You can't exactly describe how it feels to be there. It's one of those things you just have to experience for yourself. Maybe it's the nerves mixed with the smells of concession stand popcorn and sweat dripping off uniforms, plus Kenny Chesney's classic "The Boys of Fall" crackling across the speakers, but it feels electric.

There's just something about the entire crowd standing and shouting at the top of their lungs as the boys run out onto the field, fists pumping in the air. In that moment, it doesn't matter who whispered something about whom earlier in the hallways or why so-and-so isn't speaking to someone else, because right then, everyone is engrossed in the here and now. The stadium is in unison with discordant bells clanging, hands clapping, raw lungs whooping. Because in that moment, as the team takes the field, everyone is filled with this intense mixture of pride and excitement because this is our town, that is our team, those are our boys.

It's the anticipation of the ball spiraling through the air at kick-off, breaths waiting to exhale. It's the gritted teeth, raised shoulders, balled fists of waiting to see if the two-point conversion will cross the line. It's the moms saying silent prayers that their babies don't get hit too hard, and the dads keeping one eye on their daughters going up in stunts on the sidelines and keeping their other eye on the field.

It's the drum major's mace glinting as she leads the band, all marching precisely. It's the camaraderie of wiping red lipstick off of teeth as the drill team warms up at the end of the second quarter. It's the crew members rushing to get their flags in order while the team makes a surprising run down the field. It's the twirlers and flags getting in one last practice toss before half-time starts.

It's the photographers and videographers squatting down, standing on their tiptoes and contorting their bodies to get the perfect shot. It's the little boys tossing their own football in the end zone once the game is over, and the little girls shyly waving back to the cheerleaders spiriting on the sidelines. It's the older man who's there even though he doesn't have kids playing anymore, telling you every time that these Friday nights keep him young. It's the crowd patting each other on the backs after a tough loss, and talking excitedly about next week's game after a hard-fought win.

It's the buzzing hum of the stadium lights and the familiarity of the announcer's voice. It's the coach moving up and down the sideline, eyes alert, clipboard in hand. It's the players standing with helmets over their hearts and hands on each other's shoulders during the National Anthem.

It's all of these things wrapped up into one and mixed in with that feeling so magical that you can't actually put your finger on it, yet so tangible that you can't possibly deny it.

There's just something about those Friday night lights.