Seeing the old stomping grounds as a parent

I’m writing from the bleachers in Cyclone Stadium.

My daughter’s down on the sidelines dressed up like a cheerleader. Which, if I’m being honest, is kind of weird.

The whole night has felt the same way, like going back to the playground at Dwight Elementary and realizing the monkey bars are only four feet tall. The grass field where I spent so many Friday nights is made of plastic now. It looks smaller too, like the boys in their shoulder pads and helmets. Like my daughter, being led through a last-minute rehearsal, gearing up for the halftime show.

That’s why I’m here, to watch my baby girl perform, but the better question is why haven’t I been back in so long?

In the nearly two decades since I graduated from Russellville High School, I’ve only ever attended one Cyclone football game before tonight. My wife and I came to that game for her 10-year reunion. It was fun. We saw people we hadn’t seen in forever, and now, here we are again, almost 10 years later.

While the field and the players both look different, so much is still the same. In some ways, in some moments, it feels like I’m in high school again, a head full of sandy brown hair, a girlfriend in the stands instead of a wife who’s down on the field now, keeping close watch over our daughter.

I don’t miss high school. Do you? I remember being stressed out way more than I should’ve been, worrying over things like touchdowns and that girlfriend I mentioned. I remember my junior high basketball coach telling me to stop worrying about girls altogether. He said there’d be enough time for that after college, and he was right. But he never said anything about a 6-year-old on the home sideline, a pair of pompoms in her hands.

Watching my daughter get ready for her performance, I can’t help but think of the years to come. How, before long, I’ll be rooted in this place once more, cheering for my daughter, my son, from the bleachers like my mom and dad cheered for me.

Through the lens of a parent, the field shifts again. I’m no longer

thinking about the scoreboard, or that time we hung with Gus Malzahn’s Springdale Bulldogs for one good half. I’m thinking about my kids and the memories they’ll make in Cyclone Stadium.

A new indoor facility looms behind the visitor stands. There’s some sort of jumbotron video board too. But none of that matters. None of that will define my kids’ time in high school.

It’s the people, and for the most part, they haven’t changed.

On the walk up to the bleachers, I spotted at least three former teammates. They’ve got kids down on the field too. Some of my old coaches are in administrative positions at the high school now. Then there are the fans, the same guys who still stand along the fence like they did back when I was playing.

I’m looking at all those old, familiar faces when the scoreboard buzzes, signaling the end of the first half. My eyes go to my daughter as she skips toward the 50-yard line. Just before the music starts, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find the father of one of my dearest childhood friends, another person I haven’t seen in far too long.

He smiles down at me and says, “I know where you’re writing from for the next column … ”