With the dawning of each new day, I worry about you. And, as the sun goes down on those days, I worry a little more.
We go way back together, as far back as my memory will take me. You brought me Friday night and Saturday afternoon heroes, which is never a bad thing for a child. On Saturday mornings, I relived those Friday nights, pretending to be Scotty McFall, running free and running to glory.
By late Saturday, it was all about the wishbone. Sometimes, I had to lead the charge and be Don Jacobs or Steadman Shealy. Most of the time, though, it was Major Ogilvie.
On Sundays, you would bring us together, and we would almost kill each other. But we loved it.
You were there, when it seemed no one else was. No matter what could be going on, if we could just get to Friday or Saturday, everything would be fine.
You taught me accountability and responsibility. You taught me teamwork. Most of all, you taught, it didn’t matter who got credit, as long as we won. I lived it, and still do.
As I got older, I just couldn’t let you go. I loved you, even if at times you didn’t love me. You’ve broken my heart time and time again. But I always come back.
You’ve made us heroes. You’ve made us rivals, or at least when that seemed to matter. You brought us happiness, but really, more times than not, heartbreak. But still, we always forgive you.
My boy is getting attached, slowly, but surely. He loves going to Pisgah, where he loves Luke Pruitt and what he calls the best hot dogs in the world.
They are talking bad about you right now. The world has gone crazy. They say you might not come this year. Then they say you will. They have us all messed up. So, we wait.
I miss you, football season. Please come back.
DeWayne Patterson is the editor and publisher of the Sentinel. He can be reached by email to firstname.lastname@example.org.