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I’m writing from the bleachers in Cyclone Stadium.
My daughter’s down on the sideline dressed up like a cheerleader. Which, if I’m being honest, is kind of weird.
The whole night has felt the same way, like going back to the playground at Dwight Elementary and realizing the monkey bars are only four feet tall. The grass field where I spent so many Friday nights is made of plastic now. It looks smaller too, like the boys in their shoulder pads and helmets. Like my daughter, being led through a last-minute rehearsal, gearing up for the halftime show.
That’s why I’m here, to watch my baby girl perform, but the better question is why haven’t I been back in so long?
In the nearly two decades since I graduated from Russellville High School, I’ve only ever attended one Cyclone football game before tonight. My wife and I came to that game for her ten-year reunion. It was fun. We saw people we hadn’t seen in forever, and now, here we are again, almost ten years later.
While the field and the players both look different, so much is still the same. In some ways, in some moments, it feels like I’m in high school again, a head full of sandy brown hair, a girlfriend in the stands instead of a wife who's down on the field now, keeping close watch over our daughter.
I don’t miss high school. Do you?
I remember being stressed out way more than I should’ve been, worrying over things like touchdowns and that girlfriend I mentioned. I remember my junior high basketball coach telling me to stop worrying about girls altogether. He said there’d be enough time for that after college, and he was right. But he never said anything about a six-year-old on the home sideline, a pair of pom poms in her hands.
Watching my daughter get ready for her performance, I can’t help but think of the years to come. How, before long, I’ll be rooted in this place once more, cheering for my daughter, my son, from the bleachers like my mom and dad cheered for me.
Through the lens of a parent, the field shifts again. I’m no longer thinking about the scoreboard, or that time we hung with Gus Malzahn’s Springdale Bulldogs for one good half. I’m thinking about my kids and the memories they’ll make in Cyclone Stadium.
A new indoor facility looms behind the visitor stands. There’s some sort of jumbotron video board too. But none of that matters. None of that will define my kids’ time in high school.
It’s the people, and for the most part, they haven’t changed.
On the walk up to the bleachers, I spotted at least three former teammates. They’ve got kids down on the field too. Some of my old coaches are in administrative positions at the high school now. Then there’s the fans, the same guys who still stand along the fence like they did back when I was playing.
I’m looking at all those old, familiar faces when the scoreboard buzzes, signaling the end of the first half. My eyes go to my daughter as she skips toward the fifty-yard line. Just before the music starts, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find the father of one of my dearest childhood friends, another person I haven’t seen in far too long.
He smiles down at me and says, “I know where you’re writing from for the next column . . .”
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing from Cyclone Stadium
• Writing from Creative Writing Class
• Writing from Mom's Knee Surgery
• Writing from Buffet-less World
• Writing from an airplane
• Writing from Mississippi Book Festival
• Writing from Bed
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
• Writing From: Coco
• Writing from the Beach
• Writing From: Crooked Creek
• Writing from a Nursing Home
• Writing from a Firework Tent
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• Writing from the Stars
• Writing from the Pool
• Writing from the Kitchen
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Kindergarten
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
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• My second novel’s publication
• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
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• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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