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The house is finally still. The soft thud of little feet has gone quiet, replaced by the gentle rhythm of sleep from down the hall. I’m curled up in the big chair in the study, a half-finished cup of tea cooling beside a leaning tower of books I keep meaning to read. From the other room, I can hear the low, familiar drone of a college football game on the television.
It isn’t the roaring, edge-of-your-seat kind of game. There are no shouts, no sudden gasps. It’s a steady, predictable hum. Curious, I pad into the living room, my bare feet cool on the wood floor. On the screen, the score is lopsided, the kind where you feel a little bit of secondhand sympathy for one of the teams. My husband glances over, gives me a soft smile. “Not much of a game,” he says, almost apologetically.
He’s right, in a way. The matchup was Robert Morris vs West Virginia, a classic David and Goliath story, but without the surprise ending. It was a game where the outcome felt decided before the first whistle ever blew. I found myself watching the smaller team, their uniforms less famous, their fans probably huddled in one small section of that enormous, roaring stadium.
And I thought about the boys on that field. Someone’s sons. Someone’s brothers. I imagined them a few years ago, in high school, dreaming of a night just like this—the bright lights, the perfect green grass. Maybe they knew they wouldn’t win. Maybe the point wasn’t about winning, not tonight.
Maybe the point was just to show up. To put on the pads and walk into that stadium and play your heart out, even when the whole world expects you to lose. It reminds me so much of parenting, of life. We are so often called to show up for things that feel too big for us, where the odds feel impossibly long. We do it anyway.
We show up for the sleepless nights, for the scraped knees, for the math homework that makes our own heads spin. We show up when we’re tired, when we’re uncertain, when we feel like we’re not nearly enough. We don’t always win. In fact, some days feel like a quiet, lopsided loss. But we show up.
Watching those players, I felt a swell of tenderness. They were there for the experience, for the chance, for the love of the game itself. They were there for the quiet dignity of the trying. And maybe that’s the real reason for games like these—not just for the money or the practice, but to remind us that there is a story and a strength that the scoreboard can never really tell.
It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How many of the best moments are happening in the places where no one expects a victory.
It isn’t the roaring, edge-of-your-seat kind of game. There are no shouts, no sudden gasps. It’s a steady, predictable hum. Curious, I pad into the living room, my bare feet cool on the wood floor. On the screen, the score is lopsided, the kind where you feel a little bit of secondhand sympathy for one of the teams. My husband glances over, gives me a soft smile. “Not much of a game,” he says, almost apologetically.
He’s right, in a way. The matchup was Robert Morris vs West Virginia, a classic David and Goliath story, but without the surprise ending. It was a game where the outcome felt decided before the first whistle ever blew. I found myself watching the smaller team, their uniforms less famous, their fans probably huddled in one small section of that enormous, roaring stadium.
And I thought about the boys on that field. Someone’s sons. Someone’s brothers. I imagined them a few years ago, in high school, dreaming of a night just like this—the bright lights, the perfect green grass. Maybe they knew they wouldn’t win. Maybe the point wasn’t about winning, not tonight.
Maybe the point was just to show up. To put on the pads and walk into that stadium and play your heart out, even when the whole world expects you to lose. It reminds me so much of parenting, of life. We are so often called to show up for things that feel too big for us, where the odds feel impossibly long. We do it anyway.
We show up for the sleepless nights, for the scraped knees, for the math homework that makes our own heads spin. We show up when we’re tired, when we’re uncertain, when we feel like we’re not nearly enough. We don’t always win. In fact, some days feel like a quiet, lopsided loss. But we show up.
Watching those players, I felt a swell of tenderness. They were there for the experience, for the chance, for the love of the game itself. They were there for the quiet dignity of the trying. And maybe that’s the real reason for games like these—not just for the money or the practice, but to remind us that there is a story and a strength that the scoreboard can never really tell.
It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How many of the best moments are happening in the places where no one expects a victory.
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