“I’ve never had a team with this record.”

I sat across from our school’s Varsity football coach at a student conference meeting, staring dumbstruck at Coach as he tossed those unexpected words onto the table between us. Coach did double duty as Austin’s Strength and Conditioning teacher (the modern-day version of what we used to call PE – physical education for those unfamiliar with the two-letter term). I know most parents wouldn’t bother with stopping at the gym teacher’s desk (who cares how your kid is doing in the recess-for-high-school-credit class?). My child’s performance in school is important to me. I expect Austin to take his education seriously, so if he’s skipping out, acting out, or tuning out, I want to know.

Coach didn’t understand what had changed this year. He had all that talent, and yet, a year after going to the State Championship Playoffs, the team had a losing season at 1-7. At best, we could be a spoiler team.

Not knowing how to respond to his statement, I asked about the team’s upcoming game. “Do you have something special planned for West Point?” I asked, using my best old-man tone.

“I do,” he said, then paused, as if deciding if he continue. Leaning back in his chair, he launched into a conversation about his disappointment. He said with pride that the boys played hard. He wished he could take some games back — like Wayne and Boys Town — believing that they could have won both. His words were meant as a reflection of a promising season gone wrong, but had the feeling of a confession. I don’t know why he chose me to pour his heart out to. Perhaps it was because I was the team’s unofficial photographer. Maybe it was just a matter of convenience, right parent at the right time. Whatever his reasons, I did not feel qualified to handle his revelations.

I’ve never sat down with the coach to talk football. The biggest reason I felt unqualified was because having a meaningful conversation with the high school coach was a line I swore I would never cross. I’ve seen parents trying to influence coaches before – come over for dinner in the off season, let me bring treats to the players during the game – doing what they can so the coach pays attention to the parents so he’ll look differently on their kid. It struck me as an underhanded way to gain influence. Seeking short cuts for your child’s benefit does them a disservice. I was raised to navigate your own path, and it made me stronger, courageous, teaching me to never give up.

So finding myself on the wrong side of a line I didn’t want to cross, I found myself conflicted. I wanted to tell him that he had made mistakes, not gambling enough when he needed to and gambling too much on the same players rather than keeping it fresh.

“It’s hard to manage forty-nine players,” I said, swallowing down the words that begged to be set free.

 He leaned toward me, resting his arms on the table. “I don’t think the players care about each other,” he said.

My mouth went dry. How was I supposed to reply to that? As a mom, you hope your son plays on a team that cares about each other. If the coach felt that way, what hope was there for the rest of the team?

The silence between us drug on until he sat up and changed the subject. Many days after writing this, I am still perplexed on why he chose that moment to open up.

Three days later we played the last game of the season, and it finally happened, the boys broke. For the first time, the boys were finally not giving up even though they were down by three touchdowns. There were so many amazing plays that could have given us our Hollywood ending. A fumble in the end zone by West Point, only to be followed by a ball stripped out from our player and ran back for a touchdown. Two plays back-to-back. Momentum shifting back and forth. A running back who would not be denied the yards, slamming into another player for two or three more yards. The team fought, until there was nothing left to fight for.

The final seconds ticked off. The coaches were slow to shake hands. Players knelt on the field, openly bitter about this moment that was about to end. West Point didn’t hoot and holler as a victorious team usually did. Maybe they knew they were witnessing an immense and total collapse of strength and courage. Maybe they could sense that cheering would have been like kicking a helpless man when he was already down.

I stood there with camera in hand, meaning to make my way toward the steps and up to the bleachers, but I was unable to move. It felt like I was witnessing a tragedy. A moment where consoling words where appropriate but none could be found. There were no words to give. No wisdom to offer. And yet, I couldn’t leave.

Even in the darkest times, hope has a way of springing forth from desolation. I looked around, completely dumbfounded, unable to speak, and I just watched. It happened. The players broke and saw each other as teammates. Broken teammates that shared a mutual disappointment.

Austin hugged a tall player whose eyes were wet with tears. Another player sat cross legged on the field, staring off at the dark scoreboard, either unable or unwilling to leave this moment. Maybe there was more he wanted to do, to play. He had broken his thumb during the game, but still played. That takes grit and determination.

Parents stood around with hands in pockets. Grown men’s faces were stone, trying to hold back their own tears of disappointment. Moms hovered, waiting for their moment to hug their players, allowing this team bonding to finally happen.

The whole atmosphere had a strange sense of hope, bitterness and sorrow mixed together. It was breathtaking and crushing to behold. All the players hovered, until all the hugs, the pats on the back and the knowing looks came to a close. Until all that was left were the senior players.

I left the field, struggling myself not to cry, feeling the sob that might come from my heart. Up above, the tone was a bit more jovial and more hopeful. Parents tussled their player’s hair, told him they played well and offered observations and positive statements. Some kids had another year or two to make memories, make wins, make yards.

As I got into my car later, the Friday night lights still beamed, cutting through the deep shadows of the near empty parking lot. Some players still hovered on the field, making their peace with the season, and I realized then that not everyone can play football.

Not everyone can rise from defeat and play again. Not everyone can get hit, clobbered, smacked, pounded, slammed, bear-hugged and pummeled. Not everyone has the will to fight for every single inch, every single yard and push against a horde of linemen to reach past that chain. Not everyone can continue to drive, pass, run when they are down by a touchdown or two or three.

Not everyone can play in the cold, when toes no longer have feeling or fingers cannot grasp the pass. Not everyone can play in the cold driving rain with mud caking their skin and wet clothing chilling their bones. Not everyone can slide in dirty slush, spit out the dirt in their mouth, wipe off their wet hands to take hold of a slippery ball.

Football builds perseverance. A game that prepares players for the ongoing battle of everyday life. I witnessed as it taught my son and many of his teammates to stand strong, have courage and throw their shoulders back in the face of loss, bitterness and disappointment. When you play football, you leave everything you have on that turf or on that grass until your soul is spent. And then you repeat every Friday night. Win or lose, not everyone can play football.

I never knew why the coach decided to open up to me during a teacher’s conference. I’m not about to ask either. After watching the tear-filled final moments of a rough and trying season, I wondered if he still believed that his players didn’t care for each other. Having a front row seat for every play, the bitterness from every disappointing finish, and for the heart pouring finale of a squad who came together at the end, I hold onto the hope that the remaining players will rise up and answer the call of those Friday night lights.