Turned Out

I'm a spectator, not an athlete. I live with someone who played hard and won often. A person who chose to crash into a brick wall using his wrists to cushion (???) the impact rather than allow his opponent to win a race. The victor broke both wrists. Decades later, he says he'd do it again. From time to time, he's tried to explain the mystique of team culture. Locker room bonding, the joy of physical exertion. I believe him, totally, but I remain mostly sedentary. Not so long ago, our daughter, previously a non-athlete, announced that she'd joined a roller derby team. I gasped in surprise and not a little bit of fear for her safety. She overcame her lack of years in sports and conquered the flat track. Then, wisely, she retired her skates at twenty-six.

So it may seem a bit incongruous that I devoted four years to a fictitious team in a make-believe town in football fanatic Texas. What drew me to this story was not a devotion to pigskin but rather to the people who played and those who watched. Most especially I grew to admire the coach and the life lessons he dispensed weekly. His brand of teaching resonates because of its truthfulness and the standards to which he held himself and his students.

With unflinching focus, the camera captured a nightmare in the very first episode. A perfect sports specimen, one Jason Street, quarterback extraordinaire, super popular, smart, a good-looking young man is tragically injured in the big game. He never walks again. From that unlikely beginning Fridays are never the same.

Coach Taylor has a family anchored by the indomitable Tammy who's first depicted as a high school counselor and later the principal. She, too, embodies an ethical standard that parents seek from school leaders and students, though they might protest otherwise, soon realize will help to chart their life's journey. Together as a couple, these two imagined people demonstrate that self-confidence can be modeled and that fun need not be abandoned in the process.

As characters appeared, encountered crises, conquered faulty family environments and personal challenges, I was drawn to the legitimancy of their stories. I never felt that the intelligence of the audience was being ignored but rather that it was acknowledged and awarded by scripts that often soared far beyond the norm.

Not everything turned out perfectly. Not every game was won. Not every person was nice or dealt with fairly. Compromises laced the stories together, along with plenty of forgiveness. Redemption and respect coursed through the hallways and onto the playing field.

As graduation brought departures, new characters arrived. I barely missed the familiar faces as fresh ones captured my attention. I grew to admire so many students--Landry, Matt, Amy, Tyra, Smash, Lyla, Vince, Tim, Luke and Becky. I reveled in the resilience of Vince's mom and shook my head at Buddy, portrayed as the ultimate football fan for whom no ethical compromise was too great. I saw Matt's grandmother struggle with a fading memory and watched her face as she shared her grandson's triumphs.

I could recount a litany of compassionate acts by Coach Taylor as he expected the best from his young players, just as he demanded of himself. I do not doubt that his impact on those young men, and to some extent their families, was profound. He faced professional adversity with grace and dignity.

Two days ago, I watched the final episode of "Friday Night Lights" with a teary face. I welcomed back players from past seasons and smiled a bit as Coach Taylor abandoned Texas for a greater love, his wife. Tammy's new job as Dean of Students at a Philadelphia college threatened to separate the family. Of course it didn't. There's high school football in Pennsylvania, too.

The final scene shows Coach with his northeast team. They look a bit baffled as did their Texas counterparts every fall. He begins to talk to them about his mantra: "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose." All eyes stare at him, not understanding his meaning. He's not phased at all and calmly says, "You'll get it." He knows that even losing is often winning.

Though I've never been part of an athletic team, I realize that I'm a partner on the very best team possible. The other member shares my address and my life. I've learned innumerable lessons from him and the impact has been profound. He's my permanent life coach.