In a mere few hours, the entire town will assemble around an aging football field, watching young men navigate a thrilling game, and hopefully inch one step closer to a state championship—the highlight of many of these young men’s lives. Excitement fills the air here at Ridgefield High School, and every other damn high school in the region. Staff and students alike are dressed in school colors, an almost mandatory display of school pride. It’s not much different than patriotism; you’re expected to comply without question. Football is what we live for. It’s what we breathe for. Sometimes, it feels like it’s what we’re dying for. My heels click against wooden floors as I rush down an empty hallway. Purple and white lockers, alternating in color, pass by me in a blur as I hurry toward the end of the hall. The bell rang two minutes ago, so I imagine my classroom has turned into complete anarchy in my brief absence. I stop to catch my breath before pushing the classroom door open and making my way to my desk.
