodbye to the intense football mom I had become. There would be no more encouraging my boy to violence, no more ignoring our friends so I could yell inappropriate things at hard-working referees. And I would recover my sense of smell—there should be gagging involved when enveloped by the powerful stench of a teenage boy’s fetid clothes.
Today, the season finished, I know it was for the best. I do have another son, though. He doesn’t play football yet, but maybe …
This article originally appeared in our February 2018 issue.