Not exactly Friday Night Lights

I figure it would have been too embarrassing to get kicked out of my son’s first high school football game before it even started. So while I complained about the $3 admission charge for a ninth grade game, I borrowed $6 from another parent so my wife and I could watch our son play for one public high school against another. But I wasn’t happy about it.

The return to school has been a most-expensive proposition (especially since I’ve determined our tax dollars are spent on postage), and I’m cash poor until payday mercifully arrived today. Besides, the gate wasn’t equipped to take plastic.

We eventually gained entry and my boy put on an acceptable performance at cornerback. He got burned for a touchdown once, but it was on an exceptional pass to a receiver who had the skills (and the facial hair) of a third-year freshman. I took some satisfaction in that he burned other defenders too.

I took even more satisfaction in the assurance from other dads that it was ok to hate a ninth grader, especially one who reentered the game after we thought he had been ejected for arguing with an official after getting flagged for a personal foul. One dad even suggested it was ok to hate our own ninth graders, which I dismissed with a laugh even though I know it's true. Not mine, mind you, but I already have a few candidates in mind.

I got my financier's $3 worth when Zach broke up a pass later in the game, although it might have been an interception if he had held his position. It reminded me of all the times I’ve seen him misjudge, but usually recover, a fly ball. It also reminded me how much I prefer watching him play baseball.

Our Warriors were victorious by a score of 16-15, with our quarterback taking a knee inside the Wahawk five-yard-line to run out the clock. Too bad the classy move had to be followed (after the obligatory “fifth quarter” -- a 15-minute effort to ease the transition from "everyone plays" to "no they don't") by a rousing chant and rendition of the school fight song.

You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don’t taunt your opponent, especially on their turf. At least, that’s how I roll.

I did take great satisfaction in shunning the concession stand -- even when my newfound sugar daddy offered -- since I knew our post game intentions. I even mapped out the route from the field to Famous Dave's, which doesn't charge admission and never leaves you with a sour taste in your mouth.