The stadium lights on a small-town Friday night were the closest thing rural America had to a cathedral. The lights still come on, but fewer people are sitting underneath them.
The stadium lights on a small-town Friday night were the closest thing rural America had to a cathedral. The lights still come on, but fewer people are sitting underneath them. |
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News for the America we remember |
By six o'clock on a Friday night in October, the parking lot at Jefferson High was already full and the bleachers were already filling. The band was warming up under the goalposts. The booster club was selling hot dogs out of a trailer that smelled like onions and chili. Old men who had played for the Tigers in 1958 stood along the fence in their letterman jackets, the jackets a little tight now but still worn proudly. |
It did not matter much whether you had a son on the field. You went because the whole town went. The pharmacist was there. The mayor was there. The pastor of the Methodist church was there, sitting two rows down from the man who ran the auto body shop. Friday nights at the stadium were the one time in the week when every part of town sat shoulder to shoulder, cheered for the same thing, and went home together feeling like part of something larger than themselves. |
The Bleachers Got Quieter
The lights still come on. The whistle still blows. But walk past the stadium in a lot of small towns now and you will see empty rows where the boosters used to sit. |
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They've already shipped 5 billion critical components to SpaceX. And they are the cornerstone for Elon's new endeavor I call "Project Unlimited." |
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