Nobody says anything. I’m guessing that’s their way of not lying to me. I appreciate it all the same.

Carol finishes belting out the final note of the anthem and Quinton stands up, clapping with the rest of the team as they rush the sideline.

All of the tense, angry energy floating around the stadium seems to dissipate with a crescendo of cheers that builds as the special teams players—the players who come out during kicks and punts—take their positions on the field.

Cleveland’s kicker runs forward, swinging his entire body as he makes contact with the football and sends it deep into our end zone. Davis, the Mustangs kick returner who clenched the position after his fourth return for a touchdown during preseason, positions himself beneath the ball and catches it with ease. But instead of dropping to his knee, he explodes into a full sprint.

Before I can check myself, I’m out of my seat with the rest of the stadium, screaming until my throat is sore, cheering as he breaks one tackle, spins past another one, and finds the hole his teammates have created with amazing blocking. He runs as fast as he can until a Cleveland player ends up bringing him down on our twenty-five yard line.

Everyone is on their feet, even Vonnie, who told me at the last game she saves her energy by sitting while everyone else stands. But this is why I love football so much. In the last hour, Vonnie was crying, I was put firmly in my place, and the crowd booed their quarterback, but thirty seconds in and everyone has forgotten it all. It’s like their cleats have magical powers. Each step they take, every brutal hit they make, we’re pulled out of reality and nothing else matters. For three glorious hours, all of our problems fade away.

Special teams clears the field as the Mustangs offense jogs out. Quinton is the portrait of confidence and grace. His body looks like it was made for this. Tall and lean, he fills out his uniform in a way that not a single other player on the field does. And even though I know I can’t go there ever again, I can’t help but notice how well he wears the uniform, blacked-out logo and all.

He just shouldn’t look that way. Cropped spandex pants have no right looking that delicious on anybody.

He takes his position behind the center, squatting down before checking to his left, then his right. He stomps his legs and his head bounces around as he no doubt yells out instructions to the rest of the offense. This is his field. This is his team. And there’s no mistaking that he has it under control.