It’s amazing how some things never change no matter where you are and how the magic in little moments never truly withers away, at least not forever.

That was the case this past Friday night as I traveled with my girlfriend to her old high school’s football game.

Having played the game myself before I started college, I was drawn toward the towering, gravitating lights as they shot up through the crisp darkness, tugging me in like they always do as we tromped up the hill from her car.

The sharp buzz of the crowd, the comforting smell of the grass and the concessions, the twill of the band, and the crunch of pads and grunts of young bodies as they flung themselves headlong into one another sent a chill down my spine, just as they always do.

These elements ring true everywhere in high school football, and it’s a beautiful compilation of everything that’s still great about small-town America.

Familiarity brings comfort, and that was certainly the case here.

A low-hanging fog settled over the surrounding mountains as we trudged up creaking wooden bleachers trying to snag a couple of splinter-free spots.

I was following her to our seats when, suddenly, I heard a roar that sent me back to my own days as an undersized, underdeveloped linebacker.

The home team had just made a play that would change the course of the game, and the kid who came up with the ball held it aloft like a pirate finding buried treasure.

When I turned and saw him sprinting, bounding, chest-bumping his way back to the sideline, I couldn’t help but smile.

I smiled because I suddenly remembered that feeling, the one where you feel like you’re on top of the world.

You emerge from the scrum of bodies with the one thing each team wants most in the world, at least for those precious few hours, and you return to your sideline a hero, at least for those few moments.

It’s a feeling that never escapes you, and yet, it’s one that has escaped you all the same, since the memories of those short-lived moments are never quite as sweet as when they first appeared so long ago.

Friday nights in the fall showcase the epitome of pride in oneself and in one’s community, trust in one’s team, and belief that anything can happen on any given day.

That’s what makes this part of the game so great and why, in the midst of attacks on “targeting” (please, just let them play), shots at desperate coaches, and verbal assaults on everything people choose to hate about this game I so cherish, I choose to find the good in the Friday night lights.

Or, I do now, at least.

This game is a privilege to play, coach, and watch.

It is not a right, and it never will be, especially not if you take it for granted.

It is earned, if only by those who love it enough to give it everything they have.

Those who don’t could be called selfish, just as everyone who plays this sport is at some point, since there are so many who would give that same effort and a whole lot more if they only had the physical capability to do so.

I wish people would remember that more often, and I regret every time I see those lights the moments I didn’t run as hard as I could, hit a tackling dummy with everything I had, or put my own exhaustion aside for the sake of encouraging a struggling freshman who couldn’t quite get it right the first time.

I know I’ll remember that, and I keep it in my back pocket every time I see the lights under which every red-blooded American boy dreams of playing.

Hopefully, they’ll take as much advantage of it as I did when I loved the grind of the tough times enough to do so.