It’s cold. Like nose-hurts-when-you-breathe cold. Like “Mom made me wear long underwear” cold. But I don’t care. Because it’s Friday. Football Friday. And I’m at the Oak Harbor High School game with Dad.

He’s wearing his big coat—the one that makes him look like a sleeping bag with arms—and he keeps saying stuff like, “This is what it’s all about, buddy,” and “Man, I’ve waited for this.” I nod. I don’t know what he means, but I’m holding a popcorn tub the size of my head and I’m allowed to stay up past bedtime, so I’m pretty sure I’m winning.

The field lights buzz like giant bugs. The band is loud. The bleachers are metal and freezing and smell like mustard and wet jeans. I sit with Dad for maybe five minutes. Maybe. Then I see my friends under the bleachers and I’m gone.

We are the bleacher creatures. We run. We slide on the gravel. We trade Ring Pops like currency. Mine is blue raspberry and it stains my lips like I kissed a Smurf. We scream when the crowd screams, even though we don’t know what happened. We climb the railings. We dare each other to touch the fence. We are wild. We are sticky. We are free.

Every once in a while, I run back to Dad. He gives me a sip of his hot chocolate and asks if I saw the touchdown. I say “Yeah!” even though I didn’t. He smiles like I just gave him a trophy.

I don’t know that his heart is soaring. I don’t know that he’s been waiting seven years for this—me, him, football, a shared language of cheers and chilly air. I just know the popcorn is salty, the night is loud, and I’m not wearing pajamas.

Later, when my fingers are cold and my Ring Pop is just a sticky plastic stump, I crawl into Dad’s coat and sit still for a minute. The crowd roars. The band plays. He puts his arm around me and says, “Best night ever, huh?”

I nod.

Because it is.

Even if I don’t know why.