Oh, what a strange and familiar abundance of senses come with another fresh stanza of Friday Night Lights.
The acrid flavor of sweat upon your upper lip, the last dying embers of Summer’s radiance, and the nail-biting tension of a goal-line stand.
The delectable fragrances of concession stand fare: smoking meats and deep-fried carbohydrates; the sweet trees in the creeping fragrance of Autumn.
The sudden blare and staccato-rhythmic drumming of the marching band as it enters the coliseum, the roar of the crowd, the crash and grunts of the manlings hurtling about the field of battle.
The shimmering contrasts of blinding stadium lights against a black and star-filled night; the brillant verdant turf, manicured with tender care, and nourished with blood from generations of boys.
The memories of bygone days, my own recollections of former days, glorious victory and crushing defeat. The way my girlfriend’s eyes sparkled when she looked at me after the game, the girlfriend I now call wife.
In this temple, there is a strange and curious ritual, where the present begins to fade into the past, and sometimes the past begins to envelop the present.
Friday night in East Texas… a wonder to behold.