Football season is upon us, hunnies!

This is my 15th year out of Oklahoma.

At this point, I’ve officially been gone longer than I ever lived there—which feels absolutely bizarre to say.

And yet, when I think about childhood, I think about Norman, Oklahoma.

Some places apparently just get into your bones.

And Oklahoma taught me a few things.

For example, if you don’t know your neighbors, just wait until tornado season.

Nothing builds community quite like everybody standing on their front porches staring at a sky that looks like the Lord Himself is telling you to get inside.

“I think it’s turning!”

“Nah, it ain’t doing nothing.”

“It’s time to go under!”

Meanwhile somebody’s trampoline has become a giant tumbleweed thumping its way down the road.

And somehow, in Oklahoma, the people around you become an extension of family whether you’ve formally introduced yourself or not.

There’s a warmth there. A hospitality. A come on in, we’ll figure it out mentality.

People may argue with me about whether Oklahoma counts as the South, but having spent plenty of years in Florida since then, I’m just gonna say it:

Some of these Florida towns are a whole lot more Yankee than Norman ever dreamed of being.

There. I said it.

But if there is ONE thing Norman taught me, it’s this:

Football is not a hobby.

It’s an event.

Growing up in the suburbs of Norman meant that when OU had a home game, you knew it.

Everybody was watching the Sooners.

You waited for the Sooner Schooner to shoot across the field.

You listened for the fireworks after a touchdown.

You celebrated together. You mourned together.

And babycakes, I’m talking about the early 2000s.

Bob Stoops. Sam Bradford.

COME ON NOW.

Sooner born. Sooner bred. And when I die, I’ll be Sooner dead.

Dramatic? Maybe.

Iconic? Absolutely.

But honestly, calling Norman a college football town doesn’t even cover it.

Norman is just a football town.

Age group irrelevant.

Because Friday night football could get nearly as serious.

At the time, Norman had two public high schools: Norman High—the OG—and Norman North, the newer kid in town.

And I was fortunate enough to be a Norman North girl.

When North and High played each other?

Honey.

The town lost its ever-loving mind.

The pep rally alone would have you ready to run through a brick wall.

The marching band came through the halls, followed by the flags, pom squad and cheerleaders, with the student body pouring out behind them.

Everybody headed into the rally already hootin’ and hollerin’, and then it got even better.

The principals got involved.

There’d be some ridiculous bargain between the schools:

If we lose, I’ll dress as your mascot.

If we win, your principal has to lead our next pep rally.

This wasn’t:

“Oh, there’s a football game tonight.”

No.

This was:

THERE IS A FOOTBALL GAME TONIGHT.

The whole town had something to talk about.

Something to rally around. Something everybody understood.

Football gave us a common language.

Unless, of course, you were cheering for the wrong team.

Then apparently all that Oklahoma hospitality I’d just bragged about was immediately revoked.

Come back Sunday.

And there was one color in particular that I learned very early to distrust:

Burnt. Orange.

Absolutely not.

Burnt orange meant Texas.

And everybody knew: Texas sucks.

It was also dangerously close to Oklahoma State territory, and we weren’t interested in that either.

Orange was the enemy.

And apparently this childhood conditioning worked extremely well, because years later I was offered a burnt-orange CAR…

…and I wouldn’t take it.

A. CAR.

Someone tried to GIVE me transportation and somewhere deep inside my brain a tiny Oklahoman stood up and said:

We have standards.

Completely irrational? Yes.

Do I regret it? Let’s not ask questions we don’t want the answers to.

Some things just stick, I reckon. And football was one of them.

I genuinely thought everybody’s fall weekends revolved around games.

Friday night football. Saturday college football.

Pregaming. Tailgating.

And then I grew up and married someone who is basically the complete opposite of everything I just described.

That’s when I discovered something rather disturbing:

Apparently there are other things to do on Saturdays in the fall.

I know right, it sounds almost sacrilegious.

And maybe that’s what makes me laugh about it now.

I’ve been gone from Oklahoma for fifteen years.

I’ve lived an entire life since then.

I’ve grown up. Moved states. Built a home. Become a mama.

But say “football season” and apparently some little switch in my brain still flips.

Suddenly I’m back in Norman.

I can hear the band. I can hear the fireworks.

I can feel that electricity that ran through town when everybody was waiting on the same game.

And maybe that’s just what happens with the places that raise us.

You can leave them. You can be gone longer than you were ever there. You can build a whole life somewhere else.

But every now and then, something small brings it all rushing back and you realize:

Oh. There you are.

Still part of me. Still home in some strange little way.

And apparently still capable of affecting my vehicle-color decisions.

So football season is here, hunnies.

You know what that means.

Longhorns down.

Texas sucks.

And BOOMER SOONER, BABY. ❤️

— Jane