Chapter 6: Friday Lights

Brantley took Friday night football.

The stadium held six thousand people, and by seven o'clock it was full.

I stood on the track behind the home sideline with the yearbook camera around my neck and a laminated press pass on a lanyard.

The air smelled like popcorn and cut grass and somebody's burned hot dogs.

It was the best smell in the world, and tonight I could barely stand it.

Cade ran out of the tunnel behind the team in his white and red uniform with the number twelve on his back.

The crowd rose in a wave of sound.

His hands were still bandaged underneath thin black gloves, which the doctor had said he could use for a quarter at a time.

He had talked the doctor into letting him play.

He had talked my mother into signing the form.

I had told them both they were insane.

I lifted the camera.

Through the viewfinder, the world got smaller and kinder.

I found Cade in the huddle, and I took a picture of his face while the coach talked.

He looked up, and for no reason I could name, he looked straight at my lens.

I clicked the shutter.

It was a good picture.

I hated how good it was.

The first quarter was ugly.

Brantley fumbled twice, and Cade threw an interception on a ball that slipped out of his glove.

The crowd groaned, and a man behind the fence yelled "Get the fire out of your hands, Hollander!"

I wanted to climb the fence and hit him with my camera.

At halftime we trailed by ten.

I watched Cade jog to the locker room, shoulders low, his gloves coming off finger by finger.

Paisley stood at the edge of the track with the dance squad, in full uniform, clapping and smiling.

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