A tribute to the gridiron

When I was five, I attended the first football game that I can remember.

I hated being inside – I had too much energy for it. The evenings were my allotted “outdoors” time, a chance for my parents to get a break from a cooped-up kid and his three cooped-up siblings. When the Texas heat finally cooled, I shot out of the back door like a greyhound out of a gate, eager to play, to climb, to run.

One late Summer evening, my father, in what I can only guess was an attempt to sedate me, had me hop in his old Ford Ranger. If my dad explained where we were going, it didn’t mean much to me at the time; I was just thrilled to be leaving our small home on Vine Street.

So, I don’t specifically remember arriving at the parking lot of Euless Trinity High School. I don’t recall my dad purchasing our tickets or walking to our seats.

But man, do I remember the field.

To me, the littlest of spectators, it felt massive. The lights towered above us, impossibly high up. The turf stretched for what seemed like miles. We sat near the bottom of the bleachers, close enough to see the eye black smeared across the faces of players from underneath their helmets.

They looked like gladiators –and they were. The word “Titans,” which meant little to me then, was emblazoned on the scoreboard, soon to be followed by some absurdly high number that marked the dominance of one of the top football programs in Texas.

I remember the band playing a hodgepodge of classic football anthems. I remember the players taking the field in their black and red uniforms, and I remember the buzz in the air as they rolled over their opponent.

But most of all, I remember a pre-game ritual that gripped me and never let go.

The Haka.

The Haka is a traditional and cultural performance of great significance to the people of New Zealand — and it had found its way to a tiny Texas town and a tiny Texan kid, by way of the large Tongan population that called North Texas home.

As I looked on in awe, the Titans performed a war cry. It was a beautiful mix of art and sport, a tribute to ancestry, history, and blood. The players linked arm-in-arm. They chanted and danced with a ferocity and power that, to my five-year-old brain, would make even the Titans of mythology tuck tail and run.

And then, their ferocity and power were unleashed on their opponent. I don’t recall the program they faced or the exact score, but I can still hear the frantic and passionate cheers of the crowd as those mighty Titans reached pay dirt over and over again.

I was hooked. My dad, a proud Irving Tiger, looked on as I fell in love with football and the gladiators that called it home.

From that day on, autumn and winter weekends were spent with the sport I fell in love with on that late summer evening. Like many families, we cut out cable during the 2008 recession, so my dad bought an old stereo from a local estate sale and set it up in our storage room so I could listen to games. From Friday evening to Sunday afternoon, I parked in front of that old stereo, cheering on my favorite teams and idolizing my favorite players, before retreating to our tiny backyard and tossing myself a football that was too large for my tiny hands, pretending I shared the field with the gladiators.

Gradually, as I grew up, other interests made me who I am. Writing, basketball, math, music. But football captured my heart. And two decades later, my heart is asking me to pursue that love once again.

So, since I certainly can’t play, I’m writing about the sport that captured my imagination. This is a passion project, not something I intend to monetize or put behind a pay wall. To you, dear reader, who is tuning in right now –– thank you. Just reading what I have to say means the world.

Football captured my heart. And two decades later, my heart is asking me to pursue that love once again.

This is a tribute to that bright-eyed kid, whose passion stationed him in front of an old stereo rather than a PlayStation on chilly Autumn weekends. This is a tribute to those Trinity Titans, who fought, hit, and bled for passion.

Here’s to that passion. Here’s to football.