In the summer of 2006 I was a bright-eyed intern working at Universal Studios in Los Angeles, happy to just be allowed on the backlot. One mercilessly sunny day, I was in the dup house picking up a few DVDs that we had sent in to be copied. The attendant had disappeared into the back to dig up my order, and I looked at the volumes and volumes of tapes and DVDs that were sitting around on the shelves, some neatly bundled and ordered in color-coded and alphabetized stacks, others orphaned and strewn carelessly about the various counters and tables.
One disc caught my eye in particular, sheathed unglamorously in a white disc envelope, a cellophane window laying bare its plain label for the whole world to see. It read, "Friday Night Lights: Pilot."
That was the beginning.
I remember thinking at the time, "That might be interesting." And that was it, mostly. I'd really liked the movie, and loved the restrained and moody score that Austin post-rock band Explosions In The Sky had composed (or re-recorded) for it. I did have an incredible urge to swipe one of the screener DVDs in that dup house, fueled by the intense curiosity of just what this TV version could be. I debated for the twenty seconds or so I had before the attendant came back out, and decided I liked my job, so I walked out of there with only the discs I had come to claim. And yet.
A few months pass. Summer comes to its inevitable end, and the Fall TV season starts. The first Tuesday of that October, the show premieres. I watch the pilot. I meet these strangers in Texas, speaking of God and football in equal reverence. I learn their names. I learn their dreams, their fears. I watch Coach Eric Taylor and his wife Tammy face the expectations of the entire town of Dillon. I watch Tim Riggins toast "Texas forever." I watch the lights of a high school football field turn on, the air buzzing with the electricity that only a high school football game in Texas can generate. I watch.
I watch Jason Street go down preventing that pick-six. I watch an undersized, scared, wide-eyed boy wearing #7 take up the reins of that offense. I watch the time run down, down, down. I watch him, that boy Matt Saracen, throw a Hail Mary bomb downfield. I watch the crowd explode. His eyes were open. His eyes were open. Now mine were too.
Five seasons later, what began as nothing more than a sudden curiosity and an urge for larceny, turned into exhilaration and admiration and respect and love. It turned into a relationship. And I know it's just a TV show, but what a TV show. What an enriching and rewarding TV show. It was never watched as much as it should have been, nor was it ever celebrated to the degree that it deserved, but the loyalists who knew the show championed it and preached it to any who would listen. Improbably, it survived poor ratings, a strike-shortened second season, and almost certain cancellation. Casey and Ryan and I always talked how with the last three seasons, we were basically playing with house money. The show got to continue, to excel even, reaching new heights. Most importantly, it got to end on its own terms. And for that, I am thankful. For that, I am at peace.
I will miss the characters and cinematography and music and stories that journeyed with me across four apartments and two timezones. I will miss the show the way that I would miss a good friend who I knew couldn't stay. Someone who made my life a little better, an hour a week at a time. I'll toast him with a beer, say with him a promise of "Texas forever," and watch him drive into that approaching night, feeling empty and full at the same time. Goodbye, Friday Nights. You taught me that a few will never give up on you, that those are the people to carry with you in your heart. That sometimes, just wanting to be better is enough, that character is in the trying. But most of all, you taught me this:
Clear eyes, full hearts.
Can't lose.
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